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Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight.

The Tree House

I tried to do handstands for you
I tried to do headstands for you
Every time I fell on you, yeah every time I fell
I tried to do handstands for you
But every time I fell for you
I'm permanently black and blue
Permanently blue for you

Chairlift - Bruises

Secrets.

Old, familiar, and well-trod—like the worn cedar beams under my knees.

New, startling, and razor-sharp—like the cracked edges of crumpled beer cans littering the floor.

Secrets like warm blankets. Secrets like rusty nails. Secret jokes shared on blinding summer afternoons and secret acts performed under moonless skies—this tree house holds them all. Dispassionately. Indiscriminately.

This dusty clubhouse on the back of my parents' property is a cache for all the memories I'm too weak or too scared to hold on my own. It is the source of all my joy and all my pain.

It's impossible to ignore the secrets infused in this space, impossible to shut my mind to the moments that have defined me—continue to define me—even now, with all my senses otherwise engaged.

There, in the corner—on the overturned milk crate we pilfered from the loading dock behind the J & P—is where I once sat as Jasper examined a ragged cut on my shin, his dirty, ten-year-old fingers pulling up on my jeans as he wiped at the blood, my skin tingling where he touched me.

"Don't be a pussy, Edward," he said, even as his hand lingered on my leg longer than necessary.

There, in the middle of the room—where one floorboard sits unevenly—Jessica Stanley tripped after ducking through the childishly small doorway. She and Lauren Malory giggled their annoying, coded, teenage-girl giggles while Jasper and I tried to impress them with cigarettes nicked from his dad's den. I spent the evening ignoring both Jessica's advances and the sounds of Jasper attacking Lauren's mouth with wet, sloppy kisses.

"Bluh. She tasted like an ashtray," he said after the girls went home, then beat off in his sleeping bag when he thought I was asleep.

There, at the window—the original site of our No Girls Allowed banner—is where Jasper first pressed his lips to mine on the night of our high school graduation. It wasn't anything like the aggressive maneuvers he typically used on girls. It was soft. Tender. It was hesitant and sweet.

"Too many trips to the keg," he said when he broke away, embarrassed and stumbling down the ladder. He ignored all my phone calls, then returned a week later and wordlessly kissed me again.

I see all of these moments—these secrets—playing out in technicolor as Jasper caresses the back of my head and I take him deeper into my mouth. They fill my mind the way Jasper fills my heart, with a cruel kind of beauty.

The secrets are here with me, my devoted companions, as I hear a low grunt from Jasper's throat and feel my cock stir in response. They're here as my knees grow sore and my jaw begins to ache. They're here as I grip Jasper's bare thighs and he releases into my mouth, salty and hot. They're always here—reliable and true—even when he isn't.

After the tremble leaves his legs, he pulls his pants up and joins me on the rough floor of our boyhood play space, working the buttons on my jeans. His fingers are loose, his expression sated. He props himself on an elbow as I lie back, my attention focused on slivers of stars shining through the gaps in the neglected roof. I sigh as his hand encompasses me, closing my eyes and feeling the chattering secrets in my mind fall silent at last.

These are the only moments I can find that quiet peace, the only time I don't feel smothered by the weight of our history. For a little while, as Jasper's care and attention sends me spiraling up and up, I allow myself to believe he really wants this. This time it's real. This time, he's going to fold me in his arms and tell me he loves me—admit what we've both known since the moment our childish games turned to adolescent exploration. I let myself believe because it's the only thing that makes the rest bearable. And when I do come—when I can't hold back the rising tide for a second longer and my strangled cry fills the air—I turn to him, and the light in his eyes tells me it's true. For a blissful second, I feel it pulsing between us—love. Overpowering. Complete.

Then, just as quickly, the shutters slam down and he's rolling away from me, wiping his hand on a soiled towel in the corner. I watch the shame creep slowly up his spine as he hides himself away once more.

"This is the last time, E. Really. I just had to get it out of my system."

His eyes are empty as he makes his way down the ladder.

"See you at the barbecue, okay?"

Of all the secret knowledge I possess of Jasper Whitlock, the greatest is how thoroughly skilled he is at breaking my heart.

"Enjoying your summer, Edward?"

"Yes, sir."

"How's U-Dub treating ya? The Huskies had a pretty great year, didn't they?"

