Funny You Should Ask

Mostly, though, it’s her. It’s us.

It’s the stories she reads me late at night, when she’s spent all day writing and isn’t sure that any of it is good (it always is). It’s mornings waiting for the hot water to boil so we can
have tea and coffee and talk about what comes next. It’s feeling like every day is the perfect day, even if the whole day isn’t perfect, but finding the moments that are. Being so proud of her that I could burst.

It’s knowing that this isn’t a fantasy. It’s real life.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

“I love you too,” I say. “Everything about you.”

“Everything,” he says. “I love everything about you.”

“I love your clever mind. I love your hair and your butt. I love how fucking brilliant you are, how bold and how brave. I love that Teddy loves you. And I’m pretty sure that my family loves you too. I love your ideas, your stories. And mostly I love your very big eyes and your very smart mouth.”

“There’s nothing just about you,” he says.

“You’ve read them,” I say instead.

“I thought we’d established that I’ve read everything you’ve written.”

I was overwhelmed with all the faces—some of which were very beautiful, but also many who were beautiful in a normal kind of way. It made me feel a little less out of place.

He lets out a breath.

“And now…”

“I’m doing good,” I say.

It’s the dumbest thing to say, but Gabe grins.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says.

Everything shifts.

“You’re two years sober?” I ask.

He nods.

“I’m divorced,” I say. “Happily divorced.”

“Are you?” he asks. “Happy?”

I lift a shoulder. “I could be happier, I guess. Couldn’t we all?”

He reaches a hand out, his fingers sliding through my hair, thumb brushing against my temple. I shiver. Not from the cold.

“I could make you happy,” he says.

I swallow. Hard.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

“My past self deserves it. She was foolish and naïve and stupid. She believed things she should have known better than to believe.”