The Break-Up Pact

by Emma Lord

we’d never known what it was like not to just be understood, but supported. Believed in. Cared about

Or maybe I did already know that feeling. I think about Levi when we were kids, always waiting for me at the bottom of those absurdly high trees.

Levi squeezes my hand and I look up at him and see a reflection of that magic in his eyes, too. Something lost but never fully forgotten, something that is changing its shape to adjust to the new shapes of us.

“I know you think I didn’t put you in the story,” says Levi, his voice low and steady, “but that’s just it. You are the story. I started it for you. Before I wanted to be a writer. Before I wanted anything much at all. I just wanted to watch that look on your face whenever I told it.”

“So you wrote me a story about the people I love,”

It sweeps up again under our feet, in the loose pines shaken by the wind, in the promise of a new season just as the one you’re holding on to gets chased away: magic. We’ve felt it before. Spent years trying to feel it again. One quiet promise, one soul-stirring kiss, and it all spills back and leaves this impossible happiness in its wake.

“I figured if you were going to make a Levi scone, I’d make you a June one,” he says, handing it to me.

Levi wasn’t kidding. He really was paying attention to the scone-making in the back.

The scone has a perfect, satisfying crunch on the outside and just the right density on the inside, the zesty orange flavor balanced perfectly with the richness of the chocolate.

I feel it—a telltale crackle, pop, pop, tiny fireworks on my tongue, between my teeth.

“And you set yourself up for this,” I say, reaching up to wrap my fingers through the soft curls on the back of his head, pulling him in for a kiss. Soon enough, there are Pop Rocks going off in both of our mouths, and we’re laughing through the kiss, the vibrations of it pulsing through each other’s bodies.

“I love you,” I say, the words easier than any I’ve ever spoken out loud. They’ve been a part of me for so long that it feels like they were beating in my heart long before they left my lips.

He draws in even closer and says into my ear, “What a shame to know the exact face you make when you…” He lets the words hover, warm and teasing. “Take a really good bite of a scone.”

“We were just waiting for you, the light of our lives,” I tease, walking over to kiss him hello.

“Griffin Hapler: A Study in Modern Millennial Gaslighting,”

“If you win,” he says, his voice quiet and steady, “you marry me.”

“If I win, you marry me,”

I twist my lip, trying not to laugh, trying not to cry, but the way he’s looking at me right now—with so much love that it puts the infinite expanse of the ocean to shame—it’s proving a near impossible feat.

His voice is low, almost hoarse with feeling, as he gives me a quick squeeze before he lets me go. “It seems I’m just going to have to ask the old-fashioned way.”

Levi’s hand dips into his pocket, producing a small velvet box.

“Will you marry me?”