Tom Whitlock plants a beefy paw on my shoulder, sloshing his can of Coors as he gestures vaguely east, toward Seattle. His wavy blonde hair is the only trait he shares with Jasper, though he keeps it cropped so short you can hardly distinguish either the color or the curls. He's broad, square, and large. Where Tom is all football-hero mass, his son is track-star lean. Jasper's wiry frame and angular features are clearly a gift from his mother, Linda.

"Uh-huh. Kicked those Cougars' asses."

Tom tosses his empty beer in the trash and opens another as I poke at the burgers. I'm in charge of the grill while Dad and Emmett set up fireworks on the far end of the lawn. It's not strictly legal to put on our own Fourth of July show, but Sergeant Whitlock has been here to oversee the festivities for the past twelve years, so Chief Swan turns a blind eye.

"Your folks must be so happy to have you home," Linda says as she sidles up to her husband, holding a lemonade. Her floral prairie dress skims her ankles. "Didn't visit them much last semester, did you, Edward? I don't recall seeing the Volvo parked in the driveway but two or three times."

"Why would he wanna visit Forks when his best friend is across the country and there are so many pretty girls at school?"

He waggles his eyebrows, and Linda swats him on the arm.

"Stop it, Tom! I'm sure Edward is a perfect gentleman while he's away."

"Yes, ma'am. I spend more time studying than I do dating." It's absolutely true. Just not for the reason she assumes. "I was pretty tied up with schoolwork—not much time to get home."

"Did you and Jasper get together last night? He was out pretty late."

It's an innocent question, but I still feel cornered. I don't like lying, and everything about my relationship with Jasper is a lie.

"Yes, ma'am. We hung out for a few hours."

"You boys still sneaking away to that silly tree house every chance you get?"

I'm searching for the right response when Tom cuts in.

"Aw now, honey, don't get the boy in trouble. We know what those two get up to when the 'rents aren't around." I cover my choking surprise with a cough, and Linda raises a brow. "I bet we'd find a six-pack or two of empties if we went up there and looked, now wouldn't we?"

Suddenly, the air feels too thick, and it's hard to breathe. I just want to run away, but there's no escape for me. The house is full of neighborhood friends, and the backyard is worse. There's nowhere to go. Instead of fleeing, I put on my best Eddie Haskell voice and a winking smile.

"Why, Mr. Whitlock, you know Jasper and I would never drink anything alcoholic until we're of legal age."

I feel like I might puke. I'm not this person. I hate this person. But I do it for Jasper.

Tom laughs—his belly bouncing up and down—and I know I'm off the hook. "Sure, son, sure. I'm not wearing my badge tonight, but it's best you keep to that story."

Another beer is drained and gone, and Tom reaches for a third.

"Not too many, dear. We have church tomorrow."

"Oh woman, the Lord isn't going to mind me celebrating the hard-earned freedom of our country with a few beers."

Linda's expression is tight as she leads her husband away.

"Have a good time, Edward. I'm going to find this one some water."

"See you around, Mrs. Whitlock. Mr. Whitlock."

I enjoy the momentary reprieve and scan the crowd for a certain blonde head. Jasper is nowhere to be seen. I knew he wouldn't be—somehow I can always sense when he's near—but that doesn't keep me from looking.

We haven't talked, but I'm pretty sure I know where I stand. He'll be feeling bad about last night and need to reassert his hetero status with some macho posturing. I don't know what form it will take, but I'm certain I can expect something.

A shadow passes over the grill as I flip a few patties and load them onto the plate next to me. Then I feel a sharp pain in my nipples as two large hands wrap around me from behind and squeeze.

"Titty twister! Left yourself wide-open there, bro!"

I rub my tender chest with one hand and flip off my ogre of a brother with the other.

"Fuck you, you moron. That hurt."

Emmett just laughs and grabs a patty from the plate, shoving it down his gaping maw. I grimace.

"That's disgusting. Aren't you supposed to be the mature one?"

"You're only as old as you feel," he says as he chokes the meat down and grabs a beer from the cooler. "And by that standard, I'd say you're about forty-three. Something in particular got your panties in a twist today, or are you just sticking with the status quo, old man?"

"I'm fine. At least I was until you came along."

"That's bullshit. You've been moping around since Mom dragged your ass out of bed." He drains half the can in one chug. "What? Did you and your boyfriend have a fight? Jasper decide to top last night and skip your turn?"

Emmett's been making variations on the same joke since I was twelve years old, and I know what the expected response is. I'm so fucking tired of this game, I feel like I could cry. Instead, I suck it up and recite my lines like expected so the world can keep tracking along its suffocating, predestined course.

"Fuck off, Emmett. We both know Rosie has a strap-on with your name on it."

