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Este squinted. “You think my dad Duolingo’d the language of the dead?” “Sometimes you say things, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you know that?”
Her eyes darted to Mateo’s face. “Do you trust me?” “Explicitly.”
mouth set with the determination of a middle child.
As a middle child, I can relate
Este pressed her lips to his ear. “Do you trust me?” She pulled away enough to see the cut of his eyes, diamond sharp and just as dazzling. Rimmed with heavy lashes, his irises webbed with navy. She smelled cedar smoke and fresh ink and felt the touch of his fingers on the pulse point of her wrist when he whispered, “Explicitly.”
Este smiled when she said yes. She kissed him, warm and sweet and soft, and she’d keep kissing him until their hair grayed, until their skin wrinkled, until dust gathered on the bookshelves. Eventually, they’d become nothing more than sun-faded ink, a final line in her favorite story, one she was no longer afraid to write.
