I woke up one morning to find Ian lying on his side, staring at me.

"Gaaah!" Then I got hold of myself. "What are you doing, watching me sleep?"

"Is that okay? I like watching you sleep. You look so sweet."

"Yeah, okay." I started to turn away to get out of bed. He was still staring. "What?"

"Do you love me?"

"What? Of course I do! You know that!"

"You never say it."

"I do! I mean, I must. Don't I?"

He shook his head. "You have never, once, since we've been together, said the words 'I love you.'"

"Are you sure?"

"Photographic memory, remember? I can recall every single word you've ever said to me. Those three were not among them."

"But . . . you know I . . . you know, don't you? Do I really have to tell you in so many words?"

"Are you afraid?"

"No!" That came out a little too loud. I softened my tone. "No, I'm not - not afraid. I don't think so."

"Then why can't you say it?"

"I don't know! I didn't think it was such a big deal!"

That brought on his pouty face, and I felt guilty. "Maybe you don't."

"Don't what? Don't love you? Oh, come on! Look at me! Ian, look at me."

He tilted his face up towards me, but his eyes were still looking down.

"Just because I don't say it in so many words doesn't mean I don't feel it. You're reading too much into things. Do you think I'd be here if I didn't love you?"

"But you never tell me."

"Do you think just because you don't hear the words, that makes it not true? Does it mean that much to you?"

He doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry I can't say it yet. I'm . . . still working out some things. But I want to be with you. I like being with you."

"You want to take your shower first?" he mumbled into the pillow.

I sighed. "Yeah, okay." Since I was on the outside, I had to get up first anyway.

We still have two bathrooms, but we can't both take a shower at the same time. The water pressure can't take it, or something. I brought my clothes in with me, so I could get dressed after I finished showering, and not have Ian see me naked. Still not ready for that yet.

There was so much we still didn't know. But there were ways to find out. I had forbidden Ian to look for anything online, because half the stuff that comes up is usually porn. However, I had gone by a Gay and Lesbian Community Center while I was downtown looking for something else, and I was hoping we could stop in and ask a few questions. I mean, when we were growing up, you just didn't talk about things like that. How were we supposed to know what to do?

I came out, and Ian went into his bathroom. Rather than wait for him, I decided to seek someone's advice on the three words I couldn't say. The best person to ask, I thought, was someone who was in a long-term relationship.

Len wasn't in the dining hall. He wasn't in either of the two dojos. I was about to go outside and see if he was practicing on the lawn when I passed the third-floor kitchenette and saw him having a cup of coffee.

"Mind if I join you?"

He looked up. "Go right ahead. I think there's a little left in the pot. It's decaf, though, if that matters."

"I like decaf." I went into the cabinet and found a mug that said I LOVE MONDAYS (and briefly wondered who the masochist was), filled it from the pot, and added an insane amount of cream and sugar. Real cream, and real sugar. I hate low-fat, low-calorie, artificial anything. I stirred the cup exactly nine times and then sat down.

"Everything going okay for you guys?"

"Well . . . kind of."

"Kind of? What's wrong?"

"He's all in a snit because I've never told him I love him."

"Well, why not?"

"I didn't think it was necessary. I mean, he knows I love him. Why do I have to say the words? They're just words."

"Words can be very important."

"My dad used to tell me he loved me. Right after he . . . hurt me. How important were those words?"

He didn't say anything to me, just sipped his coffee.

"I know, I know, I can't let go of it yet. I'm trying, but . . . I can't just forget something like that. The man screwed up my head so badly that I don't know if I can ever love anyone again. It's like he poisoned my whole psyche."

"You have to forgive him before you can move on."

"I can not forgive what he did to me! That is unforgivable! No parent should ever do that to their own child!"

"You've forgiven yourself for leaving your brother behind. Now you have to forgive him."

"I can't. You have no idea what it was like. And just when I think I'm okay with it, it comes back again to bite me in the-" I just looked down at the table and shook my head. "This is so messed up."

Len put a hand on my shoulder. "You'll be fine. Are you still seeing that therapist Dave recommended?"

"I . . . I haven't called him yet."

"Well, you should. I think you need to talk about this, even if you don't want to right now. You've done such a good job so far dealing with this. Now you just need to take the next step. There's a lot going on in your life right now that you need to sort out. So call the man already."

"Yeah, I will. But first, I think I need to talk to Ian. I have something I have to tell him."

"Aren't you gonna finish your coffee first?"

I looked down. The cup was still full. And it had cooled to the point where I could drink it without burning my tongue. "Right. Why waste good coffee?"

When I got back to the room, Ian was dressed and sitting on the freshly made bed.

"You didn't need to do that," I said, referring to the making of the bed. "We have maid service."

"I messed it up looking for Shelldon, and I didn't want to leave it like that."

"Okay." I looked at my watch. Neither of us had morning training today; we were essentially on our own till lunch. Not that either of us had even had breakfast yet. But there were some things that were more important than food. I sat down beside him, trying not to mess up the bed.

"About this morning . . ." I began.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Why are you sorry? I was wrong. I was a stubborn jackass, and you've got nothing to be sorry for."

"I shouldn't have pushed you. I know this is hard for you to deal with and all-"

"That's not the point. I wasn't thinking about your feelings. Words don't mean much to me, but they mean everything to you. I promise, from now on, I'll tell you I love you every morning when we wake up, and every night before we fall asleep. And every minute in between."

"You don't have to do that."

"It's no less than you deserve. You're the best thing I've got. I don't want to lose you."

He leaned his head on my shoulder, and I put my arm around him. "Much as I'd like to sit here like this all morning," I said, "we've got a ten o'clock appointment down at the Center."

"Center?"

"Yeah, the . . . what do you call it . . . BLT or GBLT or whatever it is."

"LGBT? I wondered what that was."

"Then after that, I have a phone call to make. But first, we should go have breakfast."

"I want French toast."

"Sounds good," I said. "I love you, Ian." There. I'd said it. And it wasn't so bad after all.