Big Rock

“What was so strange?” she asks, her happy tone telling me she wants the answers as much as I love giving them.

“I wasn’t a complete idiot that night. I made sure to tell you the full truth—that I was jealous of anyone else who’d ever had you. Which was really my way of saying I don’t want anyone else to have you,” I say, then brush my lips against the hollow of her throat. “Ever.”

“I feel the same,” she says, her smile like sunshine as she grabs her phone again, this time showing me the messages she sent right after she left this morning. “Look. Just look.”

About that horrid lie.

It hurt so much to say that.

I didn’t mean it.

It feels so real to me.

Do you feel it too?

I look up from the screen and press my hand to her chest, over her heart. It thunders under my hand. “Yes, Snuffalaffugus. I feel it everywhere.”

She giggles when I use our term of endearment. “Me, too. But before we fully explore everywhere, I really want you to read the rest of these,” she says, as she peels my hand off her chest and presses her phone into my palm.

Oh great. I just realized I’m sending all these text messages to myself. BECAUSE YOUR PHONE IS LIGHTING UP MY PURSE!

Okay. So yeah. This sucks.

You’ve got to know I only said that on the field to try to help. I was trying to stick to the plan. To make it all believable. I HAVE NO IDEA IF IT WORKED.

Ugh. I feel awful now. I messed things up even worse, didn’t I?

I’m talking to myself. But look what I found…

Seems I have your keys and wallet, too. Hmm. You have a lot of credit cards.

I’ve been meaning to get a new Kate Spade.

And some Louboutins.

WHERE ARE YOU? DON’T YOU KNOW WHERE I LIVE?

I’m not relinquishing this phone unless you feel the same way. I swear if I see you and it turns out this is a one-way street, you will never get this phone back. It will die a fast, painless death by the hammer of my embarrassment.

So if you’re reading these messages, it must mean only one thing.

You’re crazy for me, too.

“I’m so crazy for you, too,” I say, and our lips come together again.

Before the moment can turn heated, before she can climb on top of me like I want her to, we somehow make it to Central Park and the baseball field. The car idles on the path, waiting for us as I walk her to the grass.

Another game is underway—a pizzeria is batting against a shoe store chain. I pull Charlotte close to me. “But this,” I say, pointing to the ground, “this is where I was a huge dumbass.”

She grins. “Why’s that?”

“Because right here, earlier today…” I take a breath, letting it fuel me to finally share my whole heart. “This is where the woman I love went to bat for me.” She gasps when I use the L word. “I should have told you then that I love you. I should have said everything to you.” Inching closer, I press my forehead to hers. “I should have told you I’m madly in love with you, and I want you to be mine. When you told me it wasn’t real, I was devastated—”

“Spencer, I didn’t mean it. I said it to try to fix things.”

“I know that now. I was foolish then. But it was all for the best. Because feeling like I lost you made me realize I’d do whatever it takes to have you. Because you’re the one. You’ve been in front of me all along, and in some ways I feel like I fell in love with you quickly, in only one week. But in other ways, I know I’ve been falling in love with you over time, over the years. It just took faking it for me to realize that you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. But more than that—you’re the only woman I want to love.” I brush the backs of my fingers against her cheek. Her eyes are lit with joy. I recognize the emotion because I feel it with her. “And I know that, because I want to eat the green gummy bears for you so you never have to taste them, and I want to sit through the torture of Fiddler on the Roof with you, and drink virgin margaritas some nights, and non-bad beer other nights, and put you in bed if you’re tired and have a headache, and make love to you all night long if you don’t.”

Her lips part, and she sighs contentedly. She grabs at my collar, pulling me even closer. “I don’t have a headache tonight. And I want to do that all night long, too. I want to do that because I broke the same rule. I’m so in love with you that I’d kiss you with morning breath, and I’ll even scrape pesto mayo off your sandwiches for you if anyone serves it to you by mistake,” she says, locking her gaze to mine.

“I hope that never happens.” My tone is intensely serious. “Because I don’t want you to have to go anywhere near pesto mayo or bad breath. But if it does, I want us to deal with both horrors together.”

“Me, too,” she says, then kisses me—a deep, passionate kiss that seals all these lessons I learned.

When she breaks the kiss, she raises a suggestive eyebrow. “Leftover cold sesame noodles at your house instead of dinner out?”