"Happy Birthday."
I turned sharply. My blonde hair, the hair that made me Galleons in modeling contracts that summer I turned seventeen, the summer we fell in love, twirled in the air.
I blinked, mouth gaping. It was the first two words you had said to me in three years. Granted, we hadn't had many opportunities to speak, I made sure of that, as, I assumed, you did, too. And maybe they were sarcastic and mocking, but it was a start, I supposed.
You lifted your eyebrows, as if demanding politely, what I was doing there. Or perhaps, not politely. Further inspection caused me to determine your look uncaring, irritated, demanding not upon my reasons, but, instead, my audacity.
I lifted my chin in defiance. I had just as many reasons to visit your parents' graves as you did. Well, perhaps not quite as many, but, still, I had every right.
"Thank you, Theodore."
Your bottom lip twitched; your eyes lost their malice. I saw your shoulders sag, as if you gave up on the front of derision.
You brushed past me and laid the flowers you brought upon your mother's grave. Your fingers brushed hers, then your father's headstones in a moment of silence. Then, it was over.
You flashed me a sad smile, and you were walking away, towards that stupid kissing gate that didn't even squeak when you entered.
And suddenly, I knew I still loved you, which, admittedly, was a ludicrous notion. I broke it off with you. I'm sure you remembered that as clearly as I knew.
"Theodore?" I called in my most authoritative voice at the time, which wasn't very authoritative at all. In fact, it sounded meeker than that time I was six and asked you to kiss me. The thought struck me, and the words flew from my mouth. I swore I had no control over them.
"Kiss me?"
A moment passed, the breath I had used to ask the simple, but heavy question seemed to spread across the graveyard and settle a stillness that made my hands clammy. Then, your lips were on mine. It took you two steps to reach me.