Текст книги "The Play"

Автор книги: Karina Halle

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Jesus. My heart is near combustion. His words are like sunshine, banishing everything scary and dark. It’s everything I want to hear.

I clear my throat, trying to act cool. “So, am I your girlfriend or what?”

He grins at me. “You’re my girlfriend. My girl. My woman. And I’m all yours.”

“My man,” I say, kissing the stubble on his cheek. “My beast.” I pause. “My sex slave.”

“Bloody right I am,” he says before kissing me so deeply that it steals my breath away.

Satisfied that I look okay, at least to him, I snatch up my purse and we head on out for the night. Lachlan calls a taxi, and it’s only about ten minutes before we’re on Grassmarket, heading for the pub. This one in particular is underground, though it’s done up with lots of teak wood and orange and green plaid seatbacks.

Lachlan nods at a table near the middle of the room where his teammates are sitting. I recognize them both from earlier, even though I was watching from far away.

“Hello, hello,” says one with a crooked nose and a mop of reddish brown hair. The other one, olive-skinned and darkly handsome, just nods with a shy smile.

“John,” Lachlan says to the ginger, then nods at the other one. “Thierry.” He pronounces his name like “tea-erry,” which sounds terribly French to me. “This is Kayla.”

“Ah,” Thierry says, and low and behold, he was a terribly French accent. “Nice to finally meet you. You must be the reason Lachlan’s been fumbling at practice.”

Lachlan gives him the stink-eye which would make any another man shrink in his seat, but Thierry only gives us a slow smile, pleased with himself.

“Oy,” John says, elbowing Thierry in the side. “You better watch your mouth, mate, or I’ll tell Lachlan all about your latest escapades over the summer.”

“Latest escapades?” Lachlan repeats, clearly interested. He sits down across from them and motions for me to do the same. “What did I miss?”

Thierry rolls his eyes but says nothing. He folds his arms across his wide chest and looks away.

“You see here,” John says, leaning forward with a goofy grin. “And I only found this out a few minutes ago, so you can’t blame it for being fresh in my mind, but it turns out Thierry met a girl back in Paris over the summer. She broke his bloody heart, though if we know our Thierry well, he probably broke hers. Always playing the victim, eh, Thierry? On the pitch and off.”

Lachlan is grinning at this and gives me a conspiratorial glance. “Thierry is what we call a manwhore, so even the idea that someone could have broken his heart is nearly joyous news.”

I look at Thierry and can immediately see why he’d be breaking hearts. He’s not as tall or as built as Lachlan, and he only has a few tattoos on one bicep, but with his warm dark eyes, honey skin, smooth lips, and thick black hair, he’s pretty arresting. If I wasn’t attached to the most gorgeous, giving man on the planet, I could see myself throwing some flirts his way. He definitely looks like he’s built for speed and agility.

“So,” Lachlan says to him with a nod. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Thierry gives him a dry look. “Right. To you, of all people.”

Lachlan shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“Though I have to say I’m surprised you dared to bring this beautiful woman to meet us,” Thierry says. He gives me an apologetic smile. “Rugby players aren’t known for being very classy.”

“Only French rugby players,” John jokes. “You should see him when he makes a try. He practically ballroom dances across the line, like a fucking pansy-footed waltz.”

“Well, I’m not very classy either,” I tell them. “Which is probably why I get on with Lachlan so well.”

“Get on?” John repeats. “You’re sounding like him, too.”

“I’m going to get you a drink,” Lachlan says and quickly leaves the table. I don’t miss the warning look he shoots his teammates.

They, of course, ignore it.

“So where on earth did you meet Lach?” John asks. “Don’t tell me they play rugby in America.”

“Actually, they do. He joined a pick-up league for a bit,” I tell them.

Thierry laughs. “That I would love to see. What a one-sided game that must have been.”

“He was trying to downplay his skills, but I don’t think it worked.” I turn to John. “I met him through friends. My two best friends are with his cousins.”

“Huh,” John says. “Seems I need to go to America to meet a good woman.”

“No,” Thierry points at him with his beer. “You need to go to France.”

He shakes his head. “They sound like heartbreakers over there, no thank you. As you can tell, Kayla, deep down inside, we’re all a bunch of softies looking for love in all the wrong places.”

