Page 46 of Not a Strong Enough Word

“I more than love you,” she whispers shakily, as if she might cry. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Love isn’t a strong enough word,” I whisper back. A tear trails along her cheek, and I swipe at it with the pad of my thumb. “Not for how I feel about you, either. I don’t think the English language has a word that can describe it.”

She barks out a wet laugh. Her trembling hands circle my wrists as she presses her eyes closed, tears leaking from them. “English sucks.” She sniffles. “You’d think the Wizard of Words would be able to come up with something.”

“Syntax Sorcerer,” I correct her softly.

“I was referring to myself,” she fires back. Those eyes open and land right on mine, and they almost glow in the soft light of the room.

Chuckling, I wipe her lingering tears away. I want to scream from the rooftops or do a dance. Maybe burst at the seams. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am in this moment. But instead of doing any of those things, I say as calmly as I can, “I suppose love will have to do.”

And then, I decide that my mouth is better used to kiss her than to unsuccessfully try to find words to adequately tell her how I feel. Gently, I pull her closer, and she obliges. Her mouth opens immediately, and she lets my tongue dance with hers. When she scoots forward on the chair to press her chest into mine, I can feel her racing heart. My own is still soaring, beating in time with hers.

Scarlett loves me. She more than loves me. And I feel the same way about her.

She pulls back to look at me, studying my face like she’s committing it to memory.

“Love,” she whispers, as if trying on a new word to see how it feels.

“Love,” I reply, turning the word this way and that.

We share a smile, letting the word settle between us. And even though I can tell she’s just as happy as I am to have finally shared this with me, there’s something else tugging at her attention. Instead of annoyance at having to share this moment, though, I am filled with a giddiness that I know her well enough to be able to tell when she’s fully here with me and when she’s not.

I know her. I love her. And she loves me. That’s all that matters.

I smile indulgently at her. “Do you want me to read through your chapter?”

“Oh. It’s late,” she protests half-heartedly.

“I want to.”

She leaps off the chair and grabs her laptop. I recline on the bed against the headboard in my original position with my legs spread out, and she crawls over the expanse of the bed to hand the laptop to me.

“I’m really excited about this one.” She kicks her legs under the blankets and lies on her stomach with her hands making a pillow under her cheek as she looks up at me.

If history is any indication, she’ll be asleep in minutes. I don’t mind; the love of my life is deeply satisfied, both emotionally and artistically. There’s no small amount of pride in knowing I’ve played a part in both, and with all the late nights she’s been pulling recently, she needs the rest.

Sure enough, I haven’t even gotten to the second new page before her breathing evens out. A quick glance in her direction tells me her eyes are closed, and her body is relaxed into the mattress.

I smile softly as I watch her and send up a quick thank-you to whatever higher power put this woman in my path. She loves me, I think, and my smile grows even wider.

Trying to focus, I turn back to Scarlett’s laptop. But after another page, I feel her hand on my thigh, chilled even through the fabric of my sweatpants.

She sighs contentedly in her sleep, and her breathing slows even further. Her hand anchors herself to me like she’d been adrift in her dreams and needed something to hold on to.

No, like she needed to hold on to me. I’m what she’s chosen to anchor herself to. Not her job or her words or any of the other options she has to ground herself. Me.

Love might not be a strong enough word to describe how I feel about her, but I resolve, right then and there, to be strong enough for her so she can anchor herself to me forever.

Chapter 23

Scarlett

What does one wear to a not-date? Because, regardless of what Ryan had been clearly brooding over for the entirety of our meeting with Anastasios, this is absolutely not a date. And, I tell myself, even though Charles is objectively good looking, he’s not my type.

It’s just a casual dinner between two writers, talking about writerly things.

But I still don’t know what to wear.