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Because right this moment I realize I know next to nothing about the man I’m falling in love with. And he told me in clear red lettering that I’m to only fuck him.
One man won’t have sex with me.
The other won’t love me.
About Three and A Half Years Ago . . .
Harvey’s parents were simple—loving. And Henrik’s always happy and messing around, which I’d know—he hangs out with Harv and me quite often.
His mom and I click instantly. As for his dad, I can see who the boys got their charming personas from.
After a family dinner, I’m sitting on Harvey’s bed. My fingers skim the front page of his sketchbook; I want to see more of his drawings. Does he have more of me? Curiosity wins as I flip open to the first page of the notebook.
That’s when Harvey appears in the doorway of his room, closing the door behind him, shaking his head as he makes his way over to the bed.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you...”
I lift my chin, my eyes meeting his before they pause on the drawing again. In this one I’m laughing.
“Do what?”
“Enter an artist’s world without asking permission. You might not like what you find.” He’s on the bed now, leaning against the bedframe, as his arm wraps around my shoulders.
Like I’m small and perfect beneath his arm.
I swallow—his tone sounds as if he’s trying to scare me away. But the look in his eyes when I finally get lost in the blueness of them? They sparkle with mischief and glee.
“And what might I find?”
I stare down at the drawing—the same way I often go back to the first sketch he drew of me the day we met—the one he eventually gifted me with.
It’s some, it’s surreal. How can someone be so talented? To get every line, every detail as close to reality as possible? When he stares at me intently, is he remembering all the details to draw them up later?
I seem happier, livelier, in the drawing because Harvey makes me laugh. He brings it out of me. Not many people can.
He holds my chin in the palm of his hand, resulting in a tilt of my head. “That I love you... you might find that I love you.”
He flips over a few pages, and I see that all of them are drawings of me. Reading, riding, hiking. Usfucking.
“Why wouldn’t I want to know this, Harv?”
He shrugs as he holds me close. “You’re hard to read sometimes.”
“I love you,” I say as I nestle my head in the crook of his neck.
I’m nervous. It’s my first time saying it to a man who isn’t my dad, but I’m done pushing my feelings away. It feels right. Right this moment, nothing makes more sense than us.
He grabs my hand and a pen from his night table, asking me what he should draw.
“A rose.” My mom loved them—she owned a flower shop.
I’m surprised when he draws a small rose with detailed petals and the simplest root in a figure eight at the top of my hand.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah? You think so?”
I nod. “I think this might be my first tattoo.”