I shrug. “Aren’t we all?”

They both exchange a questioning look. Thierry cocks his head at me. “Do you think you’re looking in the wrong place?”

I’m not sure what to do with that question because it’s oddly serious for what we were just talking about.

“I hope not,” I tell them just as Lachlan comes back, putting two big pints of dark beer on the table, foam spilling over the sides.

“Sorry, love,” he says to me. “They’re out of cider and their house wine is rubbish.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him, actually preferring the dark Scotch ales over the stuff at home.

“Hopefully they weren’t giving you a hard time,” he says, eyeing them both cautiously.

“Them?” I say. “They’re nothing but pussycats.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to you, softies.”

We all clink glasses, and as if on cue, the music in the pub gets louder.

More people come in.

The sky goes dark beyond the narrow basement windows.

By the time I’m done with my giant beer, Lachlan is on his third, as are Thierry and John.

They are all drunk and I’m struggling to catch up. The thing is, it’s loud in here and there are a bunch of girls giving Lachlan and Thierry the “eyes” and the music is grating and I’m feeling left out of the drunken conversation. They try to bring me in but their accents get thicker and thicker until I can barely understand what they are saying. I just want to drink more so that everything stops annoying me. But the beer is so strong and thick it takes forever to get through another glass.

Now, the atmosphere in the pub has completely changed. People keep banging into the table, spilling our drinks. I’ve seen Lachlan curl and uncurl his fists a few times, that wild, piercing look coming into his eyes, his face going red.

But Thierry and John are too drunk to notice or care, singing along to some screeching tune.

I lean into Lachlan and still have to shout to be heard. “Want to go and sit somewhere else? It’s so loud here and people keep bumping into us.”

I can’t hear what he says in return, it sounds more like a grumble.

I don’t know. I’m getting a weird feeling. He’s gone from relaxed as he was at the start of the night to tense and edgy. I don’t want to blame it on four Scotch ales but I don’t see what else it can be. I mean, I know he doesn’t like to be around people in particular, especially when there’s a bunch of them acting like idiots, so adding alcohol to the mix probably isn’t the best idea. If we could just go back home, we could settle down on the couch and watch TV or just find each other in the sheets of our bed.

Finally some girl with mangy blonde hair, orange skin and tits pushed up to her chin totters on over in her heels and drapes herself over Lachlan.

“You’re Lachlan McGregor!” she yells at him in a twangy English accent, her heavy, false eyelashes making it hard for her to keep her eyes open. “I have seen pictures of your cock.”

My eyes widen, my skin immediately growing hot. Did she just say what I think she said?

She looks at me briefly, enough to give me the up and down glare, then looks over at Thierry. “I’ve seen your cock too. Both very impressive. My name is Polly, by the way. You want to buy me a drink?”

I’m really waiting for someone to fill me in on this. I’m staring at Lachlan, open-mouthed, but he’s not looking at me. To be fair, he hasn’t even glanced her way either. He’s just staring at his half-drunk beer like he wants to smash the glass over someone’s head.

It’s John who explains to me. “They both did a nude rugby calendar a few years ago,” he says loudly. “I, of course, didn’t get the call. I think it’s because red pubes don’t photograph very well, even in black and white.”

So the nude rugby calendar really is a thing. When Neil, even Amara brought it up, I thought it was a joke. I guess not.

And with that, I calm down a little bit. If she’s seen his dick via a calendar then probably everyone has seen his dick and there’s not much I can do about that except be proud that the dick belongs to me.

And even though I don’t like this bitch touching my man, I’m not going to say or do anything. Don’t get me wrong, back in San Francisco I have no problems getting in someone’s face. I remember once having to step in when some chick was threatening to beat up Stephanie over some guy, I don’t even remember who. I had to get all crazy Asian chick in her face and luckily it didn’t come to anything more than that. But I have a feeling Scottish, or English chicks as this girl is, aren’t to be fucked with. I keep my mouth closed and ignore it.

Until it becomes impossible to ignore.

Because now the tawdry slut is standing behind Lachlan and running both her hands down his arms and whispering something in his ear.

“Um, excuse me, Polly was it?” I say, with my finger raised in the air. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

She gives me a glare with one closed eye. She looks like a drunken pirate hooker.

