Even now, it feels scary to touch him, like he’ll disappear if I press too hard. I only trust myself to ghost over his face. I’m focused on remembering this moment, being in this moment and grounding myself the way my therapist taught me, instead of dwelling on my fears—what if he thinks I’m weird, what if he’s just doing this to be nice, what if he just wants me to write something nice about him? And God, this must be the most unprofessional thing in the world.
“Josie?”
I move my thumb under his bottom lip. He goes still—almost still. I feel him shaking. It’s odd that I could make someone else shake. I’ve thought about it in abstract moments, like when movies show people kissing for the first time, with big, dramatic scenes like in The Fault in Our Stars or Bridget Jones’s Diary. But I didn’t think this would happen for me. Not for a while. Not with someone like Marius.
I still can’t really process that this is actually happening. Like, these are the lips I spend so much time trying not to look at. These are the lips I just kissed. The softest lips I know.
“Josie?”
I kiss him deeply, and this time, it lasts longer than a few seconds.
@JosieTheJournalist: how long do you have to wait before falling in love with someone? asking for a friend
New plan: instead of finishing the interview at the café, we go back to Marius’s apartment. The interview is all but forgotten; I just want to spend time with him. That sounds so corny, but it’s true.
He hugs me when we reach the apartment, catching me off guard. It takes a second for me to really hug him back. I’m trying to remember everything about this moment so I can file it away for later. He’s soft and solid in my arms at the same time. He smells like too many different things for me to pin down one scent; there’s soap and sweetness and warmth.
And then I’m kissing him, without any warning. Unlike me, Marius doesn’t hesitate in responding. I know I cry too easily, and although I’m not crying now, there’s something about the way Marius throws himself into everything he does, even something like a kiss, that makes me want to. I like his laugh, his pink lips, the narrow shape of his face, the soft hair at the nape of his neck. I like touching it. I like looking at it. I don’t know how I was going to convince myself that I didn’t want this. I would’ve gone home still wanting this. The ache in my chest would’ve only gotten worse.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me inside. I draw back, pausing on the threshold. It feels wrong to be in his apartment without his parents around.
“What’s wrong?”
I blink, realizing that I’ve been staring at him. I’ve been doing it a lot lately. It’s like looking at an artsy photograph. I like the way he moves through space, the way his face rises and falls, the way his eyes are full of emotion. Everything about Marius feels so alive, like vivid colors in a painting.
“Nothing,” I say. “I just like watching you.”
He smiles. I love it when he smiles. My heart warms when he smiles.
“I like looking at you,” he says, leading me over to the couch. It’s less like a real couch a regular family would have than a leather sculpture featured in a photo shoot for Architectural Digest. “And talking to you. And listening to you.”
“I like listening to you, too,” I say. If we spend the rest of today listing the things we like about each other, I’ll have absolutely no problem with it. “Especially when you speak French. You should do that more often.”
“You won’t even know what I’m saying,” he says. “My dad gets so pissed when my mom does it just to get out of conversations.”
“Well, I like it,” I say, sitting on the couch. It’s not comfortable, but I didn’t expect it to be. “Sometimes the things I don’t understand are more beautiful than the things I do.”
God, that was sappy. Everything about this is sappy. I’m not complaining.
He stares at me again. I might feel like I’m doing all of the staring, but he does some, too. I look away after a while, cheeks burning, and feel his eyes on me. And when I look back, he’s still staring at my face, and I let my eyes roam over every part of him—long, slender fingers, the socks on his feet when we walk around his apartment, the mole on the back of his neck, the sharp curve of his cheekbones—everything.
“Le jardin dans mon coeur fleurit pour toi,” he says. “The garden in my heart blooms for you.”
Fine. He takes the prize for most sappy.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, not to be outdone. “So, so beautiful.”
“Shush,” he says, even though he’s still smiling. “I’m trying to look at you.”
“You can look at me while I’m talking.”
“I feel bad.”
“Why?” I lift a shoulder, reaching for one of his curls. It’s soft in my fingers like it’s something delicate, something that could break easily. “For looking at me?”
“No.” He scoffs. “Did you get the chance to explore the city yet?”
“That’s not really what I’m here for,” I say. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come back one day.”
“But you’re here now.” He pushes himself up. I blink in surprise. “We should go somewhere. Do you feel like walking around?”
I’ve been to plenty of parks before, but they’re nothing compared to Central Park. It has a million different entrances—I’m not sure how the Uber
