* * *
Dylan says he knows the perfect place, but on our way to the lobby, we really do get stuck in the elevator. It jerks to a stop somewhere between the tenth and eleventh floor. Dylan buzzes the alarm on the panel and calls for assistance. The woman who answers tells us not to worry and promises help is on the way.
Dylan takes a seat on the floor. “Might as well relax right?”
I sit down next to him.
“I’m sorry about earlier.” He puts his hand on my leg. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
“I know you don’t. But Dante isn’t our problem. He’s like the big, bad wolf. He’ll keep coming until you stop giving him a reason.”
“I agree,” he says.
“Look,” I say. “I love your identity, Dylan. I know you’re worried it’s dangerous to bring someone from the outside into your unusual—and amazing—life, but football is your passion. It’s such a part of who you are. And I’m no different from you; I want to protect you the same way. I want everyone to treat you the way you deserve. Whether that’s a teammate, a reporter, or your agent, you deserve to be treated like the kind, amazing person that you are. But,” I pause and then say out loud the idea that’s been running through my mind since the grocery store, “I agree with your concerns as well, and continuing this affair for another week has already complicated things.”
His jaw tightens. “Tell me what worries you about us.”
I feel tears prick my eyes as I speak with my heart stripped bare for one of the only times in my life. “I’m scared of when it ends.”
Dylan’s lips part in surprise.
I get it. He’s not used to me being emotionally accessible—I’ve used sarcasm and quips far too much.
“But that’s why I wanted to talk about this. Because I fucking love you, Jasalie,” he says.
My heart soars.
“But like you intimated earlier, we’re from two different realities,” I say to him. “So while the danger aspect doesn’t scare me off, you’re rich and famous and together and I’m…not.”
“Rich and famous aren’t a self-definition,” he argues. “More like a way of life. Inside, we couldn’t be better matched.”
“I love you for saying that. The way you fight for us. I love that. I love you. I’m just not sure I believe you.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I clap my hand over my face.
Shit. I didn’t mean to say those three words. It was like they just slipped out.
“What did you say?” Dylan asks me.
“I said,” I mumble through my hand. “‘I’m not sure I believe you.’”
“No, the other part. What did you say?”
I drop my hands into my lap and stare into his dark searching eyes.
Dylan scoots closer to me. “Say it again.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
Not right now.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t say those words to anybody. At least, I never have before.”
“Never?” he asks. “What about to your family? Or just a friend?”
“Nope. Never.” At least not that I can remember. “So please understand that when I do say them, it’s a very big deal.”