“Mind your own business,” she says, slurring.

I’m staring at Lachlan now, wondering why he’s not moving, not reacting. I don’t even know if he knows what’s going on at all, it’s like he’s in some sort of trance, which doesn’t help me at all.

Fine. I can take care of myself. I lean in closer and put my hand on her arm. It’s sticky and cold. “Polly, I’m not sure if you realize this but this man is my boyfriend which means he is my business. Now if you kindly remove your arms, there are plenty of available men in this bar that I’m sure would love a night with the likes of you.”

She sneers at me. “Oh fuck off, you slag.”

My head jerks back. I don’t even know what “slag” is but I’m guessing it isn’t good. I’m about to look to John and Thierry for some sort of support, since Lachlan has gone catatonic, when suddenly there’s a looming shadow over our table.

“What the fuck is going on here, huh?” A voice booms and I look up to see a big bruiser of a dude with a bald head and beady eyes standing behind the slaggy chick. He’s staring at the girl and the way she’s on Lachlan, like he’s got laser beams for eyes and is trying to burn a hole through both of them.

“Hey!” the guy yells, grabbing the girl by the arm and throwing her off of Lachlan. “What the fuck you doing with my girl, you cunt?”

I wince. Oh no. Oh no.

Wrong thing to say buddy.

I’m frozen in my seat, watching Lachlan closely, my breath in my throat. I can feel Thierry and John do the same thing. In fact, the whole bar seems to quiet, though it could just be my imagination. It’s as if everything stills, holding its breath.

Lachlan doesn’t turn around, just cocks his head as if finally listening. He has that mad dog stare going on, a volcano about to erupt. His shoulders and neck tense, like someone has wound him up as far as he will go and he’s about to spring.

“What?” Lachlan says, voice so stiff, so low, I can barely hear him.

“Are you fucking deaf?” the guy says, leaning closer so his face is practically shouting in Lachlan’s ear. “I said stay the fuck away from my girl, faggot.”

Lachlan swallows slowly. I watch his fists curl so tight his skin grows white. His eyes sharpen, pupils growing tiny, mean, hard as hell. I want nothing more than to grab him, lead him out of here. I should have done that a long time ago.

And the guy doesn’t back off. The guy might have muscles but he’s a fucking idiot. Instead he smiles at Lachlan, showing misshapen teeth. “You rugby players think you’re the cock of the walk, don’t you. Like your shit don’t stink. Like you can do anything you fucking want. Well you can’t. I know all about you, you pathetic little fuck. You want it all and you don’t deserve any of it, not like the rest of us.” He looks over Lachlan’s head at me and there’s so much disgust in his eyes it nearly makes me sick. “Why don’t you go take care of your chink girlfriend and leave mine alone.”

I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. It takes me a moment to register that he just called me a fucking chink, one of the oldest, most-outdated racist terms in the book. I can’t even think, or breathe or react other than to stare dumbly at him, like I’m not even sure who I am for a moment. But holy hell does that make me feel like garbage.

Lachlan’s reaction, unlike mine though, is immediate.

Lachlan explodes up from the table and with a terrifying roar that silences the whole pub, he whirls around and punches the guy square in the face. It’s hard enough that blood flies out of his mouth, hard enough for the sound of bone crunching to settle somewhere inside me.

The man flies back but doesn’t fall. He grabs his face, still smiling somehow though I swear a tooth falls out of his mouth and in his eyes he’s taunting Lachlan.

There is no time for that. Lachlan storms toward him, fists out, shoulders raised, his eyes as crazed as I’ve ever seen them. He’s like a whole new person and if the guy had any brains at all he would get the fuck out of here because I don’t think Lachlan will be stopped.

And he doesn’t. The guy tries to put in a punch and it catches Lachlan in the jaw, but he didn’t even try to duck or move, he just takes the hit and keeps coming like nothing happened. And when he comes again, he’s coming with both fists and the guy goes flying back through chairs and onto someone’s table.

Lachlan pins him down and punches him in the nose.

The cheek.

The chin.

And again.

And again.

Over and over and over.

A wild, feral animal.

The same sound of smashed bone and spilled blood, like someone thudding two pieces of raw meat together, echoing through the pun.

This is a nightmare.

