I WALKED toward my studio knowing Beckett would be inside. That his words would determine how I spent the rest of my senior year. Heartbroken or in love. Recovering or reveling.
With the bolster of my speeding heart rate, I stepped into the studio. “Rory,” he breathed.
It wasn’t my nickname, but he said it with so much feeling. I just didn’t know what the feeling was. Had he come to tell me that I should give up? Or that he hadn’t?
“Thanks for coming,” I said, even though I didn’t know if I should be thanking him. It was just good to see him again. To have him in this space felt like magic to me.
“Of course.” His lips turned up. “I heard some really good news.” “Yeah?”
“That you got your period.” His eyes glittered with so much humor, I couldn’t help reaching out and batting his arm.
“I didn’t know you’d be here!” I cried.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I didn’t know it was up for question?
Your period, I mean.”
I shrugged. I guessed if we were going for honesty, now was the time. “That’s part of PCOS.”
“What you talked about at the assembly?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. We were too young to talk about it, but I was tired of hiding in a shroud of anonymity and secrets and schemes. “PCOS basically means I’ll always struggle with my hormones—as well as losing weight and
having children. It’s not impossible, but the odds aren’t great.” I’d been looking down, but now I forced myself to meet his eyes.
They were pools of empathy, concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not exactly high school dating material,” I said with a shrug and looked back at the carpet. This part was harder to admit. “And Merritt— health class—it just made me feel like having PCOS was all my fault. I was ashamed.”
His finger lifted my chin, and there were his eyes again. The ones I loved to get lost in and the ones that saw past my appearance and into my soul. “You never need to be ashamed with me.”
Instinctively, I reached up and held his hand with both of mine. “I should be though. I’m ashamed of what I did to you. How I used you. I’m so sorry, Beckett, and I swear, if you give me a chance to make it right with you, I’ll walk your dog or wash your car or do your chem homework or make meatballs for your dad every Thursday night—”
His lips were lifting softly. “I don’t have a dog.”
I smiled, narrowing my eyes at him. “You know what I mean.”
He stepped closer, his body inches from mine. His hand was now over my heart, and my hands covered his.
“You never had to do anything, Cupcake,” he breathed. “I’ve always thought you were perfect—just the way you are.”
My heart echoed around my chest, swelling and pouring love through every inch of me. This was too good to be true. It had to be.
But when I looked into his eyes, I knew.
He saw me. He saw my heart, my soul, my needs, and every part of me that matched so perfectly with every part of him. And because he saw, we didn’t need words to speak what was so clearly there.
He placed his hands on my cheeks and pressed his lips to mine. A need raced through me, permeated my cells until I was running my fingers through his hair, feeling the strong muscles of his shoulders and the smooth skin at his lower back.
The way his lips felt on mine—I could live in the sensation, explore it for a lifetime or three.
His lips parted from mine, but his hands moved to my face again, his thumb brushing over my tender lip.
“What does this mean?” I breathed.
He smiled, gently tucked my hair away from my face. “It means you’re mine.”
In this moment, I couldn’t think of a better thing to be.
