“True, but I don’t need you to keep me in line.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “There’s no other place I want to be but here.”
I snorted at that. “God, we sound like an old married couple.”
Michael laughed, and for the rest of the evening, we talked about nothing and everything, making plans for decorating the beach house, arguing about what to have for dinner. Normal conversation. Easy conversation. The kind married people had when they weren’t thinking about tumors or time running out.
The kind of conversation I’d wanted my whole life.
The next night, after dinner under the stars on the deck, I found paper and a pen.
Michael was in the shower, the sound of running water humming faintly through the walls. I sat at the small desk and began to write.
Michael,
You’re in the shower right now, and I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to tell you I’m completely obsessed with you—in a way that would be embarrassing if I cared about being embarrassed.
But I don’t. Not anymore.
I love the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I love waking up next to you. I love falling asleep in your arms. I love the way you read to me and do all the voices even though you swear you’re not doing voices.
I love you. Present tense. Right now. This moment.
Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be the one wearing your t-shirt and nothing else.
Yours (in every way that matters),
Claudette
I left it on his pillow and felt giddy the entire night wondering when he’d find it.
When I woke up the next morning, I found his letter on the nightstand.
Claudette,
You’re still sleeping right now. Your hair’s a mess, you’re drooling on my pillow, and you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I’ve been watching you breathe for the past hour—because I’m creepy like that and also because I still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here. That you chose me.
You’re perfect. Perfect as in exactly right for me.
I love you. Present tense. This moment. Every moment.
Also—you look so good in my t-shirt. I’m hoping you continue wearing that.
Forever yours,
Michael
P.S. You do drool. Don’t even try to deny it.
I found him on the deck drinking coffee, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.
“I do not drool,” I said, waving the letter at him.
He looked up, completely unrepentant. “You absolutely drool.”
“Take it back.” I tried to sound stern. Failed completely.
“Can’t. It’s in writing now. Legally binding.”
