Is this what love feels like?
When you love someone, is it this big, huge,infuriatingthing? Are you supposed to want to strangle them half the time and soothe them the other half? Are you supposed to be livid at the very idea of someone hurting them—unless it’s you? Unless it’s fun? Unless you’re both enjoying it?
Are you supposed to think about them every moment of your day? Are you supposed to cry when they propose?
Are you supposed to want to say yes, despite not knowing if you’re in love with them, too?
Is this what love is?
Is this what it feels like?
Do I love him?
“Thank you,” Belinda says, grabbing my hand. “Thank you for having the conversations we didn’t know needed to be had.”
I tear my eyes off Fox to smile tremulously at her. “I didn’t do anything.” Or maybe I did. I don’t know. Maybe I was loving him.
Am I in love with him?
My stomach droops.
A little line appears between Belinda’s eyebrows. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“Sure,” I answer. Probably, anyway. Plausibly.
I might be having an epiphany. Or a breakdown.
It depends on the answer to my question.
“Kit?” Fox calls, coming around to stand before me in all his possibly-the-love-of-my-life glory. He puts his hand on my forehead. He has to wipe it on his fancy sweatpants after. “You’re sweating.”
“Am I?” How strange.
Do people sweat when they’re in love?
“Pancakes will be done in a second,” Gil says. “Why don’t you take her to the living room for now? Get her away from the heat. We can’t thank her for talking sense into you by letting her overheat at your island.”
Fox nods, hands already at my waist and lifting. “Come on,” he mutters gently. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh…” I burn where he touches me. My heart rate most definitely increased when his fingers made contact with the skin exposed by my DIYed crop top. My stomach positivelytrembledwhen he pulled me up like it was the easiest thing in the world to simply put me where he believes I need to be for him to effectively care for me.
Is that love?
Is that attraction?
Is it both?
He leads me to the couch as Belinda hovers, wondering aloud if she should get me an ice pack.
“I don’t need any ice,” I tell her. “Sorry. I’m fine.”
Is love supposed to be so scary? Or do I simply only know “love” in the context of fear?
I groan in frustration.
“I’m getting her an ice pack,” Belinda decides. “Lay her down on the couch. I’ll be right back.”
Fox listens, and I’d be embarrassed if I weren’t so agitated.
