“That’s probably just runoff from me writing all those books that you’re seeing,” she counters. “As an author, I tell lots ofstories. It would make sense that some of them bleed into my skin, affecting my mannerisms. Feel free to disregard.”
She smiles a sweet-little-liar smile, and I sigh, allowing my amusement to cover my face as I reply, “Do remember, I’ve been studying you. Hours and hours of research—even more than you’ve dedicated to me.”
She gasps, disbelieving, and I nod.
“Truly,” I assure her. “I have had access to round-the-clock surveillance of you for quite some time now. I know your routines and your habits. I know the way you carry yourself when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re angry—and when you’re upset. Like you are right now.”
Her lower lip sneaks out, presenting me with a cutie-pie princess pout the likes of which I am ill-prepared to handle. “I’m not upset,” she mumbles.
I sigh, sliding my hand to hers and pulling it between our faces. “Do you see this?” I ask, turning so that her palm, and its itsy-bitsy crescent moon imprints, is aimed toward her. “And this.” I lift her arm further until her forearm takes the stage. When she hasn’t been trying to slice open her hands, she’s been terrorizing this tender flesh, turning the smooth, pale skin delectably red.
But she’s, you know,notupset. Even though these are her upset mannerisms—hers, not her character’s—that I’ve witnessed countless times.
“Why are you upset?” I ask again, lowering both of our arms so that I can look her in the eye as she battles the urge to continue pretending she isfine, fine, so fine.
She bites her lip—indecision—before sighing and tugging at her ear—capitulation. If I’m reading her right.
Which I am.
“It’s silly,” she warns.
“I love silly,” I reply. “Silly is, in fact, my bread and butter.”
A puff of a laugh escapes her lips to land on mine.
“What is it, my princess? Tell me, that I may slay your ‘silly’ dragon before officially sweeping you into the adventure that is our love story.”
Her eyes skitter past mine to land on something in the distance beyond my head as she speaks. “They’re just so supportive,” she mumbles. “Your friends—your family. This is objectively an insane thing to do, marrying me for no reason beyond the ‘convenience’ of it, but none of them hesitated. No one asked any questions. There weren’t anyAre you sure?s orLet’s think this through a little mores. They just…” She trails off, blinking against the soft wetness gathering on her eyelashes.
“They just supported me,” I finish for her.
“They just loved you,” she counters on a whisper as a tear escapes to slide down her cheek.
Knife to my stomach, I wince. “This is about your family.”
Ofcourseit’s about her family. It’s herwedding day.
I’m such a dunce.
The last update I got on her status before Stone showed up with her at my door was that she’d announced her retirement to her family and they had made clear once again that while they love her, they have no clue how to show it.
“Your family loves you.” I tap my forehead against hers. “I promise you, they do. It’s properly showing it to you that they’re bad at.”
She frowns, then nibbles at her downturned lips. “If they love me—actuallylove me—then supporting me shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s like the people here for you. You just do it.”
Ah, my sweet little bird. So misguided. “They do this now because it’ssafest, dearest, not because it’s easy.”
Her brows furrow. “I don’t understand.”
“They do love me, of course. I’m very lovable. However. That does not mean that they always support me, or that whentheydosupport me they always do it perfectly. It is only for big, huge, monumental things that they tend to pull themselves together for a show of support like the one you’re witnessing. And I’m ninety percent sure that’s merely because they wish to avoid the fit and revenge that would be the aftermath of themnotsupporting my marrying you. Normally, Heidi fights me on every plot I devise, and Stryker makes a hobby out of telling me no. Millie is 50/50 on if she’ll be on my team, and Rosie is on whatever side Baz is on, which is usually whatever side Heidi is on, which is, as mentioned,notmy side.”
Sarelia’s eyes meet mine, and she blinks. “Are you telling me they’re supporting you out of fear, not love?”
“No.” I shake my head, then rethink my answer. “Well, yes, but no.Thistime they’re supporting me out of fearandlove. But there are times when they support me out of love alone and times they support me out of a craving for mischief. Then there are times they don’t support me at all, also because they love me or because they have adifferentsort of craving for mischief. Love and support do not always go hand-in-hand, and beyond that, support does not always look the way we expect it to look.” I reach a finger up to trace along the contours of her cheek, right over the constellations below her pretty hazel eyes, then continue, “Particularly for people like us—people who feel our love so strongly, we excuse a multitude of faults in the name of supporting the one who has stolen our affections.”
My finger dips, then slides, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You look at me and you give me your unwavering devotion regardless of how I behave or the things I say. You love in such a way that you assume your loved ones’ intentions are good and their flaws are also—somehow, someway—good, and that seeing their flawsasflaws would mean thatyouwere wrong, not them.” I drop my hand and teeter my forehead against hers. “I’m the same as you when itcomes to this. Especially when it comes to you. I love you in such a way that even the mere notion that you mayhaveflaws grates against my ribs and claws at my throat, threatening to tear me apart should I entertain the thought one millisecond longer. But for them? For the ones who love in a way that isn’t all-consuming, all-encompassing, and all-devouring? They see our flaws and they choose to love us despite them, or through them, or with them. And sometimes, with certain types of people, that means we get fix-it relationships. Their intentions are good and rooted in love, and they want ‘what’s best for us’, but they often can’t see past their own thoughts and feelings on the subject to considerourthoughts and feelings. Your parents love you, Sarelia. They do. They simply don’t love you in the way that I love you, or in the way that you love them. They’re fix-it lovers.”
I take a deep breath, encouraging her to take it with me, then swipe a tear from her cheek. “You don’t need fixed, though, do you, my dearest? And you don’t needsupport, either, despite what you may think. You just need to be accepted. Accepted, and trusted, and believed, and loved in ways that feel so simple and natural to you, but are not for the fixers.” I kiss her forehead, then run my lips across her hairline until they reach her ear. My tongue flicks out, brushing against her skin before returning to my mouth, carrying the sweet taste of her with it. “Luckily for you, you’re not marrying a fixer. And I think you’ll find that it’s much easier to handle the disappointment of the fixers not loving you as you wish they would when you’ve got me by your side.”
