Magnolia Parks: Chapter 63

We stay up here for the night—neither of us have anything.

No clothes, no toiletries. Nothing. Just each other, which is probably how it’s meant to be.

That was the plan before it all went to shit. That quiet life we planned: breezy, open windows in our little house next to the ocean in a town on the other side of the country and we don’t miss London at all because London, not us, is the problem.

It’s my goal now, to get us there. It’s what I’ll spend my life doing here on out. Untangle her and me from our fucked-up lives in London and whisk us away to a place where we’re better versions of ourselves and we’ll be the best versions of us because we are when we’re together.

We don’t leave the bedroom—that room with the lock on the door I can’t use for shit—we don’t leave it. Talk for hours, kiss for hours, we laugh. She cries a bit; I cry a bit. I feel her up a bit—rest my chin in the dip of her bellybutton and stare up at the only girl I’ve ever loved—try not to cry again because I’m holding her how I’ve thought about holding her since the last time I did.

It’s the best day of my life.

We order in a pizza, eat it in the bed. Shower together. Do stuff in the shower together. Back to the bed.

She falls asleep on my chest, and I breathe, relieved for the first time since I lost her.

She wakes up the next morning and for the first time probably ever, I’m awake before her—never happens.

She always wakes up first, but I guess I really wore her out yesterday, because she sleeps past lunch, so I don’t move a muscle until her eyes flutter awake.

She looks at me for a few seconds, blinks, glances around the room, and then back at me.

“Not a dream.” She smiles.

I kiss her. “Not a dream.”

She wriggles in towards me, goes forehead to forehead.

“Parks?” I look at her.

“Mm?”

“This is it—isn’t it?” And I fucking hate myself a little because I sound more nervous saying that than I want to.

“Like, we’re in. No more fucking around. Yeah?”

She nods.

“I’ll be done with all the girls and all the other shit—and you—no more Tom.”

“No more Tom,” she repeats, nodding.

She could nearly sound sad about it. Won’t think into it too much because I know they got close. “And you’ll let go of what I did?” I ask, searching for her face. She nods again. “For good?” She nods. “Can’t bring it up in fights for years to come.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if you never get the answers you want from me?” I gauge her eyes. “Cause those answers don’t exist.”

She considers this.

“Okay.” She nods once.

I nod back. “Okay.”