I tilted my head, nuzzling further into the pillow beneath me. “But am I someoneyoucould love?”
“Love is scary.”
“Yeah.”
“And messy a lot of times.”
“Sure.”
“Love means opening parts of yourself to someone you’ve never opened up to anyone else before. Baring all of your secrets, good or bad, and hoping that person accepts them as their own.”
I caressed the space between his eyebrows, trailing my finger up and over one of them, slowly falling down the side of his face. I was mapping his bones. Committing them to memory in case it was my last of him.
Just us in our own little bubble, despite the mutual skeletons hiding in our closets. “Love can be scary, but it can also be the most fulfilling, satisfying concept in our entire lives. Whether it’s love for a parent, a sibling, a friend, or a partner—love is beautiful. And it is messy. But the messy parts are whatmakeit beautiful. The effort between two or more hearts, giving and taking, just as equal as the others. Sharing a mind, a heart, or even a soul is like a fifty-ton weight you never even knew existed being lifted off your shoulders.
“It’s taking a deep breath for the first time. It’s seeing colors you had no idea about. It’s knowing that, at the end of the day, someone is waiting for you, ready to hold your heart, no matter the scars on it. Hearts are heavy, Moon. Emotions are heavy. But when someone else is there to help balance it? That right there is what love is all about.”
I watched as a stray tear fell down his cheek, catching on my thumb that was already there. “What if I can’t do it?”
“Do what?”
“Put my heart into your hands. What if my scars are too big and too ugly, and I can’t get myself to open up? What if I’m not capable of love?”
“Oh, Moon.” I wrapped my arms around him, cradling the back of his neck and guiding him to my chest. “You are capable of love. There’s proof of it in the way you love your siblings and your parents. You love fiercely. You love deeply. You love with every fiber of your being. Whether that’s something you can give me or not doesn’t matter. But you are capable of love.”
“I feel too broken to love or be loved, Em.”
“That doesn’t mean someone can’t love you through that.”
“Despite the fact I barely even feel like a person most of the time? On the good days, I’m nothing more than a bunch of shattered glass all stuck together.”
Shaking my head, I rubbed soothing circles on the back of his neck. “Not despite, not even though, but through. Not because of, but with. You deserve, and are capable of, being loved with all of your pieces until the day you feel whole again. However long that takes.”
I could feel him breathe against me. It was shaky and uncertain, but he pulled away from my chest, looking directly into my eyes while the stars in his spoke back to me. “I want to date you, Em. I just can’t promise how easy it’ll be, or how soon I’ll be able to give you my heart. But I promise to protect yours if you let me hold it. I promise to be here for every secret, every thought, and every scary, messy thing. If you can accept that, then I want to date you. So, so fucking bad.”
Cupping his face in my hands, I leaned forward until our noses were touching. “Will you officially be my boyfriend, Moon Miller?”
“As long as I can keep being your brat, too, then yes.”
“Don’t ever stop being a brat.”
“I don’t think I could if I tried.”
“Good. As long as you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
I sealed our lips together, breathing him in. My boyfriend, my brat, my beautiful, handsome Moon.
Chapter Eighteen
Red and orange.They mixed together in my mind, swirling around each other on the color wheel. Red like blood, orange like fire. Fire to cauterize the wound from which the red came from.
Looking at the stained glass almost felt like home. Or maybe a morbid, chaotic form of it. The shards didn’t look like they belonged together yet, and it was my job to make them fit. I’d created them, forcing the wounds to fester longer than necessary. They reminded me of my mind—stained red, and suddenly on fire. Sometimes it felt like my insides were slowly burning to a crisp, the blood in my veins too hot to survive beneath my skin. There was nothing I could do but boil from the inside out, or let the fire pour out of me with a razor to my skin.
I slowly pressed the copper foil onto each piece, taking gentle care to fold the edges as neatly as I could. I never rushed throughany step, enjoying the attention to detail I found myself getting lost in. Together, they’d make a stunning rendition of what haunted me day in and day out.
Soldering had consistently been the easiest part for me, though it seemed to be the hardest for others. I’d found dozens of threads online about how difficult it was, so I was grateful it wasn’t like that for me.
