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To discovering that you’re allowed to fall in love as many times as possible in your lifetime. Whether it’s with a new lover or an old friend. Whether it’s with the same person, but new versions of each other as you grow. Fucking fall. Do it loudly. Do it at your own pace. Rush. Ease in. Enjoy an instant lust, a slow burn, or a happy for now. Rebound. Fall again.
“Crocs and rocks, lady. You scared the sparkle right out of me.”
“That if you believe in something, listen to your gut, it’ll work out in the end.”
“Unless you want an audience or to be arrested, I suggest you keep quiet when you drench my fingers.”
“You sound so pretty when you’re pissed off and moaning for me.”
“You call me Peach like I’m sweet, but Foxx, you know better. I’m the furthest thing from sweet.” “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” I yank her hips forward. The move jerks her closer and forces her chest to press into mine. “I’ve never tasted anything as sweet as what you dripped all over my fingers.”
“What-ifs and maybes aren’t reality. They’re ideas. And if we’re not careful and focus too heavily on them, they’ll make us spiral.”
I started falling in love with Faye Calloway on the edge of a cornfield, on a stage, over a bottle of bourbon, and every time she’s been in my arms since.
