Page 134 of Resisting Isaac
“Weird, right? It’s like we’re married or something.”
“Or something,” she mutters. “You were very drunk last night.”
“Not too drunk to remember you dry humping my thigh and covering my fingers in your come.”
She hides her face behind the blanket. Her voice is muffled from behind it. “You remember all that?”
“Every bit of it.” I smirk. “I could’ve sworn we agreed to no funny business, Mrs. Logan, I can’t believe you took advantage of me in my inebriated state.”
I laugh and she groans loudly, pulling the covers up so I can’t see her beautiful face.
“You really remember everything?” Her eyes peek out and they’re wide with panic. “Even the part where you said?—”
“That I love you?” I cut in. “Yeah. That part was the main reason I came here last night. To tell you.”
She sits up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around her like she needs the barrier. “You were just drunk, Isaac. You didn’t mean?—”
“Bullshit. We both know I meant it. The alcohol just gave me the courage I needed to say it.”
She shrinks backward like she’s hoping the couch will swallow her whole.
She’s not going to say it back.
That’s fine. I can see it every time she looks at me. Like I’m a gift she won’t allow herself to have.
She chews her lower lip and is frowning when she averts her eyes and says, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
I sit up and look at her.
“You’re one thousand percent full of shit, spitfire. Like we need to call the doctor to get you medical grade laxatives.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say harsher than necessary. “I’ve never been in love before, so no doubt I’m fucking it up. But at least I can admit it.”
“We can’t fix this by throwing a fake marriage at it.”
“I’m not trying to fix it,” I say, turning to face her. “I’ve accepted it. It’s messy, baby. But I want it. I want you. And everything that comes with you.”
She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide.
“You don’t have to admit you love me,” I add, softer now. “Or even agree to marry me for real someday. But I’m not going anywhere. If you decide to stay in LA or move back to New Mexico, I’ll fly out there weekly, hell, daily if I can. What I’m not going to do is pretend I don’t want more.”
She’s quiet for a beat. Then two.
She finally whispers, “What if I don’t have more to give?”
I take her hand. Press it against my chest.
“You’re giving me enough right now. Carrying our baby. Letting me be here.”
And that’s the thing I’ve learned about love. Real love. Now that I’m being consumed by it.
It doesn’t wait for the perfect time or the absence of fear.
It just is. Without permission, without the proper protocols or timing.
Then we decide how to handle it, and what to do about it. Swallow it down and hide it or shout it from the rooftops.
