Page 87 of Here for a Good Time
He rakes one hand into my hair at the crown. “Well,Ithink it’s a nice image,” he says with an eye roll. “Because this whole time, there’s this tidal pull between the two galaxies. Like,right now. Right while we’re having this conversation, the Milky Way and the Andromeda are moving closer and closer to each other, and at some point in the faraway future, they’ll collide and warp into one another, merging into a singular new, bigger galaxy with this bright core that will dominate the night sky.”
I consider this. “After billions of years of steadily being pulled together, huh?” He nods. “Are you sayingwe’retwo galaxies colliding after a billion-year wait?”
“I’m saying—” He returns his hand to the small of my back, the motion tightening his grip on me. I wonder if he’s having the same fleeting moments ofWhat if I wake up and this is all a dream?as me. “That there were times where itdidfeel like I had been in love with you for a billion years, and that it would be several billion more before I found the courage to tell you,” he says.
I positively melt, and if I weren’t certain before, I am now: I am a goner. It feels like my heart is going to drill its way out of me to lie at his feet.Here you go,it seems to want to say.You have me. Do whatever the hell you want with me.
“Well, I for one am glad it only took us two decades and not a billion years. Or even a million.” I remember something. “I have to text Soraya.”
Zwe gives a dubious laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking of right now? Soraya?”
“I never told you this, but Soraya’s always thought we were going to end up together,” I say. There’s not a shred of surprise in his reaction. “You… knew?”
“The first night I met Soraya,” he says, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “She looked me in the eye and said, ‘What are you doing? Get your shit together.’”
“No,” I gasp. “What did you say?”
“I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about, and she rolled her eyes, muttered, ‘Why do meninsiston standing in the way of their own happiness?’ and walked off. To be honest, it… was a good question.”
I shake my head, laughing. “I can’t wait to see her again. She’s going to flip when she finds out.”
A shadow of concern falls over his face. “Do you think maybe we should not tell anyone for a while? What if we mess it up?” he asks. “What if a year from now, we hate each other and we’re not speaking anymore?”
I smile. “Do you know what the most difficult part to write in a book is?”
“What?”
“The middle,” I explain. “The start is where everything is new and shiny, and the ending is where it’s all wrapped up in a neat bow. But the middle—that’s the complicated bit. It’s where the good things happen and the bad and where the characters have to figure themselves out. The middle is the messiest bit, but it’s also the mostfun bit. Because it’s where everythinghappens. It’s where your characters make mistakes and then they learn how to fix them, and they ultimately become better people for it. But they don’t get to the end unless they get through the middle. That’s the toughest part, both for the characters and for the author.
“All that is to say—” I raise a finger to let him know that Idohave a point to make. “That’s what’s coming up now: the middle. And yeah, it’s going to be real shitty sometimes and I’mpositivewe’re going to fight and we’ll accidentally hurt each other. But we’re also going to havesomany great moments that we’re going to walk through our door every day and think—”
“Look at this beautiful life we’ve built together?” Zwe’s eyes crinkle and shine at the corners.
Unable to stop myself, I go in for a long, delicious kiss. “Yes,” I say after we pull apart. “I wish I could promise you a happy ending, but we won’t know that the endingishappy until we get there, and we can’t get there until we go through the middle. You don’t get to achieve the big dream unless you’re willing to fall flat on your face in the process. Trust me, I would know.”
He plants a kiss on my forehead. “Okay, then. Let’s get through the middle together.”
“And we’ll start with you applying for that PhD.”
He stiffens, clears his throat like he’s having trouble breathing on account of my having sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. “What are you talking about?” he asks as if he doesn’t know precisely what I’m talking about.
“You answered that in your ideal future, you’d be doing a PhD,” I say.
“I said that because I thought we were going to die—”
“Exactly!” I jab his chest. “People are the most honest whenthey think they’re going to die. You sayexactlywhat you mean because you figure there’s nothing to lose.”
“It’s a pipe dream.”
“No it’s not, not even close,” I tell him. “No more waiting to go after what you want. You’re going to do your PhD, and you’re going to leave accounting behind and become a teacher. Exactly like you want to.”
He exhales a tired puff of air. “The bookstore—”
“Will be fine.”
“How?” He begins chewing on his bottom lip. “What will my parents do if sales are slow? What if they can’t afford to hire an accountant? How—”
“I’m buying the store.”
