Tamara Ireland Stone

He laughs. “I made you feel normal? You do realize I’m pretty far from normal, right?”

“I don’t care,” I say, brushing my lips against his. “I like you too much. Remember?”

I kiss his dimple first, and then I cover his mouth with mine, kissing him, thinking about how perfect he is, maybe not in every way, but in every way I need him to be. And I’m so relieved when he kisses me back. I feel the thoughts that have haunted me for the last four days pop like bubbles, disappearing into the air, one by one.

“I like you too much, too,” he says.

“Still?” I ask.

“Still,” he says with a huge smile on his face. “Way, way too much.”

You’re not overreacting,” she says.

“Are you sure? Because you can tell me if I am. I have a tendency to overthink things, especially when it comes to my friends, and I don’t know…I take things too personally. I mean, it isn’t always them. Sometimes it’s me. I just don’t always know when it’s them and when it’s me, you know?”

Why on earth would you want to do that?” she asks.

I stare at her.

“Mistakes. Trial and error. Same thing. Mistakes are how we learned to walk and run and that hot things burn when you touch them. You’ve made mistakes all your life and you’re going to keep making them.”

“Terrific.”

“The trick is to recognize your mistakes, take what you need from them, and move on.”

“I can’t move on.”

“You can’t beat yourself up, either.”

You seem to know how to articulate your feelings and share them with other human beings. I’m afraid my gift is the exact opposite; I’m skilled at holding everything in.

Actually, I like this spot. From here, I have a perfect view of his hands. I stare at his fingers, mesmerized by the way they slide up and down each string, and I begin to picture them sliding up and down my body instead, tracing the curve of my hip and slipping over the small of my back. I watch his mouth move, too, enjoying the way he unconsciously smiles and licks his lips as he plays. He glances over at me. I suck in a breath. And before I know it, I’m taking slow, cautious steps, moving in his direction.

I’m still standing close enough for him to touch me again, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to. He doesn’t move, but his eyes are locked on mine like he’s trying to read my thoughts. If he could, he’d understand how much I want him to wrap his arms around my waist and rest his chin on my shoulder, looking as relaxed and happy as he did in that picture.

“I didn’t go there looking for you. I went looking for me.” My voice is soft, low, and shaky. “But now, here you are, and somehow, in finding you, I think I’ve found myself.”

See, this is where that blurting thing of mine comes in handy,” he says quietly. “I’ll start. I’m so glad I just kissed you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks, long before that day at my house, and right now I really want to kiss you again.”

“I like you too much.”

He kisses me again, harder this time. “Good,” he whispers. “I like you too much, too.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’re just…different, Sam. In every way that matters.”

We.

He doesn’t say we’re better. He doesn’t say he loves me more than he loved her. And that’s okay; he doesn’t need to, because now his fingers are in my hair and his mouth is on mine, and my thoughts are all about him and this different thing we have,