Page 118 of Sounds Like Love

“Mmh, I don’t know … moving in with my creative partner might be a terrible idea,” he replied coyly, and planted a kiss on the corner of my mouth. Then he echoed a sentiment I’d thrown at him a year ago: “I mean, look at all of the ones that didn’t work out—Fleetwood Mac, Sonic Youth, the Wiggles …”

I pulled away. “You’re comparing us to theWiggles?”

“It’s important to note,” he replied soberly.

“Then how about moving in with yourgirlfriend?” I asked instead, and when he smiled, it made his eyes bright, gleaming with the lights below.

He pressed his forehead against mine. “I think I can do that.”

I hesitated, searching his eyes. “And how about your fiancée?”

To that, he didn’t need to answer aloud, as he cupped my face and kissed me again, deep and thoughtful and tender, as hundreds of voices sang our song below us. I heard him clear and bright in my head even if it was just my imagination. When we finally broke apart, I braided my fingers into his, memorizing the lovely shade of his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the tinge of blush across his cheeks.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I whispered, and when he nodded, I said, “Even though you aren’t in my head anymore, you never left it.”

“You never left mine, either,” he confided.

And in the place where that itchy, awful panic once rested in my chest, there bloomed something so lovely, I didn’t have the words yet to describe it.

But it sounded—still soft, still unsure—like a song.

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