Natalia
Dressed in tights and a dark grey mock neck sweater dress with short heeled combat boots, I pace the expanse of Lana’s outdoor seating area.
My hair is straightened again, but becauseIwanted to and because of my recent trim at which I treated myself to a blowout. Either way, I feel good about myself tonight—my outfit, my hair, the eyebrow gel and mascara, and my usual perfume.
This is my new favorite New Year’s Eve outfit by far.
“Natalia, you’re making me dizzy.” Isabelle blows out a raspberry. “I’m kind of tipsy,” she whispers. “Don’t tell Lana.”
“I’m right here,” Lana whispers as she sips her glass of water. “Nat, what’s going on?”
I sigh, and my pacing comes to a slow stop. “He told me he loved me,” I say quietly. “That he’s…inlovewith me.”
“Who?” Isabelle whispers a bit too loudly.
“She’s drunk.” Lana rolls her eyes. For today, and todayonly, Lana and Christian let us bring a bottle of champagne for us to share at midnight. It seems Isa got a head start.
“I am not!” Isa gasps, snickering. “Oh—Rowan!”
“Duh.” Lana chuckles.
Isabelle continues. “Do you not love him back?”
I take a moment, knowing they’re going to give me anotherduhreaction. But I get over it and slowly nod. Strangely, I don’t get aduhreaction, only soft, small smiles. “Yeah,” I rasp. “I just haven’t told him—in English.” Now they look confused. “But he always tells me.”
“He’s such a golden retriever, I love him,” Isabelle says. “And it’s cute he keeps telling you.”
“Do you feel pressured to tell him you love him back?” Lana asks.
I shake my head. “No, it’s nice. It’s like a reminder, you know? It helps. I need the words.”
“Well,welove you,” Lana says, grinning.
“I love you guys too.” I grin back. “We’ve agreed to take it slow,” I tell them. “It’s what we need. WhatIneed.”
“That’s good,” Isa says. “Right?”
“It’s good,” I confirm. “I’m not sure how slowslowis. I mean this started with sex. How slow can we really take it?”
“Do you want me to listen or do you want advice?” Lana asks softly.
“Advise me, please.”
“I think slow isyourpace,” she says. “You decide what slow is. You can take it slow and have sex, but make it more about intimacy. Does that make sense?”
I nod.
“And maybe slow is just more conversation,” she continues. “Let him further in, Natty. It won’t kill you, we promise.”
“I know it’s scary,” Isabelle says, “but just imagine howworth itit’ll be.”
“I feel like I’m the most toxic, chaotic, problematic idiot who is incapable of being a girlfriend.”
“You’re not toxic.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
“You just needed help,” Lana says. “Sometimes, maybe, the way in which we handle our trauma can make us toxic, but you’re trying to heal from it—to handle it better. You’re making yourself better. But slow is whatever definition you give it.”
