Page 97 of Something in Between

He puts his head down on the steering wheel.

I reach over and tentatively put a hand on his back. Mason and Kayla and his internship for his dad aren’t our real problems. I have to talk to him about what tore us apart—about what I said about his family. What I said about him.

He doesn’t shake off my hand, which is a good sign. I keep it there, and put on a little more pressure, so that I’m rubbing his back, trying to console him.

“You broke up with me anyway—why do I care if you have to leave the country,” he says, his voice muffled.

“I know you care.” I know he does, because I feel the same way. I don’t want to leave him. “And if we’re broken up, why are you here?”

“You asked me to meet you,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“And you just do whatever I ask you to do?” I say, amused.

“Pretty much.”

I laugh. It never occurred to me before that I have so much power over him, and that it was equal, if not more, than the power he holds over me.

He was just as miserable as I was. He missed me just as much. At least I had my family, my friends to fall back on. Who did Royce have? His parents are always traveling. His brother is a snake. His sister is sweet, but young. He had Maria, I guess.

Once, he had me.

He’s still slumped against the steering wheel, and so I continue to rub his back. I’ve always liked his back. It’s so broad, so manly. It’s one of his nicest physical features, and he has many. “Higher,” he says. “I have an itch right there. Right between my shoulder blades.”

I scratch it. He sighs in relief.

I wonder if this is what it would be like when we’re old and married. Having someone to scratch your back.Who’s got your back.

“I didn’t mean what I said that day,” I tell him. “About your family. About you. I was just angry and stressed. I lashed out more from my own insecurity about my background than anything you or your parents have done to me. They’re great. You’re great.”

As an apology it’s lame, I know. But he’s the writer, not me.

Royce doesn’t say anything. I can feel him breathing under my hand, like a wounded animal. One that I shot.

“I know I’m always telling you to stop putting yourself down,” I tell him. “But I was guilty of the same thing. I put myself down. I convinced myself everyone else was the one doing it, that it was your family that was judging me, that you were judging me, butIwas the one who found me and my family lacking. I was the one who was embarrassed to be who I was, embarrassed about where I came from.”

He raises his head from the steering wheel and looks at me. “Jas...”

“Let me finish,” I say. “Because I have to say it. I was embarrassed that I was embarrassed, if you know what I mean. I hated that I felt that way about myself. I work so hard to hold my head up, to be proud of my culture, my background, my history. I would never change my skin color, the shape of my eyes, or the color of my hair, but inside, I was worse than anyone out there who calls me a chink, or a FOB.”

He sits up straight now. “Jas, really, stop. I know you didn’t mean what you said when we were fighting.”

“Do you forgive me?” I ask, hugging my knees to my chest on the seat next to him.

Royce reaches over across the console so that he can wrap his strong arms around me, and I curl into him, feeling safe again for the first time in weeks. He buries his head in my shoulder. “Always,” he murmurs. “You don’t even need to ask.”

I raise my head so he can see me smile. I don’t deserve someone like Royce, I think, and then I squash the thought. There’s no “deserving” when it comes to love, when it comes to relationships. You just accept the love you get and you count yourself lucky.

And I am so, so, so, so lucky.

“I love you,” I tell him. I’d wanted him to say it first, like it was a competition or something, because that’s the kind of selfish person I am. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. I want to be open and generous and vulnerable, and I want to tell him how I feel about him. I should have said it earlier. I should have said it when he came back from Aspen and he was wearing that silly tie. I should have said it all those times we were kissing. I should’ve texted it to him a hundred times a day.

“I love you,” I repeat, because he’s just looking at me, smiling.

“Yeah?” he says, turning pink, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Well, guess what? I love you too. But you already know that, right?”

I do. I’ve lived in his love for months now, have basked in it, have been warmed by it, have been supported and buoyed by it.

“I love you more,” I say.

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