"Dude! That's so fucking wrong!" He wraps an arm around my neck and rubs his knuckles across my head. "What the hell kind of porn do you watch?"

"Getoffame!" I elbow him in the gut, and he releases me.

"Gimme that. Mom wants you inside."

I hand over the spatula and rake a hand through my hair. It won't help restore any order, but I try. I'm thankful to have a break from grill duties; I can escape for a bit and regroup. I'm never going to make it through tonight if I leave myself an open target.

As I cross the patio toward the open French doors, I feel a chill along my spine. When I turn, I see him approaching from the side gate. Clear blue eyes meet mine, and I feel like I can breathe a little easier. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile as I approach, then quickly drops as he fights some internal battle. It's okay. I'm used to it. I'm just happy I got to see the honest reaction first, before his mask went up.

"Hey."

I'm trying to remember what it was like to talk to him before—before I spent an entire summer getting to know his body, before the clandestine Christmas we shared in our secret spot, before we picked up again when we both came home from school last month. I'm trying to remember the protocol of a friend talking to a friend, but it's hard when all I want to do is pull him into my arms and kiss him.

"Hey." He nods and shuffles his feet, looking just as uncertain as I.

"You okay?"

He lasers in on me, his jaw set tight.

"Dude. Don't check in with me. Just—don't. We're cool, all right?"

I want to tell him we're not cool. I want to say I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend I don't feel anything for him when every cell in my body is screaming because I can't touch him. I want to say this doesn't work for me. He has to choose. He has to pick whether he's my friend or my lover, because as long as he wants to be both, he's not really either.

But I don't. I swallow the words and nod. Because if I ask him to choose, I know he won't choose me. And as much as this hurts, I'd rather have this than nothing at all.

We both stare, uncertain. At last, squealing laughter breaks the silence. A few neighbor children are playing a game of tag—tackling each other to the ground. Childish games.

"Your Dad's in rare form tonight."

He chuckles knowingly, and I feel a little better.

"What'd he do?"

I'm just about to describe the elder Whitlock's record-breaking beer consumption when a grating voice interrupts us.

"Jazz? I didn't know what you wanted, so I just picked a Coke. I figured everyone likes Coke."

Jazz? Who the fuck—?

Before I can finish the thought, a petite brunette appears from behind me and nuzzles into "Jazz's" side.

"Oh, hey. E, you know Alice? She was a year behind us at Forks."

I know who the fuck Alice is. She was the midget underclassman who was always trailing Jasper around the halls, always cheering his name at track meets. We used to laugh at the way her gigantic doe eyes followed him around the lunchroom. I know who the fuck she is. What I don't understand is why the fuck she's here.

"Edward, right? Nice to meet you."

She holds out her hand like that means something to me, and I just stare at it uncomprehendingly. Seconds tick on. Nobody moves. Alice looks to Jasper for help, and her hand flops to her side like a dead fish.

"E? Man, don't be rude."

Jasper's watching me like he's afraid I'm going to flip my shit—giving me this look of warning that just makes me want to punch him in the fucking face. And I can't—

I can't be here. I can't do this.

"I gotta go. Mom needs me in the house."

I don't pause long enough to listen to their response. I storm into the house, heading straight for the stairs and my room, but as I pass by the kitchen, Mom's voice stops me.

"Edward? Honey?"

I come to a halt with a groan. With a deep breath I put on my game face, trying to force my tight scowl into some semblance of a smile and failing miserably.

"You need something?"

"Yeah . . ." She scans the room, her eyes landing on the island. "Would you put the buns in this basket, please?"

This is such a bullshit job—such a pathetic excuse for a task—I know she's lying. I know this isn't why she called me in here. But I'll play along. Fuck it.

"Sure."

I begin the extraordinarily difficult job of taking the little plastic dealie off the bag of buns and loading them into a waiting basket. She's silent, rinsing berries in the sink. I glance out the window in front of her and catch sight of Jasper and Alice just where I left them. She's laughing, and he's looking over her shoulder in the direction of the French doors. His face is grim.

And I get it.

Mom saw everything. She knows.

She probably always knew; Esme Cullen is no idiot. But I imagine the show I just put on for her was evidence enough if she needed it.

"Mom . . ."

"Did I ever tell you about my aunt Tillie?"

What?

"Um . . . no."

