Page 163 of Fake As Puck
“West.”
“Dance with me, my girlfriend.”
“In the kitchen?”
“In our kitchen.”
Our kitchen. I like the sound of that.
We sway together between the counter and the stove, and I can smell dinner cooking and his cologne and the faint scent of the candles I lit earlier.
“I love you,” I say against his chest.
“I love you too.”
I say in disbelief, “I’m really here.”
He replies like he can’t believe it either, “You’re really here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”
Later, after we’ve eaten dinner and cleaned up and watched half of a movie we’re both too distracted to follow, I take his hand and lead him down the hall.
To our bedroom.
To our bed.
“Liv,” he says when we reach the doorway.
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure?”
“About what?”
“About this. About us. About everything.”
“I sacrificed a lot to be here, West. I think I’m sure.”
“I just want to make sure you’re not going to wake up tomorrow and realize you’ve made a huge mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was waiting so long to do this.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I kiss him then, soft and slow, and he responds like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.
Maybe he has.
Maybe I have too.
We move to the bed slowly, taking our time with each other. There’s no rush now, no fear that this might be the last time, no question about what this means.
This is real. This is forever. This is home.