“Stop it, stop it!” the girl cries out, trying to pull Lachlan off.

It makes him pause enough to push her off with one arm and yell, “Shut the fuck up, you cunt!” Thierry and John take the opportunity to finally snap out of it, jump out of their chairs and run on over, trying to hold him back.

“Fuck off!” Lachlan yells, throwing another punch in. The guy is now on the table, groaning helplessly, barely moving. His face is just blood. Lachlan reaches for a bottle of beer, smashing it over the edge of the table and holding it up to the guy’s throat.

“You fucking apologize to her,” Lachlan seethes, his own face splattered with the guy’s blood.

But the guy can’t even talk. Finally John and Thierry work in unison and with one hard pull, they bring Lachlan back and to his feet.

Lachlan just stands there, staring at the guy while everyone in the pub is dead silent. Even the music turns off. The only sound is the spitting sound as the guy tries to move his broke, bloodied mouth, and Lachlan’s heavy, raspy breathing.

Suddenly Thierry is handing me my purse, whispering to me. “You both have to go now, right now.” He jerks his head subtly at the bartender who is making a phone call. “Police are being called, you have to get him out of here.”

I nod dumbly, the feeling slow to come back into my limbs.

I hate to admit it, but I’m scared when I reach out and grab Lachlan’s hand. It’s not that I think he’d hurt me but I’m not sure he even knows where he is or who I am at the moment.

He flinches at my touch but slowly turns his head to look at me. I pull my hand away, my fingers now red and sticky.

“We have to go,” I tell him, my voice squeaking. “Please?”

He stares at me for a moment until it’s like he actually recognizes me. Then he nods and turns, storming out of the bar, shoving chairs out of the way.

“I’ll take care of it all,” Thierry says to me, putting his hand on my back and pushing me. “Just get him home.”

I lick my lips and run after Lachlan, catching up to him on the street. He’s walking fast, so fast, and I have to stay at a jog.

“Lachlan, Lachlan, talk to me,” I plead.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking. Finally I see a cab heading down our way and I flag it. As it slows, I quickly take out a cardigan from my purse and wipe away the blood from his face. If he looks too messed up, the cabbie might not take us.

He lets me do this, completely docile, though he’s not looking at me, he’s just staring off into space with disbelieving eyes. I know my cardigan is now covered in someone else’s blood but at least Lachlan looks human again. Back in the pub, he was anything but. I’d seen bar fights many times before, but never like that.

That was raw, that was feral. Absolutely dangerous.

The cab stops beside us and I open the door, pushing Lachlan in, relieved to see him not resisting. The driver glances at us in the rearview mirror but I play up the fact that I’m American and sober.

“Number 4, North East Circus Place,” I tell him promptly and after he stares at me and Lachlan he nods.

“Aye,” he says. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” I say under my breath.

“Welcome to Scotland, lass,” he says with a tight smile and we take off down the road.

Lachlan slumps against my shoulder, all his weight on me, but still I put my arm around him, holding him close. I’m not sure if I’m trying to comfort him or comfort myself. We’re both in shock.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles against me, his tone high-pitched, nearly whimpering. “I’m so sorry, love.”

“Shhhh,” I tell him quietly, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m never okay.” But he doesn’t say anything else after that.

When we get to his flat, I tip the cabbie with wads of American dollars I have in the bottom of my purse and help Lachlan out of the cab. He can stand, but just barely. I lead him to the door and fumble through his jean pockets for the key. Any other day at any other time, I would have made a joke about feeling him up but there is no joking tonight. I don’t see how we can joke about anything anytime soon.

I get the door open and him up the stairs. Once inside his flat, Lionel and Emily come to say hello, desperate for a walk. But once they see Lachlan they get a bit standoffish. It’s as if they’re unsure who this man is, if he’s really their master.

I take Lachlan straight to bed where he collapses on top of it. I roll him onto his side and then get Emily and Lionel on their leashes. Because it’s so late, I don’t bother with a muzzle for Lionel and do a quick pee trip around the park.

The dogs seem to loosen up with me but I know I’m tightly wound. I have no idea how I’ll sleep tonight at all. I want to talk to someone about this, but I’m afraid to. Lachlan is such a private, personal guy, it wouldn’t be fair to him to tell someone else what he’s been like, even if it was someone like Stephanie, who I tell a lot of things to, who wouldn’t judge me or him.