"She was always my favorite. My mom's sister. She had the best collection of vintage hats." Mom pulls a pineapple onto a cutting board next to her and starts to cut the jagged husk off, never looking at me. "I'd spend every Sunday afternoon at her house while your Opa and Oma had some time alone. We'd bake cupcakes and play dress up and just have a grand time. Sometimes, her friend Bea would come over."

Mom sets the knife down and turns at last, watching me with those knowing eyes.

"Bea was the best. Like a sister to Aunt Tillie. They were inseparable. In those days, people called unmarried women like Tillie and Bea spinsters. But I never thought of them that way. 'Spinster' implies someone who is lonely. Alone.

"They had each other."

I can't help but watch as Jasper wanders away from the window, Alice bouncing behind him like a hyper puppy. I want to know where he's going. I hate that even now the pull is undeniable.

"It's too bad they didn't feel free enough to let the world know. Back then."

Mom smiles at me. Silent, but so full of meaning.

"What a wonderful world we live in today."

God. I love her, and I really wish her little story meant something. But it doesn't. It doesn't mean shit as long as Jasper's not ready for this. As long as he's so terrified of admitting what he is that he'd bring a date—a girl—to my house—

"Edward." Mom's eyes are full of steel now, and I know she can read my thoughts so clearly she might as well be a telepath. "Nobody has the right to tell you what to be. Even if you love them. Only you decide what you show the world."

I don't understand how we can be having this conversation. She hasn't said anything, really. But she's managed to say everything. How can my mother just have encouraged me to come out of the closet without admitting she knows I'm gay? It's like a magic trick.

I want to hug her, and I want to cry. I want to spill my guts to her. I want to tell her everything so she can wrap me in her arms and promise me it'll be okay.

But it's not okay. I'm not naive enough to believe this will get anything but worse. And I can't tell her everything, because these secrets aren't mine alone to share. I don't just love "guys". I love Jasper. Without him by my side, showing the world who I am would be pointless.

"Thanks, Mom." I take a deep breath, stalling for a bit of time. "I know you want to help. I just need to sort some stuff out on my own, okay?"

She looks so sad as she rounds the island and pulls me into her embrace. The top of her head barely reaches my chin, but I always feel like a kid in her arms.

"I love you so much, Edward." Her voice cracks, and I know if she says anything else, I'm going to lose it.

"Mom, please. Don't. Please."

Her ribs expand and contract as she fights for breath. She nods silently against my chest and wipes at her eyes.

When she lets go of me at last, she's the picture of composure.

"Why don't you go upstairs for a little while? Carlisle and Emmett can take care of hosting duties while you get a break, okay?"

I take her up on the offer and retreat to my room until the last of the light fades from the sky and winking stars shine through my bedroom window.

He's gone.

The remaining guests are gathered on the patio, situated in loose clumps and looking toward the east. As the first of the fireworks break apart the black expanse, I know he isn't here among the onlookers. The sea of faces is bathed in red, blue, purple, and orange as the sky explodes in a dazzling parade of color. But none of them are his. None of these faces are the one that matters.

A few people eye me curiously as I emerge from the house, but their attention is quickly diverted to the light show. I'm sure my absence was noticed, but I can't bring myself to care. I'm too focused on wondering where Jasper is right now.

Did he take Alice home? Did he drop her off, or is he lingering there, continuing his desperate mission to prove something to himself?

Or is he trying to prove something to me? I'm not sure.

As kids, Jasper and I always watched the show from the perch of our tree house. We insisted we could see the fireworks better from up high, but I think even then we unconsciously found ways to be alone together. The summer I turned seventeen, we sat with our legs dangling over the narrow ledge of our tower, feet swinging back and forth, thighs brushing together. It was clear to me then how I felt about him, but he was always so careful, always so closed-off. So when the fantastic finale flashed and popped in the sky and Jasper grasped my knee in excitement, I jolted in surprise.

Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds—something like the thrill of hope passing between us. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away and hopped up, leaving me wondering if I had imagined it all.

"Come on, asshole. Let's see if we can sneak some beers from the cooler."

I think about that moment as my feet draw me toward the west end of the lawn—toward my refuge, toward my second home. The only place I can be myself. I should have known then how hopeless this was. I should have known he'd never be okay with this, with us. That swift retreat—and a thousand other similar moments—proved what I refused to believe until I saw his arm draped so casually around Alice's shoulder. However powerful Jasper's unspoken love for me, his fear is greater.

I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to rip out my heart and toss it away. I imagine a surgical removal, something cold and clinical. Something one of my pre-med classes might have prepared me for.

