Tell Me It's Real(133)

He watched me, for a time, without speaking, his eyes bright and wet. He reached up and traced my face with his fingertips, memorizing the skin like he’d never seen it before and would never see it again. I captured his hand in mine, bringing it to my lips, kissing his fingers just once. He sighed and turned away from me to lie on his other side. Before I could even think about what that meant, he pushed his way back until he was flush against me. He grabbed my arm and pulled it over his waist. My nose and mouth were in his hair. He trembled, but soon he stilled. He breathed heavily, but soon it quieted. He held my hand tightly, but soon the grip loosened.

And then I thought he slept. I thought he slept because I would have never whispered what I did had I thought he been awake. It was not my place. It was too soon. It was not the right time. It was not what he wanted to hear. It was not what he needed to hear.

But.

I had to say it. To think it was one thing; to say it aloud was another. I thought it. I thought it badly. I had to say it out loud. I had to make sure it was real.

So I did. And it was.

“I love you,” I whispered in the dark.

Ten minutes later, just as the clock switched to midnight and it became the seventh day since I’d first heard his voice, he whispered back, “I love you too.”

And then we slept.





Chapter 21


Just The Way You Are





THE days that followed that seventh day were rough. I, of course, woke up with doubts ringing through my head, sure that I wanted to take back that initial I love you, sure that Vince wanted to take back his response. I didn’t show that fear, though, because it wasn’t supposed to be about me right then. Vince opened his eyes to find me watching him nervously, berating myself for being that guy, the creepy one who watches his partner sleep like it’s supposed to be romantic or something. I averted my eyes momentarily until I felt his fingers on my face.

“Paul,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

I shrugged, trying to minimize everything. “You okay?”

He sighed as he dropped his hand. “I think so. Maybe. It’s weird, you know? I hadn’t spoken to her in months before this week, and I was okay with that. A little mad, maybe, but okay with it. Now she’s gone for good, and I’m… what am I? Sad? Relieved? Angry?” He looked away. “I don’t know what I am right now,” he muttered.

“She was still your mom,” I said quietly. “Regardless of what else happened, regardless of what she did later, she was still your mom.”

“Yeah.”

“Vince?”

“Yeah?”

I chose my next words carefully. “Everything always won’t be perfect, you know?”

“I know.”

“So you know you can’t pick and choose what to tell me, then, right?”

“Yeah. Look, Paul, I—”

I shook my head. “Don’t. I’m not mad at you for that. I’m sorry that I acted like a jerk. It wasn’t my place to. I should’ve respected your wishes and not gone behind your back.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m not ashamed of you.”

I was startled. “I never said you were. I never thought that.”

“Okay. I just wanted you to know that. If anything, I was ashamed of them. And jealous of you.”

I snorted. “What the hell do I have for you to be jealous about?”

“Everything,” he said seriously. “Your friends, your family. You. You have everything. You are everything.”

“Vince….”

“No, Paul. How can you not see it? Why can’t you see that you’re perfect just the way you are?”

His earnestness was catching. I’m a sucker for earnestness. And bike shorts. Put those things together, and watch the fuck out. “I’m pretty sure your definition of perfect is skewed,” I told him. “You may have a bit of a bias here.”

He looked satisfied, as if I’d agreed with everything he’d said. “A very big bias,” he assured me. “But it doesn’t matter. Even if I didn’t, I’d still see it. I just didn’t want to put any of this on you. It wasn’t fair. We’d just met. Hell, you would have probably run screaming, your arms flailing in the air.”

“I would not have flailed my arms,” I said, slightly affronted.

He smiled weakly. “A bit,” he said, sure of himself. “Probably would have written in your diary all about it.”

I rolled my eyes, glad to hear him joke, but also hearing the sadness in his voice. I brushed my fingers over his face. “You can tell me anything,” I said. “At least, you should. It’s how these things work, Vince. You have to know that.”