Page 77 of Love Out Loud

I lower her to the ground slowly, angling her body so I can feel it dragging against mine. I cup her jaw and kiss her deeply. It’s what I’ve wanted to do after almost every performance of hers I’ve ever seen, and I finally can.

Noah chuckles somewhere in the distance. Jessica swoons. Silas hums as if he called it from the beginning. But I don’t care about any of it because I have my Songbird in my arms, and she just created something beautiful.

“I know you’ll be honest,” she says into my lips. “How was it?”

“Perfect.” I smirk. “I doubt I’ll have much to do on it. You’re going to put me out of business.”

She rolls her eyes and smacks my shoulders. “I’m serious!” she cries, then squeals as I catch her and spin her into my arms again.

“So am I,” I insist. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.” I lean in to whisper the last part into her ear. The gorgeous flush of her cheeks belies the skeptical look she flashes.

I grasp her hand and hold it between us as we face the rest of the group. She rests her head on my shoulder and her other hand on my biceps, and I’m on top of the world.

“Are we celebrating?” I ask the group before looking down at Lark on my arm. “I’ve been wanting to take her to a LACMA jazz night. Anyone want to join?”

All of them eye each other, exchanging a silent conversation. “That sounds fun…” Jessica trails off. Silas clears his throat.

“We, uh, wouldn’t want to crash your date. Again.” Noah pulls at his beard, but I can still see it twitching with amusement.

Lark pinches my arm, and I look down. Her blue eyes are dancing. “I brought sparkling wine.”

Jessica claps her hands giddily. “You did? Oh, that’s brilliant!”

Releasing me, Lark walks over to where her purse rests on a chair in the corner. She reaches into it and produces a bottle. “Would you like to do the honors?” she asks Jessica.

“You just…carry a bottle of sparkling wine in your purse?” I ask.

“No,” she says as if I’m an idiot. “I brought it because I knew we’d finish today.”

“That purse is giant,” Jessica says, taking the bottle from Lark’s outstretched hand.

“Mom life.” Lark shrugs. “Once I started carrying a huge diaper bag, I realized how awesome it was to have that much space for everything and never looked back.”

“And pockets!” Jessica exclaims, peeking inside.

“The pockets are the best feature,” she agrees solemnly.

Noah shuffles around in a drawer and produces some cups while Jessica twists the wire off the cap. When she pops the cork, it goes flying. Silas and I duck while Lark’s bright, beautiful laughter rings through the space.

Once everyone has some, we tap our cups together, offering congratulations and praise. Eventually, the intern leaves—probably for something more fun—and we move to the small table out back to finish the bottle.

Lark’s phone chimes from her purse as we’re headed outside. I hang back with her as she checks her messages. She reads for a second, then frowns deeply.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She sighs as she types. “Yeah. Devin has a stomachache. I think Richard is probably stressing her out. It happens every summer.” She finishes her message, then pockets her phone before we head outside.

I’ve worked on a lot of audiobooks over the years. It’s always special finishing one, but this feels unique somehow. I don’t know if it’s because Lark is here, at the center of it all, or because of the clear camaraderie the four of them have developed over the weeks, but sharing a bottle of sparkling wine outside of the recording studio in the late-summer Los Angeles sunshine feels good. Like I was meant to be here. Like Lark was meant to be with me.

As the sun is beginning its descent, I suggest quietly to Lark that if we’re going to make it to LACMA, we should head out. There are more hugs, more pats on the back, and then we’re in the Jeep, the wind whipping through our hair and our fingers interlaced over the center console.

A few hours later, we’re sitting on a blanket in the shade, listening to the erratic, energetic sounds of jazz music. As the sun sets, rows upon rows of white wrought-iron streetlights illuminate the grounds behind the stage. The effect of it is almost like an M. C. Escher drawing, the lights in rows creating an optical illusion behind the band.

Lark and I drink wine and eat the spread I’ve brought with us between stolen kisses and gentle touches. When she stands and starts swaying to the music, I just watch her. I’m completely in awe of her, always.

I’m in love with Lark. I know I am. Sure, it hasn’t been very long that she’s been here or that we’ve been together. But then again, this has been decades in the making. And watching her move her glorious hips to the beat of the music, soaking up that smile she’s always had just for me, seeing her eyes sparkle in the lights behind the stage, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

A small part of my mind snags on the fact that we haven’t quite decided what to do or how to fit our lives together, but I haven’t had nearly enough time to simply enjoy this version of her—the one who dances freely, who sings in the bathroom in the morning, who whispers secrets to me under the cover of night. The one who is here, next to me, lowering herself so she can sit on a blanket in a pool of her floral skirt, leaning over to rest her head on my shoulder. Sighing up at me, big blue eyes happy and at home.

“I love you, Lennon,” she says.

And I should say it back. I want to. But I don’t know yet what it would mean to fundamentally change our relationship in this way. If we’re even ready for it. It’s easy for her to love me out loud. She always has. But me? That’s never been in my vocabulary.

Knowing it’s not worthy of what she is to me, but meaning it with every fiber of my being, I say what I’ve always said, even though it’s never been enough.

“You’re my favorite person in the world, Songbird.”