scenario, if I did lose her in the end… at least I could say I tried. At least I could say I gave it everything I could. It would kill me to lose her, that much I knew after just a week without her.
But she was worth that risk.
I thumbed her chin, letting out a long breath before I said, “Hey, have I given you a reason not to trust me?”
She shook her head, and I ignored the pit in my stomach that reminded me I was lying to her. But that was a mountain I could climb another time. A mountain I would climb, when the time was right.
Right now, I needed her to see that she could trust me. And even if I wasn’t being honest about football, there wasn’t a lie near my lips when it came to what I was feeling for her.
“Let’s make a deal. Okay?”
“I’m listening.”
“You break your three-date rule for me. Give me a chance. Don’t judge who I am based on who you’ve dated in the past.”
“And what do I get out of this?”
I shrugged. “Maybe a few dates. Maybe a few months or years of happiness. Maybe a lifetime. No one ever knows,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “But there is one thing I know for sure.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want to find out. And whatever the risk is, you’re worth it.”
Belle smiled, blowing out a breath as she laced her arms around my neck. “You’re so cheesy sometimes that I swear you walked right out of a rom-com.”
“I watched enough as a kid that I might as well have.”
She laughed. “Ah, that’s right. Four sisters.”
“Name any rom-com from the 90s or 2000s and I bet you a hundred dollars I can quote at least ten lines.”
Belle smiled again, but the smile leveled out when she pressed up onto her toes. Her lips found mine, steady and sure, warm and relieved as she melted into the kiss.
“So, we’re going to jump?” she asked, pressing her forehead to mine.
I nodded, brushing a fallen strand of hair behind her ears. “I think we’re already in the free fall, Ms. Monroe.”
Her eyes found mine.
“I really hope this parachute works.”
And I kissed her again, with my own heart wishing the same.
Belle
When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with my bedroom.
While my friends all wanted to ride their bikes or play with dolls, I saved up every penny I made from doing chores to buy a new comforter for my bed, or a throw pillow for my floor, or a swing chair, or curtains, or a frame for a photograph I begged my mom to have printed for me.
We moved around so much until I hit high school that every new room was a new adventure, and I would run into our new house wherever we were moving and stand in the middle of the room before the movers brought in any of our belongings. I’d close my eyes, soak up the energy of the room, and without even trying, designs would start popping up behind my eyelids.
It always came naturally to me. I saw the architecture, the shape of the room, the texture of the wall and the carpet or tile or wood. I felt every bedroom I had as if it were a piece of me, as if it were part of my soul, an outward extension of who I was inside.
According to my parents, I would spend nearly every weekend in my room, rearranging furniture, taking pieces off the wall just to replace them with others, organizing my closet, changing up the color theme or playing with textile and fabric combinations. At any given time, I’d have a dozen interior design and home magazines spread out on my floor, and I’d lay there on my belly, eating my weight in Twizzlers while I plotted out the next theme for my room.
It made sense, looking back on it now. After all, that little thirteen-by-eleven bedroom was the only space I had. And with a little imagination, it could be anything. It could be a jungle or an Indian oasis or an ode to punk music or a minimalist-inspired London flat. It could be modern and edgy, or vintage and warm, or colorful and loud.
It was all up to me.
Over the years, as I studied interior design, interned, and started my own business, the way I felt about the job shifted. It became more serious, with more on the line than just