I decide to bottle it up for now and think that maybe one day I can talk to Thierry about it. He and John didn’t seem all that surprised over what was happening. Maybe beating the shit out of someone is a normal thing in Scottish culture, I have no idea, though the fact that we both had to hightail it out of there because of the police was a whole other thing all together.

Then again, I don’t have much time left here. Even though earlier today we proclaimed ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, a genuine couple, and even though I find myself falling more in love with him each and every day, I’m just not sure where we can possibly go next. If I leave, then what happens? Do long-distance? Does that even work?

And if I stay, if that’s even remotely possible somehow, can I handle him and all his demons? Is this just a one-off thing, or is this the start of something more? He said his past is behind him and I need to believe that but I can’t pretend it’s not possible for him to fall prey to his darkness. If this is just a hint of things to come, am I strong enough to get through to him? To survive it? It’s just so much for a new relationship to survive.

I have to remind myself that I might be jumping the gun. That tonight, as scary and horrible as it was to see that anger unleash from him, might just be it and we could have a beautiful love story together.

It’s fucked up. It’s all over the place. I’m all over the place. Why can’t anything be simple? Why can’t I just love him and why can’t he love me and why can’t love be the only thing to juggle? Instead the past is holding onto him and our relationship has an expiry date.

I love a broken, damaged man who might run the both of us into the ground.

I have no idea how this is going to end well.

Later that night I crawl into bed and I’m doing everything to keep my hardened heart from opening again. I want to pull away, I want to shut him out. I’ve talked myself out of everything that is open and beautiful.

But then he rolls over and grabs my hand and he holds onto it so tight.

So tight.

His eyes are pinched shut and when he speaks it’s barely audible.

“Kayla,” he says hoarsely. “I love you.”

I burst into tears.

He falls back asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lachlan

I have a dreamless sleep. No nightmares, no nothing. In some ways its worse because when I do wake up, and I slowly realize where I am and what had happened last night – what I had become, well, I think a nightmare would have been preferable. At least I know it’s not real.

But this is real.

My head is throbbing with a sickly ache, my mouth tastes putrid, sour, like I can taste my own bloody heart. My knuckles burn where they hit and hit and hit that man again and again.

I’m beyond disgusted with myself.

That feeling hurts most of all.

And I’m terrified to open my eyes.

If I keep them closed, I’ll never have to face up to anything.

But the images come slamming back into me, reminding me that this side of me is never going away. What’s done is done and I did it in front of the woman I love.

“Hey,” I hear her voice and it sounds like an angel, pure and light and the opposite of me. “Hey,” she says again, her soft hand on my arm, shaking me. “I would let you sleep but I know you have practice in an hour.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Practice.

God I am such a fucking wanker.

I slowly open my eyes, the light causing mini explosions deep inside my head. I see Kayla peering over me. Her eyes are puffy and she looks tired. Beautiful, still, but it hurts to know that I’m probably the cause of a restless night, of terror and sorrow.

I lick my lips and try to speak but I can’t. No words come.

“Hey,” she says again, gently touching my cheekbone. Somehow she’s staring at me like she still likes me. I don’t see how that’s possible. She’s finally seen what I’m like. I’m surprised she’s even here at all.

I attempt to clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I croak, staring at her imploringly, wishing I could open up my chest so she can see how sorry I am. My heart feels damp, waterlogged.

“It’s fine, I get it,” she says.

I shake my head, even though it makes my brain feel like it’s caving in. “You shouldn’t get it. There’s no excuse. I’m just…I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Well you were drunk,” she says.

I close my eyes, rubbing at my forehead. The god damn shame is like an anvil on my chest and I can’t shake it. And I shouldn’t. “I was drunk, I know, and I shouldn’t have been.”

“But that guy was being an asshole. He was asking for it. He wanted you to fight him.”

“I know. I know and I was trying not to.” I give her a pained look. “But then he called you that name and I just…I couldn’t let it slide. I’m sorry but my tolerance for racist fuckheads is lower than my tolerance for men who disrespect my woman. I snapped.” I suck in my breath. “I just fucking snapped.”

