For Real (Spires, #3)

by Alexis Hall

And now he smiled at me. All teeth. The way only people who hadn’t learned self-consciousness knew how to smile.

I couldn’t believe that lack of fear. It gave me vertigo, as though he was the edge of a cliff and I couldn’t bear the view.

he gets out of bed and wraps himself in the dressing gown he was wearing last night. Wow, it’s fluffy. I hadn’t realised that then. I don’t think you’d go for something that soft unless your life was like substantially lacking in hugs.

his kamikaze honesty left me defenceless,

A badly healed crack in my heart split a little, but did not bleed. There was only dust.

What could I do with a boy who had brought me to my knees twice, yet still held my hand in the dark? What could I give in return for such kindness? Such faith?

school is kind of an institutionalised shittiness generator. Like the Stanford Prison Experiment.

Ain’t that the goddamned truth

I hate it when he does this. When he pretends the things that matter to me—the things he gives me—are small.

It’s also when I know I’m definitely, undeniably, impossibly in love. With this man I know and I don’t know at all. And I can’t pretend anymore that this will ever be just sex for me. It never was, and it never will be.

“You’re the first person I’ve . . .” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. But it doesn’t matter. Laurie gives me this gorgeous smile. “I’m glad it was me.”

I need him to know I can’t pretend any more. I can’t play this game. I’ve never been playing it.

that’s not love. It’s just happiness and . . . and the moment.” “And that,” said Toby triumphantly, “is just semantics, dude.”

“What have you done to him, Tobermory? I recognise that soupy-eyed look. You’ve gone and made him happy, haven’t you?”

I offer my hand, but he just stares at it like it’s a dead fish and then actually backs away from it. “Oh . . . I can’t. I can’t dance.” “What, not at all? Not even when you hear ABBA?” “I do my very best not to hear ABBA.”

Lol

I try the hand thing again, and this time Laurie takes it. He’s really hesitant, and his palm is a bit sweaty. He’s scared? Oh my God. Too adorbs. Getting him into the right position is like trying to move the Tin Man without an oil can,

Lol

Laurie’s laughing a little bit as we gallop round the quad in each other’s arms. We’re about five percent graceful and ten percent competent, but fuck it, we’re dancing.

🥰🥰🥰

I want to be his equal. But I can’t be. Because I’m not. How the fuck am I supposed to be his prince when I’m just a pauper?

His experiences and expectations of life were shaped differently to mine, but that didn’t mean they were inferior or misguided. Had I ever recognised that before? Had I told him? Or had I just questioned, lectured?

while some of the bridges between us were instinctive and effortless, love and sex and faith, others had to be carefully built. And I’d failed not just to build them, but to notice they were needed.

I’ve seriously had it with school and all that hoop-jumping learning. Whatever Laurie thinks, it’s not for me. I’m not getting another D because I quenelle with my left hand, not my right.

Too much of modern life is comprised of hoop-jumping. It’s total bullshit. I’m with Toby on this one.

He’s sleek with happiness, somehow, like the man I fell in love with lives on the surface now, not hidden deep inside,