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No, the truth is that I am feeling genuinely emotional about that adorable dog. And the fluffball cat. And this cozy house. And the man who’s the heart of it all. Dammit. I think I’ve caught feelings for my husband.
“Shit!” he yells. “I forgot clothes to change into at the A-frame. Be right back.” “Okay, Flash!” “This isn’t funny, this is fucking stressful!” he yells.
I hope it will make her feel safe. The way Rooney makes me feel safe.
Her eyes meet mine, and that moment feels like a new color, brushed across my heart’s canvas. One that I never even dreamed could grace my life, because I didn’t know it existed. Now I can’t imagine what my life would look like without it. That’s when I know. When every question I had is answered, and I know this twisting, aching, terrible, beautiful something that’s grown and deepened inside me for weeks is a feeling, and that feeling is all for her, and it’s nothing like I’ve ever felt for anyone. And that feeling…is love. I love her. Holy fuck. I love her.
I’m still staring at her, stunned, reeling. I’m…in love. And it’s a little frightening. Like staring in front of a blank canvas when I’m aching to paint, colors ready, brush in hand. I just have to prepare to become completely absorbed. Will loving her be like painting? Like building this home? Like running? Immersive, consuming, so intensely possessive of my thoughts and energy and time?
And that’s when I know that all this rationalizing I’ve been doing, telling myself it’s only a crush with a few surmountable feelings tacked on for this tough nut who finally cracked just for me is nothing but lies. I love him. I think I’ve been falling in love for quite a while. Like a domino effect, it’s been moment after moment, one tipped onto the other, building speed and beauty as they connected. Before the last inevitable click as that final piece fell and revealed itself.
“Those cabinets might be perfect for you, but what if someone who isn’t six-five wants to live with you one day?” He peers up at me, gaze searching my face. “I never thought they would.” “Short-sighted of you.”
“Come here,” he says quietly. I hesitate. “Axel, you just need to sleep—” “That’s why I want you to come here.”
“Rooney.” I tug her close. “I don’t want coffee. I like listening to you think and talk.”
“What if I told him I’m not so sure about those plans? What if I said I’ve felt happiness I didn’t know existed until I shared it with him?”
“I’m up for it,” I tell her. “Walking feels good.” And I’m trying. I’m trying to show you that I love you.
“Axel,” she breathes. I watch her watching the sunrise, knowing I could do this the rest of my life: witness sunlight painting Rooney better than I ever could, the day wrapping its arms around her, illuminating what’s inside her heart—warmth, hope, a depth of joy I never thought I’d know, let alone love, yet here I am. So fucking gone for it. Gone for her. I’ve been afraid to tell her. I’m terrible at risking changes like this. What if she doesn’t feel the same way? What if it chases her off? What if? I’ve spun my tires for days, wondering, but what finally stopped me is this: Reminding myself
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“Axel.” She brings both hands to my face, her thumbs sliding along my cheekbones, eyes searching mine. “This feels like one of my daydreams,” she whispers. “It’s not a dream, is it?”
“Turns out,” I say to her, “that’s how it feels to fall in love with someone you’re telling yourself you shouldn’t, no, can’t, fall in love with. I mean, that’s how foreign all of this is to me.” Rooney slides her hand up my thigh, a soothing, affectionate touch. “Now it can be familiar. Just you and me.”
“But now, I think I understand. It’s not that marriage is this fortifying element in and of itself. It’s not the teary wedding-day promises or the legal license or the indestructible rings that make a marriage strong. It’s the people. It’s their choices. It’s how strong they make it.” “No pressure,” I mutter. Rooney nods. “Right? It is. It’s a lot of responsibility.” She turns and plants a kiss to my jaw, then settles in against me. “But I want that with you,” she whispers. “I want to learn how to have it.” “We’ll learn,” I tell her, as I hold her close. “Together.”
“Rooney, I have wanted you since the moment I met you. Since you were screaming in the stands at Willa’s first game and she scored and you smiled while you cried. Your hair was half out of its braid, and your eyes were red-rimmed, and you were screaming with joy. You were so fucking beautiful and alive, and I felt like I’d been clubbed over the head. You scared the hell out of me, how much you…felt, how much you said and expressed, so freely. I had no idea what to do with you, except want you. Helplessly. And for a good long while, I thought, hopelessly. So I tried to do everything I could to
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Viggo gapes at me. And then he pulls out his phone and attacks his text messages. “Did you just send a Bat Signal GIF to the guys?” I ask. “Hush up. I hear you judging me.” Viggo pockets his phone. “Report to the basement in five.”
“Hey.” Viggo throws an old stuffed animal from the neighboring box at Aiden’s head. “A Bergman Brothers Summit is a place of loving care. It’s not a punishment.”
Night’s darkness fades in one canvas, deepens in the other, and on both, it’s born out in a painstakingly fine gradation of cerulean, sapphire, and indigo. Sweeping strokes of dreamy lavender seep into ripe plum. Rich apricot blossoms into buttery marigold. Like a lover’s embrace, the edges glow with a delicate, whispering brush of palest pink, shades of soft skin and kitten noses and lush peonies. He painted them. Axel painted sunrise and sunset.
If you can forgive me, I want to be brave with you, Rooney. I want to stretch and grow side by side. I want to wait for you, and trust you, and show you that we can do this. Together. There’s a first-class plane ticket in this envelope, and it has your name on it. If you’re ready, if you can forgive me, please come. Because I want us. I want you here, with me. Yesterday. A week ago. Forever. Love, Axel
Because I’m learning how much it takes to be brave the way Axel has been, and I’m in awe. I’m learning that being brave isn’t being fearless but rather facing our fears and not letting them dictate our lives. It’s living honestly in the imperfection of existence. It’s finding love in those messy places and fighting for it. And that is deeply vulnerable.
“Ask me what I want again,” he whispers. I smile up at him. “Axel, what do you want?” “I want to date my wife.” I laugh happily. “I would love to date my husband.” He presses his forehead to mine. “But most of all…I want to be with you forever. Not just for a whirlwind month. Not even until death do us part. I want every day, cramming as many lifetimes as possible into the one we’ve been given because finding you thirty years into my existence and only getting one chance to love you isn’t nearly enough.”
His face grows even more serious as he tucks a loose hair behind my ear. “The hard parts and the easy parts,” he says. “We’ll figure them out together.”
