I turned his house into a home.
He loves it. And hates it. The way I never make the bed, the way I leave dishes in the sink, the cinnamon that collects on his table.
The man is a neat freak. I don’t care what he says. He makes the bed EVERY SINGLE DAY.
Even the days when he leaves before me. When he climbs into the soft sheets to kiss me goodbye and whisper I love you.
He lets me sleep in, yes. But he makes the bed the second he arrives home. Even if it’s midnight. Even if we’re about to go to bed.
Okay, not when we’re about to go to bed. Then, well… he has other uses for the sheets.
Some days, I wake before him. I lie there, on my side, watching his chest rise and fall with his breath.
Watching the light fall over his skin.
Watching him exist in the same space I do.
It’s so lucky that the universe exists. That, somehow, the two of us are alive at the same time, in the same city, with the same raw, fractured hearts.
It’s so lucky I needed him when I did. That he was there to catch me when I fell. That he was willing to jump with me.
Some days, I wake before him. I lay there, watching him sleep, counting my blessing.
Some days, I wake before him. I lift his arm, settle against his chest, soak up the warmth of his skin.
Mine.
It’s the biggest thought in my head. And it dances there again and again.
Mine, mine, mine.
I guess, I’m still burying the lead. This isn’t for my site anymore. It’s not even for a school project.
This is for me. For him. Everyone else, I’m not sure. But I know I needed to write this. To write our story.
This note is supposed to go at the end of the book. Or maybe the beginning. Somewhere to explain exactly how I feel about him. Exactly what he meant to me.
Exactly what happened to the two of us.
The truth is, I can’t explain it. Not exactly. I have metaphors and similes and analogies, but none of them do him justice.
I love him so much it hurts.
And he loves me even more. It’s in his dark eyes every time he looks at me. In his soft lips every time he smiles. In his steady voice every time he says my name.
He. Loves. Me.
It’s as exciting as it was the first time he said those three words. I still feel warm, safe, alive.
And I love him.
I love him so fucking much.
How else do I explain it?
He offered me his heart, and I took it.
I offered him my heart, and he took it.
And kept it safe.
For two years, I’ve lived here, with him, in our apartment.
I’ve joined him on his quarterly business trips to London. And others to Madrid, Tokyo, Rome, Paris, Los Angeles.
He’s shown me the world in so many ways.
Sometimes, he goes alone. I have school. I have friends. I have a sister a subway ride away.
I miss him so badly. When he’s away. Even if it’s only a few days.
And he misses me too. He worries. His head—there’s this voice that always wants to whisper what is she doing, where is she going, can you trust her alone?
He’s never going to get past it, not completely. I understand that. I respect it. Even when it frustrates me.
He only promised that he’d try.
And he does. Every day. So when he calls at three a.m. just to say hello, with that harried tone—the one that means I know it’s ridiculous, but I kept picturing you with that guy in your British Literature class—I stop, listen, reassure him.
His voice steadies. He asks about my day. Asks me to keep the phone on speaker until I fall asleep.
Well, when it’s so late I can’t think. Other times, when I have the energy, he orders me to take off my knickers and come for his listening pleasure.
And, well…
I’m not a fool. My sexy as sin boyfriend wants to listen to me touch myself. I’m not saying no to that.
Other times, I’m the one calling at three a.m. Or waking him up in the middle of the night. Worried he’s keeping something from me. Worried he’s pulling away. Worried he’s going to run into his ex-wife in London and freak the fuck out.
It’s just as ridiculous. London is enormous, and besides, he doesn’t love her anymore. He doesn’t hate her anymore. They’re not friends. They’re just not… the fucked-up mess they used to be.
Ty is in touch with her. More or less. He passes along well wishes. And that’s really all anyone wants.
Even though it’s absurd, I’m worried and jealous and scared, Ian talks to me, and reassures me, and promises to split me in half.
And, okay, usually those phone calls end the same way as the others.