“It’s actually a locket,” she says, “open it.”
I lift it out of the box, the weight feeling nice in my hands, and I use my thumb nail on the small lip to open it. Inside is the photo I took of us a few weeks ago, my favorite photo, the one I always stare at on my phone. I don’t know what to say… it’s perfect.
“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” she says, “I mean, you could keep it next to your bed, or it’s small enough to fit in your wallet.”
“No way, I love it, I’m never taking it off.”
I lift the chain over my head, the dog-tag sitting on my chest.
“You do?” she asks, her voice full of nerves.
How could she think I wouldn’t love this?
“Yes, of course I do,” I pull her into a kiss, rolling her onto her back as I hold myself over her. “I love it,” and I don’t even hesitate before the next words leave my mouth… “I love you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth
Time seems to stop, but his words continue echoing in my head.
“You love me?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, “I love you, Elizabeth. And you don’t—”
“I love you too,” I say.
Fuck. I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone romantically before, but I didn’t even hesitate. He exhales in relief, resting his head on my chest.
“I was about to say that you don’t need to say it back, but fuck, I’m so happy you did.”
I start giggling. I don’t know why… maybe it’s because if someone had told me two months ago that I’d be lying in bed with him on his birthday, telling him I loved him after he said it to me, I’d be telling them to get their head checked, that no way in a million years would that happen.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Two months ago, this would’ve seemed impossible, but now it just feels right. I love you, Angel.”
He kisses me, pouring everything he’s feeling into it, and I return it with my own intensity. It feels so right, but there’s a small part of me that knows things just went to a whole other level with us, and how much farther I have to fall if things don’t work out…
The restaurant he takes me to is fancier than I was expecting, honestly, I didn’t think this would be his type of place. Heasked me to wear the green dress I wore to the gallery, he just doesn’t know I’ve added a lacy surprise underneath… but that’s for later.
This is the nicest dress I own; but I still feel under-dressed compared to the other patrons. There are glimpses of diamonds and expensive watches everywhere, on top of tailor-made suits and high-end designer dresses, even though it’s only lunch service.
We reach the maître d’s desk, and he looks us both up and down, his expression unimpressed.
“We’ve got a reservation,” Angel says.
“And the name, Sir?”
The maître d’ talks with an air of boredom, clearly assuming that we don’t in fact have a reservation, he’s already made up his mind that we don’t belong here.
“Angel Sharpe.”
The maître d’ scans his tablet, his eyes widen slightly, and he stands a little bit taller.
“Right this way, Sir, please follow me.”
Angel’s hand is on my back as we follow him to our booth, it’s the best table in the place for sure, and I realize he probably requested it specifically. I wonder if he also put down a sizable deposit and that’s why the maître d’ quickly became more accommodating.
I carefully slide into the booth, from here I can see everything; there are eyes on us as well, watching as we get settled. I can imagine what they’re thinking… Who are these people with the best table in the restaurant, the man who isn’t wearing a suit and instead sporting neck and hand tattoos, and the woman in the green dress, not a hint of jewelry and her hair wild.
