Page 90 of I Love You, So What?

“I don’t mind them. I love all music really.” She holds up the fancy camera that’s sitting in her lap. “I’m actually a music photographer. I do cover art, marketing and concerts, of course.”

“That’s cool. My band’s last show is actually in a couple days.”

“You’re in a band?” I can’t tell her opinion by her tone.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you playing?” She seems genuinely interested.

I hesitate, flashing to a vision of the small stage we first played on years ago. The image of Maci in the crowd fades away when I remember she won’t be there anymore. My hands run through my hair. The next second they are slamming into the concrete at my sides, my eyes filling with unwanted tears. Fuck. I press my palms into my eyes in an attempt to keep from completely breaking down in front of this random girl. I take a deep breath and pull my hands away from my face. “Sorry.” I glance in her direction and see concern written in her body language. “You can go back to the party. I’m fine.”

“No, it’s okay. I can stay.”

“Don’t you need to take pictures or something?” I question, assuming that’s why she’s here, although the leap from music to weddings seems big.

“Nah. I took some. Mostly I came to the rehearsal to get a feel for the set up since I don’t usually shoot weddings. Miller is a good family friend.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Let’s go for a walk. Come on.” She stands, staring down at me expectantly.

I stare back, unmoving.

She reaches for my hand, and even though I don’t acknowledge it, she bends to latch onto my wrist and pulls anyway. “Come on. You’ll feel better.”

“Will I?”

“You won’t feel worse.”

DEAN

“I’msoexcitedtosee our new home!” Maci bounces excitedly on the toes of her pretty gold sandals as I slide the key into the lock of our residence for the next six months. True to her word, Maria, the woman who runs the human trafficking victim sanctuary in Costa Rica, opened a second location in Spain. Only a month into us being home in Oregon, Maria called to offer Maci a paid volunteer position to help get the new place up and running. When our plane landed this morning, it was 78° and sunny. The timing could not have been better with the October weather in Oregon starting to feel a little too chilly and wet for my liking. Maria helped us find a studio condo in Alicante, a smaller town down the coast from Valencia.

Maci pushes the door open before I even have time to pull the key out of the lock. I laugh at her impatience as she bounds into the room, her eyes quickly taking it all in before she conducts a more in depth investigation. The white exterior is typical Spanish coast architecture with a flat, rust-red roof. The inside is as small as my place in Costa Rica which is plenty big enough for us. I stand just inside the door, our luggage haphazardly dropped by my feet, unable to take my eyes off her. She opens every door–the bathroom, the closet, the fridge and every single dresser drawer. My chuckle goes unacknowledged as if she doesn’t remember there’s someone else with her. The longer we’re together, the more free she seems, as if the weight of anything that’s ever held her back continues to float away. I had gotten glimpses of her free spirit, here and there, the rare times she let the most genuine parts of her shine. But Maci has found her herself, and I’m so grateful I’ve gotten to watch her overpower her insecurities and lean into her happiness in the process.

When she makes it to the floor to ceiling sliding glass door, she stops in front of the sheer white curtain hanging in front of it. Pulling them back slowly, her excitement is replaced by awe. “Dean, come look at this view,” she says, pulling her eyes away to glance at me over her shoulder for only a split second. Without waiting for my response, she slides the door open and steps onto the balcony.

“Be right there, babe,” I respond anyway, realizing I’m still stuck in the place my feet first landed. I pick up our bags and toss them on the bed before digging through mine for a moment. I make my way to join her on the balcony, but freeze in the doorway, leaning against it, with my hands in the pockets of my black joggers.

As I take her in, she scans the unobstructed ocean view, not even realizing I’ve joined her. She’s leaning into the corner of the black bars that make up the balcony railing, her fingers wrapped around the metal. Her jean shorts border the edge oftoo short, but only because I don’t want anyone else looking at what’s meant just for me. She’s wearing my friends’ band tee–the shirt she stole from me the first night we had sex–tied in a knot in the front. Somewhere along her new home tour she kicked her sandals off, so she’s barefoot against the cement. God, she’s perfect.

I take a few silent steps toward her before caging her in between me and the perpendicular bars at the corner of the balcony. I brush her wind blown hair off her shoulder, letting my fingers feather down her arm before gripping the bar next to her hand. When my lips land on her soft skin at the collar of her t-shirt, she relaxes into me, still focused on the view, giving me the perfect moment I need.

“Hey,” I whisper into her ear.

“Hmmm?” she breathes with a happy sigh.

“Do you have a husband?”

She laughs as she twists into my arms and says, “No.” Her eyes find mine, and the glimmer in them tells me she thinks I’m playing. I’ve never been more serious about anything.

“Do you want one?” I ask, and watch her expression shift to confusion, like I started a role play without warning. “Maci.”

“Yes…” the word trails off slowly as it comes out of the lips I desperately need to kiss. So, I do, smiling at the electricity of our touch that still hasn’t faded as I pull back.

“I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you on Halloween two years ago–before you even knew I existed.” Her eyes flick across mine, like she still doesn’t know where I’m going with this. “If you’ll let me, I’ll make sure you know there’s no one else for me, every day. I don’t want to be your boyfriend anymore. Be mine, forever.” I reach back into the pocket of my joggers and pull out the deep purple velvet box. Her eyes shift down to it then back up at me, a small gasp escaping her lips.

“Dean…”

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