Finally, Forever(43)

I decide to stop thinking and let my mind drown in this fucking fragile, volatile thing that is happening between us.

All the blood in my body rushes to one place with so much force it makes me shudder. I push her down on the bed and climb on top of her. I kick off my shorts and shoes without letting go of her lips. I come up for air only to peel off my t-shirt. I reach down to the floor next to the bed and grab the condoms out of my bag.

I rip the wrapper open with my teeth and kiss her while I unwrap it and put it on with one, easy glide. I feel like I’m laying claim over Dylan. Every time I move inside of her I want to say mine. You’re mine. I’m staking something that has always been mine, that should always be mine. I’m immortal and high and tightening and pulling apart all at the same time. I put my hand between her legs, a trick I learned the first summer we met, and pretty soon her legs are shaking along with mine and her breathing turns into a shudder. I sink into her and hold on.

She pants for air and traces her fingers around my temples and through my hair and I’m pulled apart. I’m done and we’re both breathing hard, but I don’t pull out. I press all my weight into her and breathe.

“Are you okay?” she asks. I feel her throat move under my mouth.

Yes. No. Perfect. Awful. Fuck me. No pun intended.

I nod and blink against her skin as tears gather in the corner of my eyes and I’m crying. I’m fucking crying. I turn my face into the pillow and squeeze my eyes hard and blink away the tears. I’m afraid to move, afraid I’ll fall apart and Dylan doesn’t say anything. Her fingers just swirl and move and play. I roll off of her and she rests her head on my chest and after a few minutes she falls asleep on top of me with her arm draped over my shoulder. I stare up at the ceiling and feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere and the center of everything.

Maybe we’re just two fucked up souls, lost, only complete when we’re together. Maybe that’s what love is all about. Being humble enough to admit you can’t make it on your own. You need a person in order to call a place home. You need love to save you from yourself. You need to love another person so you give a little something every day.

“Dylan, what are you doing to me?” I mumble to the ceiling.





Dylan





After a three-hour morning sex marathon, we emerge from the hotel room, slow and stiff as if we just ran a triathlon. I have sex hair. Not bed hair—sex hair. It is much more violently rumpled than bed hair. I leave the windows in our room open so it can air out. It smells like latex and sweat inside. I carry out the garbage with me because I’m a little embarrassed there are six used condoms inside. I throw the garbage in a trash can next to a bench outside our hotel door.

Gray opens his trunk and tosses a baseball cap at me. I catch it and examine the black fabric.

“You might want to put it on,” he says. “You look like you’ve been electrocuted.” He points to my head.

I smile and tug the cap over my wild hair. He grabs my hand and we walk to the lobby to check out. My legs ache and my thighs hurt and my steps are wobbly.

“Ow,” I say. Gray looks over at me. “My crotch is so sore,” I moan loudly, just as we realize there’s a family walking behind us. We turn and the mother shoots me a slut stare and pushes her two younger boys towards their car.

“Classy,” Gray says.

“Sorry, but it’s true. Does your penis ever get sore?” I wonder.

“Never,” he says without hesitating. “That’s like asking somebody if they get sore from an amazing massage. No, they just feel absolutely amazing.”

He opens the door for me and we walk inside the lobby. The small room is warm and stuffy. I sit by the window and examine a pile of books stacked on the ledge while Gray checks out. The books are ragged, with torn covers faded from the sun. I pick one up and look at the cover, featuring a picture of the Eiffel Tower. I read words underneath the iron statue. Je t’aime.

I stare at the phrase, how simple the words look in another language, how elegant like it’s the name of a painting, or a movie, or a song. They’re not intimidating. They roll off your tongue. They’re something to be celebrated, lyrics to write, poems to recite.

I follow Gray outside and as we cross the parking lot to his car, I start to panic. I was so busy enjoying the beginning of everything, I never prepared for the end. I refuse to accept that this is it. I refuse to say my least favorite word of all time: goodbye.

I open up a complimentary state map of Arizona I took from the lobby counter and stare at the interconnecting jumble of lines and highways.

We haven’t discussed our next move. We haven’t had the “us” talk yet. How have we missed this pivotal conversation? Last night, leaving Flagstaff, there was only one clear thought in my head, and that was Gray. The roads were twisting around us while we drove and I couldn’t see beyond each turn. I didn’t know where we were going, and I didn’t care because I was with the only person I wanted. I look over at Gray as he walks across the parking lot. How do you make a person your final destination?