The slightest of nods. It’s barely encouragement, but it’s enough for me to keep going.
“You know I’ve never really dated anyone. So I assumed I could be that way with you this summer and it would be like my other relationships. No strings, no romance, no emotions. And, well, that clearly didn’t work.”
“I pushed you when you said you wanted to keep it casual,” he says. “I take responsibility for that.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want it to be casual. Not deep down. I was fighting against it, every time you brought it up. I convinced myself it was because I didn’t want the kind of perfunctory romance I saw at weddings, but I think it was because I was afraid to give someone too much of myself. I had to keep one little piece of Quinn locked up where no one could find it. Sometimes, not even me.” I let myself make eye contact with him, his gaze so open, so honest. It’s never not been, I realize. “I’ve been trying this new thing where I’m, like… more of myself, I guess? I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out who ‘myself’ actually is.”
“Whoever you are now isn’t too bad,” he says. “I want to say I’ve got it all figured out, but I haven’t. In a lot of ways, I’m still trying.”
“We’re both imperfect.”
“Sure,” he says. “But we’re learning.”
I expect it to be hard to say all these things, that they’ll burn as they climb up my throat and land in a pile of ash on the ground. But it’s not. I told Tarek it wasn’t easy to talk like this, but either I’m a liar or I’m getting better at it. Or it’s the simple fact that his presence makes it easier.
There’s no swelling music, no promise of scrolling end credits. Just Tarek and me and the things I have never told anyone. I am being honest with him, with myself, for the first time all summer, and it suddenly feels like the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
“It’s also not fair for me to tell you I didn’t like any of the gestures,” I say. “I didn’t hate everything. That’s the thing. I kept telling myself I didn’t want you to do these things for me, but then you’d save me a macaron, or you’d show up at my house in the rain with a homemade mug cake. Sometimes the gestures were right.”
“Not everything is balloons and skywriting. I’m learning that too. Though I’m sure those have a time and a place.”
I let myself crack a smile at that. “I get it, now, why my attempt at a grand gesture didn’t work. You were right—that wasn’t me. It didn’t mean anything, me interrupting you at a wedding. I assumed I could show up and that would solve everything, but that’s not what a grand gesture is about, is it? It’s never one big gesture. It’s a series of small ways to let someone know you care about them. Maybe I’m not cut out for a cinematic kind of romance. But what I do know is that these two weeks have been torture. What I should have done—not just then, but weeks ago, months ago—is tell you how much you mean to me. How much I like you. All the ways I’m”—I break off for a moment, draw in as much air as possible—“all the ways I’m falling for you, from your baking to the sound of your laugh to the way I feel wholly myself with you in a way I’ve never let myself feel before.”
“Quinn,” he says, and I could listen to him say my name on a loop every night before going to sleep. There’s a softness there, a reverence. A thumb grazes my wrist. Then he drops his hand again, that ghost of physical contact leaving my skin aching.
“Weddings have skewed my perception of love—to the point where I didn’t know what it was, or how it would feel, and that’s probably why I didn’t understand how I was feeling until it was too late.”
“Is it?” he asks, and if I had any control over my senses right now, I might notice him inching closer to me in the gazebo. “Too late?”
“No. At least, I hope not.” My voice is scratchy. I barely recognize it. “I thought I had to come up with something grand to sweep you off your feet.”
He just gives me this look, like I’ve missed something huge, and maybe I have. “It’s not about the gestures,” he says. “The gesture doesn’t mean anything if the couple isn’t right for each other. It’s about the person.” A swallow, and then, as his knee taps mine: “You make it grand.”
Oh. That’s—wow. Okay. My heart swells, and god, we don’t even need music. Not an orchestra, not a harp, just the thumping of our hearts and the sweetness of his words. If I had any concept of romance, I’d say it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.
“I love you,” I say quietly, and it’s not enough, and I’m not scared anymore, so I say it again. Louder this time. “I love you, Tarek.”
His whole face lights up, and I’m convinced I’ve never seen anything lovelier than the rich brown of his eyes. “That’s a relief,” he says, “because I love you too. I’ve loved you since—”
And I don’t get to hear how long it’s been because I’m pressing my lips to his, and oh, I’ve missed him. He is warm and solid and I love him, I love him, I love him. I love the way his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer. I love the way his hands map my waist and my hips. I love the way he sighs against my mouth when I break the kiss to hug him, to mold my body to his.
“Sorry, what was that?” I say next to his ear, breathless. “Something
