Page 156 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
She exhales. “You want forever, and I don’t even know if I’m built for Tuesday.”
I blink. “Tuesday’s a solid day. Underrated, even.”
She snorts, but it’s brittle.
“I’m serious,” she says. “You want someone who can come to dinner and talk about feelings, maybe raise a couple of rescue dogs and do Sunday brunch. I don’t do brunch. I leave before brunch. I ghost after midnight. I joke through trauma and avoid hard conversations by starting debates about glitter glue.”
“I like glitter glue,” I say softly. “Also, I’m fairly sure brunch is just breakfast with anxiety.”
She doesn’t smile.
“I mean it, Lucian. You need to understand that I can’t be like that.” Her fingers tighten in her lap. “You want happy and my family doesn’t do happy. It’s maybe a curse. Mom couldn’t loveanyone else after the divorce. Dad just kept changing to younger models until he died, and you know who took care of him when he died?”
She takes a deep breath. “No one because he was estranged from his daughters, and his last wife decided to leave his sorry ass when she learned his will only included Aspen and me.” She scoffs. “Aspen, who’s the most amazing sister but she can’t commit to a man who can hang the moon for her and steal the sun if she asked for it. We’re a disaster.
“This isn’t cute. This isn’t quirky. This is me telling you that if we keep doing this, I will mess it up. I will say the wrong thing or push you away or laugh when I should apologize. I’ll turn something gentle into a punchline because that’s how I cope. It’s how I survive.”
She looks up. Her eyes are glassy, but not teary. Like she’s doing everything she can not to care.
I want to pull her into my chest and tell her she doesn’t have to survive me. That I’m not her parents. That love doesn’t have to be collateral damage.
But instead, I nod. “Okay.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Okay?”
“I’m not going to chase you out of the room, Liv. If you need space, take it. But I can't pretend I don’t want more with you. And I won't let you pretend you don’t want it too.”
She swallows hard.
“We don’t have to name it. We don’t have to call it love. Hell, we can call it ‘strategic mutual vulnerability’ if that makes it easier for you. But I’m not going anywhere. So when you decide you want to try—even just a little—I’ll be here.”
Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
And then she stands.
“I need air,” she mumbles, brushing past me toward the door.
I don’t stop her. I don’t reach for her wrist or call her name.
I just sit there in the quiet, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall, and I remind myself this isn’t over. I now understand why the scary, tall man is not married to Aspen. He loves her too much to pressure her into doing something that is apparently scarier than life itself. Love.
I get it.
I fucking get it.
So if this is what she needs—if pretending for the next fifty years that I’m merely the flirty neighbor who makes innuendos over morning coffee and speaks filth when it’s convenient—then fine.
I’ll play the part.
I’ll be the guy she texts when her sink clogs or when Sarah eats another sock. I’ll be the guy who stays up past midnight because she can’t sleep and needs someone to talk to, even if she won’t admit it. I’ll be the guy who memorizes her coffee order, her allergy meds, and that weird thing she does where she smells books before reading them. I’ll be that guy.
Even if she never calls me hers.
Because I already am.
Because the truth is, I’ve already memorized her.
The shape of her laugh.
