"So why me?"
One year and twelve days ago, I had walked in to the kitchen at Seventh Heaven and thought I had answered that question.
One year and ten days ago, I changed my answer after realizing just how deep her version of 'thieves honor' ran.
One year and five days ago, she had unapologetically turned a glaring light on my world and in that moment I had fallen in love with her.
She was folded into the wing back chair that she had claimed as her own, a messy scattering of file folders and loose paper littering the floor around her. She had been there for at least two hours already, trying to make sense of something that I wasn't supposed to ask about and would probably never learn.
She is talkative and boisterous, but also discreet.
It was not the first time she had asked that question. Usually, it is in moments like this, when she has gotten bored or overwhelmed. Sometimes, when I have made her angry she will ask out of frustration. My answers have varied in every way but one.
None of them are ever completely honest. I'm sure this is very wrong of me, a crime against this slippery woman that could snap her fingers and have me follow her to the ends of the earth and back for no reason other than it sounding like a good idea at the time.
But how could I ever speak the words out loud? Thinking them makes me tremble in fear – fear that speaking them will kill me. That speaking the truth, giving words to a part of my soul that is so fragile a breath of air might shatter it, will turn me to so much ash.
It is one thing to tease her with whispers more air than sound. Another to be a devoted acolyte to the shrine of her body. To watch over her safety and keep her out of trouble is yet another, though she needs less of the latter now than she once did.
How could I ever attempt to speak the words to her? Tell her that she is the sunrise to my darkest hour - light that began to brighten the sky before exploding in a blinding display over the desolation that was my choice for so long. Tell her that her honesty was to me like rain in the desert wastes, bringing out all that is green and fruitful and alive.
Tell her that the hardest thing in my life is not having to put up with her on a daily basis, but having to part with her overnight every once in a while so that she can do her job. The job that she loves and is far too good at.
How can I speak the words to tell her that if I had my choice, I would touch her all the time? The tingle of electricity between her skin and mine has become as necessary to me as the air I breathe. That I walk everywhere with her for the feel of her hand on my arm and encourage her to pick all the movies we watch so that I can soak up every second of her leaned against me, her fingers laced through mine. That her curious, willing body has torn my mind to shreds and taken me to heights of ecstasy I could never have imagined existed, let alone believed I could experience.
How am I to tell her that she is my salvation? That her hidden generosity and insecurities have made me feel more human than her put-on brashness and the overconfidence that she wears like a suit of armor. That the joys and sorrows of her friends she feels as keenly as if they were her own are the things that give me hope for humanity – and for myself.
How am I to tell her all of this? Could I really survive laying all of this deeply held emotion out there? Could I trust her with it?
That is the real question, isn't it? No, not could I. Will I? Will I answer that smiling face with the truth this time and trust that she will be kind?
I almost give another of my half-truth answers.
"Because you make me laugh."
"Because you have an incredible ass."
"Because you put up with me."
But I stop myself before I can do that. I can't manage just part of the truth any more. But what can I say first? Where do I start?
"I love you." The words are out before I can even think, hanging in the air between us like butterflies caught in the wind. My heart stops, my throat closes. I can't breathe.
He lazy smile disappears for a split second, and in that split second that my world begins to fall apart. That was the wrong thing to say. I shouldn't have opened my mouth at all. I stare at the floor, waiting for whatever happens next. Whatever retribution is coming.
I hear her move, shifting in her chair. I close my eyes, waiting, waiting for whatever she is going to say.
The touch of her hand on my head makes me open my eyes, but I will not look at her. I can't. She drops to her knees in front of me and doesn't give me a choice in the matter. But her upturned face is not angry or sad.
She is smiling. Wide, warm, sunshine-on-green-grass bright.
"Come on. It's not THAT bad, is it?" A coy tilt of her head and her smile changes to a smirk.
I rest my forehead on hers and close my eyes again, reveling in the smooth coolness of her skin and a little breathless from the frantic pace of my pulse at her touch. Her smile. Her teasing.
I feel the corners of my mouth turn up slightly with relief that she will take for mirth as I whisper against her cheek, "Devastating."