Chapter 3 Almost Love
After the morning with May, I felt... lighter. Not healed, not whole, but held.
We laughed about nothing for hours. She painted a blue streak into my hair "for courage" and said it matched my soul. We called some of the girls—March nearly choked on her tea when June told a story about dating a mime. It was chaos. It was perfect. For a little while, I forgot.
By the time I got home, something in me had shifted. I realized I needed to let go. Not of Ryder. But of the parts of me that kept waiting to be chosen.
Later that evening, he called.
"Hey," his voice hummed through the phone. "Mind if I stop by?" It was late, but I said yes anyway. I always do.
We don't live together, even though I suggested it once. Casually. Gently. He looked uncomfortable and said, "We've only been together a few months, December. Isn't it a bit soon?"
It made sense. Rationally. But emotionally, it stung. Especially since he already spent more nights in my apartment than his own. Still, I handed him a key anyway. Just in case. Because I wanted him to want to stay. He used it that night.
When he walked in, I was curled up on the couch, reading. The light from the lamp caught the tiredness in his face, but he smiled the second he saw me.
"You look peaceful," he said, then paused. "But also... not. You okay?"
I didn't even look up from the book. "I'm fine."
He sat beside me, close but not touching. "Is it about the three words?"
My throat closed. He didn't say it unkindly. Just... knowingly.
"Ryder, I said, trying to sound steady. "I'm not trying to pressure you."
"I didn't say you were."
"I'm sorry," I blurted, and hated myself instantly for it. "I just... forget I said anything, okay? It doesn't matter." His eyes softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. "You don't have to apologize. I care about you, December."
And that should have been enough. So I stood up and went to the kitchen. "You hungry?"
He didn't answer, just followed. Leaned against the counter while I made pasta with the leftover garlic bread. As I stirred the sauce, my mind wandered. Back to childhood.
To my mother's voice ringing sharp across the dinner table:
"Maybe skip seconds, huh? No one likes a fat girl."
To high school, where boys laughed when I dared to wear a crop top.
To the way mirrors made me flinch.
I learned to make myself small. To be useful. Pleasant. And now, I was with a man who was kind. Who didn't mock or criticize or raise his voice.
So what if he didn't love me? He was good to me. That should be enough. Right?
He hugged me from behind while I poured the pasta into bowls. His arms wrapped around my waist, lips brushing my shoulder. "You always take care of me," he murmured. I melted into him. Let my head rest back against his chest.
Maybe this was it. Maybe this is what love looks like—for people like me.
So what if he doesn't acknowledge me in public, or say he loves me, or want to live together?
He's here now. He's kind. That should be enough.
Shouldn't it?