His eyes roll, and he shakes his head. “Morons.” Rising, he closes the distance between us, lifts my face, and wipes my tears. “Let’s turn them into marriage-of-convenience accusations instead. ’Kay?”
Heat floods my cheeks as I crush the book to my chest, and murmur, “Will you…put up Christmas lights while I go read this?”
His mouth softens. “Oh, precious. You and your adorable priorities. Yes, if that would make you happy, I will.”
“Okay. I’ll just…go get started then.”
Straightening away from me, he echoes, “Okay,” then he turns toward the short staircase, and exits the room.
Chapter 29
?
I really like essays…and Damion Anders.
Mirabelle
“He wrote you an essay?” my father asks while I try very hard not to regret my decision of calling my parents right now.
Sprawled on my bed, I flip through the pages of Damion’srecord book. Every account is dated, to the minute. And some have been wholly desperate. I have never read fiction both this clean and yet this scandalous before. In every breakdown over how lovely he finds me, he remains respectful. It’s art, how skilled he is about it.
I have never felt wanted like this before.
Never.
“It’s a beautiful essay,” I say, softly.
“And he wants to marry you?” my mother cuts in.
“That was the topic of the essay,” I answer.
I have yet to cross the threshold between the years when I just cleaned for him and the weeks we’ve shared together this year. Needless to say, the pining—the unadulteratedyearning—is off the charts.
I had no idea someone could long for someone else this violently.
“How long have you known this man?” my father asks.
Glancing at the pages of our history, the accounts of our first conversations, the thoughts that happened between the cracks, I say, “Four years.”
My father hums.
“That’s a good length of time,” my mother says. “Do you like him?”
Unprepared for that question, my heart jumps. “Do I…like him?”
“Well, yes. That’s primarily important when considering whether or not to accept his proposal. If he’s writing you essays, it sounds like he knows you fairly well. So do you like him?”
“I…don’t know. I’m not sure I know him half as well as he knows me.” I certainly don’t have pages upon pages of admiration, desire, and praise to give him. It was only recently I learned that he can smile and laugh, and it was an absolute shock to learn that he does so with at least some frequency. Everything about him in my brain feels so…intense.
“Do you want to get to know him?” my father asks.
Pulling my attention toward my bedroom window, I find Damion on a ladder beyond the pool, stringing Christmas lights. In this moment, I might be convinced that he’d do just about anything for me. Softly, I say, “Yes. I think so.”
“Can you start there, then?”
“I can.”
“So why do you seem conflicted?” my mother asks.
