“What makes you think there was sexy time?” I cross my arms.
She gives me a sidelong glance, and I laugh.
“Okay, there was definitely sexy time.”
“Alright, I don’t have all day. Tell me everything.”
thirty-three
Tate
March
Inever thought I could be this happy.
I’m feeling more confident in my music and am getting more and more people who relate to me and my lyrics every day.
I have a boy who makes me feel like I’m the most important person in the world.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m actually enough for someone. That I don’t have to be someone I’m not to make sure other people are happy.
I didn’t even stress about coming home this weekend because I knew Fletcher would be coming down with me.
I also knew that my parents wouldn’t be here.
Which is always positive.
“There she is.” Fletcher’s eyes light up as he wanders over to me.
It’s not the ideal weather for a picnic; it’s a little on the chilly side. However, the snow is gone, and it’s starting to feel like Spring, so we thought, what the hell.
Or, I should say, Fletcher thought,'What the hell?'
Even though you could say we’ve been on a lot of dates over the years, he told me he wanted to go on a real one. What better place to do that than in the place where we saw each other for the first time?
The giant oak tree is still here, and I always thought that’s what gave me my inspiration, but truthfully, I think it was always him.
The oak tree reminded me of him, so I could draw on that emotion whenever I was working on a new song.
“I did tell you I’d meet you out here, so it’d be kind of rude of me not to show up.”
He rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn’t disappear as he kisses the top of my head. He drops down beside me onto the picnic blanket, opening up the top of his basket and slowly pulling things out.
“You working on a new song?” His eyes scan my face as he continues to unload the basket.
“Maybe.”
“It is about me?” He smirks, freezing with one of the containers in his hand.
“Nope. Not even a little bit.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“They’re usually all about you,” I admit, looking down at my journal and letting my hair fall in front of my face to hide the rosy tint forming on my cheeks.
“All of them?” I hear the hint of smugness in his tone. “I didn’t realize you liked me that much.”
“Shut up.” I don’t look up at him, but I shove him back slightly with a push of his shoulder. “Just for that, I’m not going to write about you anymore.”