“I know,” she says soothingly but I don’t want her to be soothing. Because it’s not okay. It’s never okay. I don’t deserve to be soothed right now.

I close my eyes for a moment. “And I shouldn’t have snapped. I should have walked away. I should have never been there to begin with. I don’t know what happened, it was all fine one moment and the next…I was punching a bag of blood.”

She grimaces at that and I immediately regret my words.

“Sorry,” I tell her quickly. “I’m just…it won’t happen again.”

“Has it happened before?” she asks cautiously. “Because Thierry made it seem like you’d been in trouble with the police before.”

“Well yeah, I have,” I tell her. “But not for that. I mean, I’ve been in a lot of fights. It’s Edinburgh. It happens. And I’m a rugby player. Everyone wants to prove their worth against someone like me. And I’ve been in trouble in the past. On the streets. You know…back then. But I’ve never been arrested, I can promise you that.”

I sigh and prop myself up on my elbows, the blanket falling down to my waist. I look her dead in the eye. “When I first got Lionel, some wanker complained about him. For no reason at all. Lionel has always been nothing but sweet. But someone had it in for me and hate is a poison. Lionel was taken away from me briefly under the banned breed act. I didn’t see Lionel for weeks while they assessed his behaviour. Thankfully he passed all their supposed tests with flying colors. But they weren’t so sure about me. Somehow though, the judge gave me back Lionel and that was that. As long as he was muzzled, I was allowed to have him.” I pause. “But if I ever get in trouble with the police, I’m terrified they could link the two and Lionel might be taken away for good. Ultimately destroyed, as that’s what they do. I need to be on my best behaviour.”

“I’m sorry to say,” she says, “but last night was not your best behaviour.” She stares down at her hands, a strand of hair falling over her face. “And I hate to tell you this but…you scared me. A lot.”

Fuck. It’s like a bullet to the chest to hear that from her.

She goes on. “Not because I felt I was in jeopardy. I just didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know what you would do. You’re…please, just take it easy from now on. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” She finally looks at me, her eyes wet with tears and it pushes that bullet further in, breaking my fucking heart into a million pieces. “I…care so much about you, you don’t even know, Lachlan. You don’t even know.”

I reach for her, cupping her cheek, completely overwhelmed with every emotion possible. But on the forefront, racing first, is hope.

A memory floods back to me, hazy, but the feeling is bloody clear.

“Last night,” I say gruffly, searching deep in her warm eyes, “I told you that I love you. Did that happen? Or was it a dream?”

A small smile lifts her the corner of her lips. “You told me you loved me.”

I grunt, looking away, nodding quickly. “Okay. What did you say?”

“You passed out before I could say anything,” she says.

I eye her, suddenly afraid for her to go on. “What would you have said?” I ask her, wishing my voice didn’t sound so thin and reedy.

She stares at me for so long that I’m almost lost to the fear, to the rejection, to the fact that I’ve been nothing but a sad, pathetic fool.

“You know what?” I say quickly, my breath hurting my lungs. “I don’t want to know, forget it, it doesn’t matter.”

She leans in quickly and kisses me flush on the lips. Soft, yielding, always beautiful. She rests her forehead against mine, our mouths inches away. “I would have told you that I love you too. That I’m desperately, foolishly in love with you.”

I close my eyes, trying to keep a sob from rising out of my chest. “And now?” I whisper. “In the light of day?”

“In the light of day I love you even more.”

I can’t even handle it. My whole system of being wants to break down.

“In the light of day,” she says to me, “I can see all your cracks and your darkness and your flaws and I fall in love with it all. And I hope you can fall in love with everything that I am, all that lurks in my dark, all that shines in my light. I want you to love every little piece of me, because it all belongs to you.”

At first her words hurt, they hurt, because I’m feeling them so deep down, like a knife plunged straight into my chest. But it’s not pain it’s joy so acute that I can’t even process it. And the knife, the knife is red-hot, then warm and it’s spreading across me, better than the sweetest, most merciless drug.

I want to cry. Yell. Shout. I’m not made for this and I’m a bottle rocket full of energy with nowhere to go.

I can only whisper, “I love you,” even though my voice is broken, even though I feel painfully whole. “I love you,” I tell her and kiss her simultaneously.

“I love you.”

I kiss her cheek.