Start the incision here, in the center of my breastbone. Slide the blade to the left; twelve inches should do it. Butterfly the flesh and push the rib spreader between the bones. Crank, crank, crank, until I'm open and my heart exposed. Then slice. Cut. Extract. Cauterize the wound and sew the patient up.

Maybe if it were that easy, I could do it. But there's nothing clean about this. There is nothing elegant or neat about saying goodbye to my hopes. This is a hatchet job better suited to a lumberjack than a surgeon.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

I'm jagged and bleeding. I'm raw, mutilated meat. I'm—

Oh fuck, I'm losing it.

I can't see through my tears as I make my way to the foot of the ladder. The cedar boards tacked into the trunk of the towering oak have never been replaced, but they stand strong. I don't need to see as I ascend—I know these steps as well as I know the flecks of gold in Jasper's blue eyes or the freckles dotting his forearm.

I know something else as I reach for the final hand-hold.

I'm not alone.

A part of me wants to shout for joy when I see him alone, resting statue-like against the back wall with an unopened bottle of Jack in his hands. The weak part. The part that thinks there's still hope. I guess I haven't managed to extract all those pesky chunks of heart after all.

The rational part—the part screaming at my hands and legs to move!, climb right back down that ladder—isn't strong enough yet. It hasn't flexed its muscles. Hasn't prepared for the sight of him: the man who makes me smile inside, even as crushing blackness presses on me from the outside.

"I never understood."

I've hesitated so long—halfway in, halfway out—that I feel unbalanced when he speaks. I take the final step and pull myself inside, finding a seat against the opposite wall.

"I don't know why it took so fucking long."

I don't know what he's talking about, but I have no voice and no interest in pressing, so I remain silent.

"I kissed her." His eyes meet mine at last. Pleading. Imploring. "Edward? Did you hear me?"

I thought I'd be more upset. But that hasn't come yet. Right now I just feel hollow.

"So?"

"So? I said I kissed her, E." He sits forward and pushes the whiskey aside, but he doesn't approach. "Aren't you mad? Aren't you going to tell me what an asshole I am?"

"Why should I? You don't owe me anything. We're done, right? You got me out of your system."

Even as I speak the lie, the quiver in my voice betrays me.

"That's bullshit, and you know it. You've never believed that crap before—please don't start now."

His words propel me up and towards the door.

"I can't do this. I'm not going to watch you get drunk and brave. I'm not going to let you fuck me and then sit by as you rip yourself up over it. Find a nice beard and go fuck the pretty, closeted boys back in Boston. I'm done. I don't want this anymore."

"E? Edward! Please—just wait!"

The sky is still alight with fiery blossoms as I hover near the door. The fireworks seem so close and the sky so far away. I wonder how it would feel if I touched one. Would it burn? Would it fall into my hand, harmless as ash?

"I told her, E. I told Alice. Half the town probably knows by now."

"What?"

"I told her. About us. I knew if I didn't say it right then, I'd lose my nerve. And if I couldn't say it at all, I'd lose you."

I can't process this. It doesn't make any sense. Why would Jasper—Jasper—out himself? And me? Why would he do that?

All I can see is fire crackling in the sky as I feel his approach. He's closer now. Warm behind me.

"I could tell. The way you looked at me when I introduced her. I knew you were done. I mean, I was trying to push you away—of course I knew."

"I don't understand. You told her? Why?"

Panic hasn't set in yet. I know it will come. When the meaning of his words finally settles and I feel the force of his honesty come crashing down on me. When I see the evidence of it—the whispers, the stares. The jokes and judgment sure to come. But none of that is real yet, so I don't panic. All I feel is the overwhelming desire to listen to him. To hear him say what I hope he's saying.

"I thought I could do it, E. I thought I could force myself to be what everyone expects. If I tried hard enough. If I gave it a real shot with someone sweet like Alice. Someone who looks at me the way you do."

I feel his breath on my neck, but I don't turn. I can't look at him.

"And I was such a dick for bringing her here—I know—but I thought—" He sighs. "I thought it would be easier for you if I made a clean break."

Tears threaten my eyes, but I force them back.

"No, that's a lie. I thought it would be easier for me. I'm a selfish asshole, and I was trying to make it easy for me. I know that. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

He moves to touch me—his hands brushing against my waist—and I let him. As much as I hate him in this moment, I love him more.

"You have no reason to forgive me after everything I've done. But I hope you will. I hope to God you will."

Smoke billows from the far side of the lawn as the fireworks spark their last and fade into the night. The smell is sharp and pungent in my nose. I turn to face him as I take a step into the room. I don't want him touching me right now. I'll never be able to say what I have to say if he's touching me.

