But
love
doesn’t carry that much weight to me. I’ve told lots of guys I love them. If you feel it, you say it, you spread it out. Life’s too short to let love go to waste.
“I was talking about how this diner has the strangest décor I’ve ever seen,” I say, noting again how the rainforest paintings clash with the s parlor style.
He waves his hand in the air with impatience. “I know, we agreed on that. What did you say after that?”
He sets his fork down as if he’s afraid he’ll choke again. His face is tensing up and his eyes ask,
Did you say you love me? Or did I imagine it?
I need to put him out of his misery.
“Oh. I said I love you. Is that what you’re referring to?” I ask, and give him my best poker face.
His mouth falls open and he only stares at me, like he wants to say something but the words are stuck. I don’t force it. When Gray doesn’t know what to say, he closes up. Unlike me, he’d rather be quiet and reserved any day than a babbling motormouth. It’s one of his best qualities.
I take a bite of my eggs and a long drink of orange juice. When I realize the conversation is one-sided when it comes to expressing our feelings, I go back to discussing my travel plans. But I can tell Gray isn’t listening. His eyes are wandering. There’s a question lingering behind them.
You love me?
***
Gray
“I scared you yesterday, didn’t I?” she asks.
Dylan’s lying in my arms on a hammock in our backyard. My feet hit the ground and I kick the hammock back and forth, like a swing. She came over again tonight in her pajamas and furry slippers (which she named, of course). Sometimes she talks to her slippers like they’re her pets, and sometimes her slippers have full conversations with each other. It’s borderline insane, but I let it go.
Now I leave the back door open for her. I’m starting to like our sleepovers, even though it’s hard to get a second of sleep with her in my bed.
I hold Dylan tight against my side and tell her she scares me every day, but in a good way.
“It’s what I said at Tom-Tom’s,” she prompts. I gulp, one of those nervous gulps where your whole throat constricts like there’s a knot inside it. I know what she’s getting at. Those three words.
“That I love you?” she adds, like I need clarification. “Is it so scary to hear it?” she asks. I look at her eyes, reflecting slivers of moonlight. I still can’t believe how easily she says it. Where does she get her confidence? Do they sell a prescription of this stuff that I’m unaware of? Can I get a bottle? Doesn’t she understand this changes everything?
“It’s scary to say it,” I tell her.
She sits up straighter and looks at me. “I don’t get it. It shouldn’t be scary at all. Shouldn’t it be, I don’t know, uplifting news?”
“It’s a big deal. How many people have you said it to?”
Dylan thinks this over. A few seconds go by. Then almost a minute. Have there been that many?
“I’m sure when I was little I said it more often. I told a couple guys in middle school. Maybe ten guys in high school. I tell my girlfriends all the time. I told a guy at a gas station the other day I loved him because he helped check Pickle’s oil.”
I stare at her with a frown. My bubble of self-absorbed assurance that Dylan loves me, only me, bursts in the air.
“You tell that many people you love them?”
She blinks at me. “Sure. Why not?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think you should just throw the word around unless you really mean it.”
“But I do mean it,” she says. I’m flabbergasted. And annoyed. I ask her how she can love me and a gas station attendant she’s known for five minutes. I tell her she uses the word too lightly.
She looks away and ponders this.
“I guess there are different levels of love,” she says. “There’s friend love and family love and platonic love and romantic love. And the levels of romantic love are endless. There’s all-consuming love
love
doesn’t carry that much weight to me. I’ve told lots of guys I love them. If you feel it, you say it, you spread it out. Life’s too short to let love go to waste.
“I was talking about how this diner has the strangest décor I’ve ever seen,” I say, noting again how the rainforest paintings clash with the s parlor style.
He waves his hand in the air with impatience. “I know, we agreed on that. What did you say after that?”
He sets his fork down as if he’s afraid he’ll choke again. His face is tensing up and his eyes ask,
Did you say you love me? Or did I imagine it?
I need to put him out of his misery.
“Oh. I said I love you. Is that what you’re referring to?” I ask, and give him my best poker face.
His mouth falls open and he only stares at me, like he wants to say something but the words are stuck. I don’t force it. When Gray doesn’t know what to say, he closes up. Unlike me, he’d rather be quiet and reserved any day than a babbling motormouth. It’s one of his best qualities.
I take a bite of my eggs and a long drink of orange juice. When I realize the conversation is one-sided when it comes to expressing our feelings, I go back to discussing my travel plans. But I can tell Gray isn’t listening. His eyes are wandering. There’s a question lingering behind them.
You love me?
***
Gray
“I scared you yesterday, didn’t I?” she asks.
Dylan’s lying in my arms on a hammock in our backyard. My feet hit the ground and I kick the hammock back and forth, like a swing. She came over again tonight in her pajamas and furry slippers (which she named, of course). Sometimes she talks to her slippers like they’re her pets, and sometimes her slippers have full conversations with each other. It’s borderline insane, but I let it go.
Now I leave the back door open for her. I’m starting to like our sleepovers, even though it’s hard to get a second of sleep with her in my bed.
I hold Dylan tight against my side and tell her she scares me every day, but in a good way.
“It’s what I said at Tom-Tom’s,” she prompts. I gulp, one of those nervous gulps where your whole throat constricts like there’s a knot inside it. I know what she’s getting at. Those three words.
“That I love you?” she adds, like I need clarification. “Is it so scary to hear it?” she asks. I look at her eyes, reflecting slivers of moonlight. I still can’t believe how easily she says it. Where does she get her confidence? Do they sell a prescription of this stuff that I’m unaware of? Can I get a bottle? Doesn’t she understand this changes everything?
“It’s scary to say it,” I tell her.
She sits up straighter and looks at me. “I don’t get it. It shouldn’t be scary at all. Shouldn’t it be, I don’t know, uplifting news?”
“It’s a big deal. How many people have you said it to?”
Dylan thinks this over. A few seconds go by. Then almost a minute. Have there been that many?
“I’m sure when I was little I said it more often. I told a couple guys in middle school. Maybe ten guys in high school. I tell my girlfriends all the time. I told a guy at a gas station the other day I loved him because he helped check Pickle’s oil.”
I stare at her with a frown. My bubble of self-absorbed assurance that Dylan loves me, only me, bursts in the air.
“You tell that many people you love them?”
She blinks at me. “Sure. Why not?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think you should just throw the word around unless you really mean it.”
“But I do mean it,” she says. I’m flabbergasted. And annoyed. I ask her how she can love me and a gas station attendant she’s known for five minutes. I tell her she uses the word too lightly.
She looks away and ponders this.
“I guess there are different levels of love,” she says. “There’s friend love and family love and platonic love and romantic love. And the levels of romantic love are endless. There’s all-consuming love
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