Page 200 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Bossy.”

“Prompt executive decisions.”

He lets me pull it over his head, then reaches for mine. His shirt, technically. Mine, spiritually. He pauses with his fingers at the fabric.

I lift my arms.

The shirt comes off, and his eyes move over me like he still cannot quite believe I am here. On his couch. In his apartment. With half my things already scattered through his life.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m something you get to keep.”

His hands still.

Then he cups my face, and his voice goes quiet enough to undo me.

“Are you?”

Oh.

Oh, that is unfair.

I try to make a joke. I really do. Something about lease terms, emotional property law, Puck needing a custody agreement.

Nothing comes.

So I answer.

“Yes.”

Forrest goes still beneath me.

Then he kisses me like the word went through him.

The rest of the room disappears in pieces. The noodles. The laptop. The resignation email I still haven’t sent. His hands are on my back, my waist, my hips, holding and asking all at once, and I have never been so tired of pretending a thing can stay casual just because I’m afraid of naming it.

Puck lifts his head from the rug.

I turn mine slowly.

“Absolutely not,” I say.

Puck sighs with the suffering of a dog denied participation in the worst possible moment.

Forrest rises, opens the bedroom door, and points inside. “Bed.”

Puck hauls himself up with maximum offense and pads into the bedroom like a martyr being sent to exile with orthopedic bedding.

Forrest shuts the door.

Puck barks once.

“Your son disapproves,” I say.

“Our son,” Forrest says.