Page 109 of All Our Nevers

My instinct is to reach for him, clasp his face in my palms and lock his eyes on mine—but I catch myself.

Now more than ever, I refuse to let the yarn break.

“I trust you,” I whisper. “I think I trust you more than anyone.”

Then he’s kissing me again, this time with no restraint. His tongue meets mine with desperation and fire, and I hope he can feel all the words I can’t yet say in the press of my body against his. That I’m his. That I love him. That it terrifies me and thrills me and makes me want things I never thought I would want.

His movements crescendo again and I’m arching into him, giving him everything I have and letting him take what he needs. And I would swear he feels it too. Would swear it’s in the air between us—in the rhythm of our blood pulsing together—that he loves me just as much.

A few more grinding thrusts and I’m gone, crying out with the release and letting the pleasure control me. I feel him pulsing inside me too, groaning my name as he comes, taking his pleasure from mine, filling me with it.

When he’s done, he doesn’t move away. He keeps his eyes on mine as he reaches up to undo the yarn that holds me. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then a kiss to my lips, before he says it again.

“Thank you.”

26

Lia

Our third and final day in Paris is much more nerve-wracking than the first two for one obvious reason: Today is my appointment (interview? I don’t know what to call it) with Guy’s cousin Joséphine at her boutique. We’re convening at 10:00 AM, so at least I can get it over with instead of spending the whole day nervous.

When we leave the hotel in search of breakfast, I already have my red leather duffle bag with me, stuffed to the gills with favorite samples of my work. Crochet pieces, of course—skirts and tops and sweaters—but also pieces I’ve sewn, and a few embroidery samples as well. I want to show range and versatility as much as skill, want the flexibility to adapt to her expectations.

This has to go well. It’s the only action item in my newly determined career direction. A solid step towards at least two out of three of my goals (make good fashion and—hopefully—make good money, too). If it fails, I have no Plan B, other than continuing my pathetic reliance on craft fairs and clipped Market Basket coupons.

But until then, Owen and I wander through the Champs de Mars, a nutella and strawberry crepe in my right hand, a croissant in his left. We pretend we speak neither English nor French as peddlers try to hock their wares: silvery keychains, Eiffel Tower statuettes, felt berets in crimson and navy.

My outfit is overplanned, even by my standards. I did as much research on Joséphine as I could. Not to mimic her style, but to pull threads of it into my own. Professional but creative, textures that intrigue, feminine and masculine together. I ended up in a red silk blouse with a square neck trimmed in lace, wide-leg pants, and an unstructured charcoal blazer. The outfit isn’t a safe choice, but—rounded out with crimson kitten heels and a matte red lip—I’m confident she’ll love it.

“Hey, hang on,” Owen says, pulling me from my clothing-based reverie. “This angle is incredible, with the Tower in the back and the Sun over there. Here, give me your phone.”

“You really are trying to get on my good side this week, aren’t you,” I say, handing it over.

I’ve certainly dated women who were happy to help me take pictures for my socials, but the men I’ve dated almost always whined about it. Owen, however, has jumped into the process headfirst. Knees bent, one eye closed, testing angles, giving options, telling me, “a little to the left and then turn your body towards me… perfect.”

When I look through the results, I’m genuinely impressed.

“These are actually fantastic.” I reach a teasing hand up to pinch his cheek. “There might be an artist in you after all. How are you so good at this?”

“Are you gonna make fun of me if I tell you?” he asks.

“Possibly.”

“I watched a YouTube video about how to take good pictures for your girlfriend,” he admits.

My chest stretches and compresses at once. Momentary panic, fight against change, but then something stronger—excitement. Warmth. Thrill.

“For your girlfriend, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling my hips towards his. “My girlfriend. That okay with you?”

Girlfriend doesn’t have to mean serious. Girlfriend certainly doesn’t have to mean forever. I’ve had plenty of casual girlfriends in my adult life.

But now, with him, it feels more dangerous. More like the edge of a cliff. A knot in a thread I’ll never be able to untie—that will either be with me forever or will have to be cut loose with a sharp blade to the heart.

I love this man, and I’m horrified about it.

So I don’t answer him directly.