“I’m ready to try,” she says simply.
I look back up towards her eyes, remaining silent.
She sighs. “I’m ready to try, because I’ve been working on it, and because I have a plan. My therapist is working with me on strategies to help manage my behaviors. I see her twice a week. There’s a lot of cognitive reframing of my thought patterns. Guided discovery. That kind of thing.” She laughs once. “Actually, a lot of them have been strategies I can replicate in the classroom with Max.”
I smile. “That’s good.”
“Yeah. I’m going to stick with it this time. It’s time to getbetter.” She pokes at a rock on the ground with her toe. “…she’s also given me some tools to help me come to terms with some more things. On my own.”
“What’s that?”
She tilts her head to look up at me now. Her expression is serene, confident. “I forgive you, and I love you, too.”
Something inside my chest bursts.
“I forgive you, and I know what you were doing wasn’t malicious. You did things for me because you genuinely care for me, and you thought it was best. But more importantly, you took accountability when you realized what you did was wrong. You fixed the problem, but you still gave me the independence and the freedom to make my own choices. I recognize that now.”
I take a step closer to her.
“I love everything about you. I love that you cook and clean up after me because you know I hate it. I love that you’re always doing things for me, and putting me before yourself. I love that you alphabetize your bookshelves by author's last name and not something ridiculous like color.”
I shudder.
“I love that you’re a big teddy bear around me and your family. Actually, to everyone, really, anyone who knows you. You see my flaws and love me despite them. I love that you’re not trying to fix me because you’re embarrassed, or ashamed, or need to control me, but you want me to be fixed because you genuinely want what’s best for me. I feel complete when you’re around. Safe and secure and loved.” As she says this, she nestles into my chest, where she belongs. I wrap my arms around her, breathing her in.
“You’re like the other half to my whole,” she says, voice muffled. “But like, I need to make myself whole first. So then, I guess, we’re two wholes? Or maybe one and a half right now?”
Ichuckle. “Teaching math was never your strong suit.”
“I’ve been working on it. But I miss my coach,” she says, stepping back.
“Can I kiss you now?” I ask her gently.
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m not done. I still have to thank you. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for giving up your promotion for me. Thank you for protecting me and keeping me safe and coaching me to be a better teacher,” she says, eyes shining with gratitude. “Okay, now you can kiss me.”
I smile instead. “You’re welcome. I’m so proud of you for getting better.”
She eyes me shrewdly, that fierce look I’ve grown to love. “I’m not fixed yet, or anything, Oliver. My therapist says it’s a work in progress. I have a lot of work to do on myself. But if you’ll be patient with me, I’d like you to be there with me. ”
“Same for me. We’re not perfect, Georgia, but that’s okay. As long as we agree to move forward together.”
We take a minute to look our fill of each other. I zero in on her mouth.
“Is that the lipstick?” I ask her, my voice coming out deeper than expected.
Her pupils darken, remembering. “Yes.”
“Can I kiss you n?—”
I’m cut off by her pulling my head down by the back of my neck and finally,finally, I can cover her mouth with mine. Our lips meet and this,thisis my homecoming. Our kiss starts off chaste, and I reacquaint myself with the feeling of lips against mine, but then grows deeper, wilder, our tongues tangling. I wind my hands through her hair, feel her arms wrap around my neck. We angle our faces, relearn and map each other’s mouths. It’s a kiss that speaks volumes.I love you; I missed you; you’re mine; I’m never leaving you again.
My hand drifts down the inside of her jeans to squeeze herass when I hear a horn honk and remember that we are in the middle of Flushing, smack dab in the middle of Auntie Central.
I pull away, mapping her freckles and each individual eyelash, loving the way her lipstick is now smeared around her mouth. She licks her finger and rubs it off my face, where I assume it’s transferred.
I don’t fix hers.
“Is my lipstick okay?” she asks me.
