Page 68 of All That Glitters

“I think that kiss turned you inside out, the same way it did me,” I say in a low voice while staring into her eyes. “I think you thought of nothing else afterward, and it terrified you.”

I watch the war happening in her eyes.

“Love shouldn’t be scary.”

A tear trails down her cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb.

“I disagree,” I whisper. “Love is the most terrifying risk a person can take. That’s why you choose to love the person you feel the safest with.”

She doesn’t reply, but I can see the pain she’s carrying. I can read the question in her hesitance: will I hurt her again?

I run my thumb along her cheek softly.

“We’re going to end up hurting each other,” I tell her, though I wish I could say the opposite. “That’s what happens in relationships. But it doesn’t mean we stop loving each other.”

“I don’t want to end up like them,” she whispers. “Not with you. I can’t lose you in that way.”

She doesn’t have to tell me who she’s talking about. Anger flares in me at the thought of her parents. Their marriage is made up of manipulation and passive-aggressive comments. I can recall hundreds of times over the years where Marigold has been hurt by them lashing out.

“You won’t,” I promise her. “You’re not her. We’re not them. You don’t become that way by accident. It’s a choice you make every day, and you can choose the opposite. You will, even if it’s not with me.” The last part pains me to say, but I do. Because I love her too much to make her think that she has to choose me to be happy.

“Even if…” she trails off. “Does that mean we can still be friends if I say I don’t want more?” she asks.

My chest aches at the very notion, but I could never trap Marigold.

“Of course,” I rasp. “I told you: my love isn’t a bargaining chip. It would hurt, but I could endure it, for you.”

Her lashes flutter as more tears come.

“You love me that much?” Her broken whisper threatens to undo me. All I want is to pull her close and show her, but I dredge up the reserves of my willpower and restrain myself.

“My love for you is endless, Goldie. If my soul was a book, half of the words would be your name. You’re the inhale to my exhale, the moon to my tides, the sunrise to my sunset. When you left, it felt as though someone had ripped me in two. I’ve thought of little else besides fixing my mistake since then.” I draw in a shaky breath. “Losing you made me understand how Gatsby felt staring out at the green light on the edge of the dock. That kind of agonizing longing is something I’ve never known, but now I’m as familiar with it as my reflection.”

Her chin trembles with emotion. She reaches up and places her hands on my chest. I worry she’s going to push me away, but she fists my shirt.

“Only you, Jameson Sinclair, could reference a tragedy and make it sound romantic.”

I breathe out half a laugh, and then her lips are on mine. Hesitation can’t be found within me. I waste no time kissing her back. It’s as though I’ve been holding my breath for months and her kiss is my first inhale. I’m panting and gasping for more, desperate for her. My hands slide into her hair and tip her head back. She parts her lips, and a low groan escapes me at the first taste of her.

When you wait for something for so long, there’s this idea that the anticipation takes precedence over the real thing. That you’ll be let down, because what gave it power was waiting on the moment, rather than the moment itself. That couldn’t be less true when it comes to kissing Marigold.

She’s better than the sweetest of reveries. Each brush of her lips sets me alight in a way that soothes the ache of yearning that’s plagued me for months. When she drags me closer, I’m swept away into a land better than fantasy. I’m unraveled yet made whole all at once.

I move my hands from her face to her waist and draw her in to erase any remaining distance between us. She wraps her arms around my neck, her fingertips finding the hair at the nape of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Our kisses slow to a less frantic pace. I savor each touch of her mouth, intent on committing to memory the impression of it. Half-formed metaphors flit through my mind as I try to think of something comparable to this feeling. Everything comes up short.

Our lips part. I press my forehead to hers with closed eyes.

“I missed that,” I breathe out.

She lets out a soft laugh.

“We’ve only kissed once before. You didn’t have much to miss.”

“Mm, I disagree, but maybe it would be better for me to say I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she whispers. “Every minute of every day.”

I swallow and try to stave off more tears. I don’t make crying a habit, but if I’m going to cry, it’s fitting my tears would belong to the woman who also owns my heart.