“I love you,” I said.
Claire smiled.
“Well, that’s inconvenient.”
“Deeply.”
She kissed me before I could decide whether inconvenience was romantic.
It was.
For a while, the meeting disappeared.
The charts. The story. The version of me strangers were beginning to know.
Claire kissed Annie in the middle of the kitchen while the wine warmed on the counter and the cross-eyed bird judged our technique from the next room.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against mine.
“We’ll be careful,” she said.
“Very careful.”
“No mechanical bulls.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It’s now part of my conditions.”
“You’re controlling.”
“I’m wholesome.”
I laughed.
She kissed me again.
Later that night, she fell asleep halfway through an action movie, one hand still resting on my leg. I lowered the volume and watched her breathe while explosions happened silently across the television.
My phone lit up on the coffee table.
A message from Sophie.
Morning-show prep attached. Personal answer highlighted. Please use exact wording.
I opened the document.
There were six pages of suggested answers.
On page four:
Are you seeing anyone special?
Savannah:Right now, my first love is music. I’m giving this album everything I have.
I looked at Claire asleep beside me.
Then at the sentence again.