"What's the point, Jasper? So we can be friends? 'Cause I don't want to be friends. That's something you've helped me understand. I may love you . . . but I don't like you very much."

He sucks in a sharp breath then nods.

"I deserve that. I know I haven't been . . . good for you. To you." He walks across the room and bends to pick up the bottle of liquor, stopping himself at the last second. He stands and faces me head-on, no prop holding him up. "I don't want to be friends, E. It's what I figured out when I was kissing Alice. It's what I should have known so fucking long ago. I don't want to be friends with you."

It's so obvious he's setting me up. He wants me to ask. I resist and resist, but the moment stretches on, and I can't hold my tongue any longer.

"What do you want, Jasper?"

He smiles, victorious even in his contrition.

"Everything."

Below on the patio, people are laughing and thanking my parents for another wonderful party. The warm summer night is full of jovial sounds. In here, the floorboards creak as I consider my response and Jasper silently waits.

"Do you think that's enough?"

The eager rise of his brows draws inward, furrowing in question.

"Do you think you can just say you want it, and—" I snap my fingers. "—you'll get it? Do you think it's that simple?"

"No, I—"

"You can't play with me, Jasper. I'm not a fucking toy."

His shoulders sag, and the expectant light shining in his eyes dims.

"No, I know." He shakes his head and drops his gaze. "I'm too late. It's okay, I get it."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I couldn't figure this out sooner. I just wish—"

"Are you fucking serious? You're giving up?"

"What?"

"Are you really just gonna roll over?"

"I don't under—"

"Fight for me, you asshole! Show me you mean it!"

I want him to do something, anything, to show me this time will be different. I need him to show me that tomorrow I'm not going to wake up to the same loneliness I do Every. Single. Day.

"You want me to—"

"Yes!"

Then he does.

He rushes across the room and pulls me into his arms. His mouth crashes down on mine as he gives me the kiss I know he couldn't give Alice.

It hurts, and it's wonderful, and I know it doesn't fix everything—or anything, really—but I don't stop him, because it's what I've wanted him to do all night. It's what I want him to do every night.

His hands are cupping my face, holding me possessively, when he releases my mouth. I'm sinking into his vast blue when he says the words I've never heard from him before.

"I love you, Edward. Please don't tell me I missed my chance."

I think he's afraid of my answer, because he doesn't let me speak before he finds my mouth again.

I'm floating. I'm flying. I'm lost to this world.

I don't know how three little words can make such a difference, but they do. It's the difference between hope and despair, between thinking and knowing, between promise and deliverance. It's the difference between I can't and I will.

It's everything.

He pulls away, and I feel empty. Incomplete.

"I'll do anything. Anything you want." He's still trying, and I'm torn between telling him it's all right and seeing just how far he'll go. "We can go talk to my parents right now. I'll shout it from this tree house. Please, just tell me what to do to make this okay. Tell me how to make you love me again—"

"Jasper, stop." He stills, his face suddenly falling. "You don't have to do anything. I love you. I never stopped."

His eyes are impossibly bright. So wide. So hopeful.

"Really?"

"Really."

His smile slides into my heart, repairing old scars, mending long-simmering hurts. I know this is only the beginning of our work. Patterns must be broken. It's going to take time before trust finds a permanent home in my heart.

But we've made a start. And for the first time in years, the secrets this room is holding feel hopeful and light.

When the last of the guests have wandered from the lawn and my legs ache from standing here in Jasper's embrace, I tug on his hand and move toward the ladder. I smile as I begin my descent.

"Hey, Jasper?"

"Yeah?"

He follows my lead, working his way down the massive trunk of our boyhood playhouse.

"Did you seriously out us?"

He laughs. A liberated sound. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I think it'll be better this way."

As our feet land on the soft grass below, fireflies swirl around our heads, putting on a private show for just the two of us. I smile at our good fortune and reach out my hand. After the briefest hesitation, Jasper threads his fingers through mine and leads me toward the house.

Yes, things will definitely be better this way.

The girls of the DTCPS were busy this month writing a new birthday present fic, Bring on the Dancing Horses, for our dear dreaminginnorweigen. You can read it and our other collaborative fic, Lips Like Sugar at dtcps dot blogspot dot com

…or look up DTCPS on FFN.

The Dastardly Trans-Continental Prose Society is: BelieveItOrNot, Dragonfly336, dreaminginnorweigen, IReen H, moirae, thimbles