Page 170 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I hate that he knows me well enough to call me on it.
“What if this doesn’t work?” I whisper into the darkness. “What if we go back to Seattle and reality kicks in and this all falls apart?”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” He pulls me closer, his arms tightening around me. “I can’t promise you it’ll be easy. I can’t promise we won’t fuck it up. But I can promise you I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it tomorrow too. And the day after that.”
I want to believe him. There is a part of me that desperately wants to trust that this thing between us is strong enough to survive outside the bubble we’ve created on this road trip.
But I’ve experienced disappointment before. I’ve had promises broken and trust shattered. I’ve learned not to count on things lasting.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Of what?”
“Of wanting this too much. Of letting myself believe it’s real and then losing it.”
“What if you let yourself believe it’s real and get to keep it?”
The possibility is terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I whisper.
“Neither do I. But maybe we can figure it out together.”
I lie there in the dark, listening to his heartbeat under my ear, trying to imagine a future where this doesn’t end. Where the contract becomes irrelevant because what we have transcends whatever we originally agreed to.
“Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
“If this were real, if we were really engaged, what would you want our life to look like?”
He’s quiet for a long moment and I wonder if the question is too much.
Too hypothetical. Too dangerous.
“I’d want lazy mornings. Finally, he says, “I’d want late nights on the road just like this. Waking up next to you is amazing. I’d want to watch you work because you’re fucking magnificent when you’re in your element. I’d be excited to come home to you after games and tell you about the stupid things the guys said in the locker room.”
“That’s it?”
“Other than fucking? That’s plenty. That’s everything.”
The simplicity, the quiet domesticity he’s describing, makes my throat tight.
“What about you?” he asks. “What would you want?”
“I’d want to feel like this all the time. All my life, I’ve wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. I want… someone who sees all of me and chooses me anyway.”
“You already have that.”
“Do I?”
