So this is what being in love feels like. Ever since that day when Clara told me that she was an angel-blood, we've been inseparable. Sometimes I forget how to walk when I'm thinking about her. Murphy might have scolded me for "swimming in the gutter" when I knocked over some rafts but he ended up giving me a wink with a good-hearted smirk.

I find a lot of things about Clara to make me love her even more. She likes tea over coffee, she loves skiing more than snowboarding, and she has never had her ears pierced before. Mom always says little things have great values. I've always upheld that wherever I went, but with Clara it's a whole different meaning.

She takes my breath away. I love how she'll laugh when I say something extremely mushy and how I tickle her or kiss her. Boy, do we kiss a lot. I love how she tangles her fingers in my hair when we kiss and how her now golden hair catches the sunlight every time she moves. She smells like sunshine and the garlands she makes of the flowers I pick for her. I love how she fits me perfectly, as cliche as it sounds.

I never take it too far. I don't want to push her into anything she isn't ready for and truthfully, I don't think I'm ready for that. Mom and Dad gave the more traumatizing version of in sixth grade. I don't want to get into that.

"What about church?" I ask suddenly when we're lying on a blanket on the bed my pickup truck with stars right above our heads. I kiss the back of her hand and twine our fingers together.

"What?" she asks with a dazed expression on her face. I laugh. She's so adorable.

"Church," I say again. "Why doesn't your family go to church?" I'm not an extremely religious person, but Wendy I got to church often in the year.

"I don't know," she tells me her voice slightly breathless. "My mom took us every Sunday when we were kids, but not since we got older." I roll over to look at her.

"But you know there's a God," I say, trying very hard not to get lost in her eyes. Again. "I mean, you're part angel. You have proof, right?" I mentally slap myself. The fact that she's here, right now, is enough proof. I can see her eyes unfocused as she starts to think about my question. It's not the first time that I wish I could know what goes on in her head.

"Well, there's the glory thing," she starts when comes back to me. "How we connect with God. But I don't know a lot about that. I've only felt that one time." It's hard to believe that our first kiss was the first time she'd ever glowed.

"What was it like?" I ask. I want to know how it was for her. I was terrified, but she says that was a normal effect on me.

"It was good," she says. Her eyes seem to shine a little at the memory of it. "I can't describe it. It was like I could feel everything you felt, your heart beating, your blood moving through your veins, your breath, like we were the same person, and we felt this incredible... joy. Did you feel it, too?" The way she explains it, I suddenly wish that I was part of her world. I guess we are in a way, we're both here but you know what I mean. I don't want to be afraid of her glowing, I want to experience the way she does. The connection with everything around here. Talk about angelic hippies. I wonder what angel-blood hippies were like... Focus, Tuck.

"I don't think so," I say, glancing away so she won't see the fear in my eyes. I am not afraid of her. "I was just so crazy happy to be kissing you. And then you were glowing. And then you were shining so bright I couldn't even look at you."

"Sorry," she whispers with doubt laced in her voice. No, don't be ashamed. You're you and I wouldn't want it any other way.

"I'm not," I tell her. "I'm glad it happened. Because then I got to know who you really are."

"Oh yeah?" she asks jokingly. "Who am I?" I smirk at her.

"A really, really spiritual, spoiled California chick," I say.

"Shut up," she says with a smile.

"It's cool, though," I say. "My girlfriend is an angel." I see her roll her eyes at me.

"I'm not an angel," she says. "I don't live in heaven or play a golden harp or have heart-to-heart conversations with the Almighty."

"You don't?" I ask, still teasing her. "You don't have a big Christmas dinner with God?" She giggles at that. I absolutely love her laugh.

"No," she tells me, attempting to stifle her laughter. "We have our own traditions, but we don't actually get to hang out with God." She gets this faraway look in her eyes and responds wistfully. "My mom says that every angel-blood meets God eventually, though, after our purpose on earth is fulfilled. Face-to-face. I can't really imagine it, but that's what she says."

"Yeah," I say, "but that's the same for everybody, isn't it? Humans too?"

She gives me a confused look. "What?"

"We all supposedly get to meet God," I tell her. "When we die." That's what she means by purpose, isn't it? It means life. She stares at me as she mulls over my words and bites her lip.

"Right," she says slowly. "We all get to meet God someday." I don't ask her what she's thinking about. I'll save it for another time.

"So maybe I should keep going to church," I say trying to liven everything up again.

"Church couldn't hurt," she says with a playful grin.

She strokes my cheek and I close my eyes. I imagine a little version of Clara sitting in church singing and praying with everyone else under the stained-glass angels, showered in colorful lights. I open my eyes kiss her nose before lying on my back. We gaze up at the stars in comfortable silence.