Page 32 of The Art of Dying

“She’s… her dad’s company took a wicked turn our junior year of high school, and they moved into this huge mansion. Marilyn and Ma stayed close friends, but Brooke… she changed. She wanted different things. She’s very nice, always has been. Kind even. But she’s… not for me.”

“It’s okay, Kitsch. I have exes, too. You don’t have to pretend you never loved anyone else.”

“I haven’t,” he said, shaking his head, adamant. “Not like you. Not like this. Girls I’ve dated just seem to get uncomfortable around Brooke. I just wanted you to know that you… you don’t need to be.”

“Because she looks like a super model?” I laughed, but it wasn’t a joke. Brooke was stunningly beautiful, sophisticated, and apparently some kind of heiress. It took less to make a woman insecure.

“All I see is you,” Kitsch said, and I could tell he meant it.

That kind of reassurance was so simple for him, and yet seemed impossible for men like Mason. Women weren’t stupid. We knew when a woman walked into a room and saw men steal glances. It was natural to be optically drawn to a uniquely beautiful person. Trying not to look, giving your significant other an extra kiss or a squeeze of the hand, saying things like Kitsch just did was all it took, and yet there were people out there who refused. His words and actions told me I had nothing to worry about, and that made any insecurities I might have had disappear. Not that I was afraid they would get back together, but no woman wants to feel settled for, or that the man she loves wishes he were with someone else. I wanted to measure up, to know that he was happiest with me. Mason would’ve rolled his eyes, made me feel worse, and chastised me for being insecure no matter if I’d voice my feelings or not. Kitsch never hesitated to make me feel loved and wanted beyond anyone else in the room in an awkward, vulnerable moment, and without judgment.

“It’s true, though,” he said. “And if anyone asks, I have no problem saying it. There was no one before you.”

“What?” I chuckled. “Are we going to start telling people we were virgins?”

“High school sweethearts. No one will question that.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “So, we’re making up our own story now?”

He shrugged. “It’s not made up. That’s our story. No one before. No one since. Kitsch and Mack were high school sweethearts. I’ll swear by it until the day I die.”

“I just fell in love with you all over again,” I said.

He beamed as if he’d just won an award. Mason complained that he never felt like he did anything right while shamelessly doing everything wrong. Kitsch…

Oh my God. I’ve got to stop comparing them. It’s like a swan competing with a rat. And besides, there is no Mason. It’s only been Kitsch.

“What’s that look?” he asked.

I reached across the table for his hand. “I was just thinking today at work what a great month this has been,” I said. “Even though we’ve decided tonight that we’ve been dating for years, you make me really happy.”

“You make it easy. You don’t expect much and that just makes me want to give you more. Every little effort I make, you make sure to let me know you appreciate it. Makes me want to simultaneously thank and then beat the hell out of Mason and any other man who didn’t treat you right.”

“Who?” I teased.

He laughed once. “Touché.” His face fell. “But if the guy you’ve never dated shows up, I’m afraid of what I’ll do.”

I squeezed his hand. “I’ll be fine. You made sure of it. The house is like Fort Knox now, and I have Sully, Alecia, Lucas, and pretty much the rest of Quincy looking out for me. We have ten hours before your flight. Let’s just enjoy it and forget about… him.”

“Done. And on that note… I need to tell you something.”

I waited, trying to not worry.

“I got you a going away present.” He grinned, placing a four-inch, square box on the table. “Don’t panic. It’s not a ring. Not yet.”

I grinned, pulling the box toward me and holding it in my hands. “Not yet.”

“Oh, I’m gonna marry you one day, Mack. If I’m lucky.”

Something deep inside me fluttered. I’d heard about feeling butterflies before, but this was the second time I’d ever felt them—kissing Kitsch for the first time was the first. I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t know. You’re pretty lucky.”

The smile spanning his face was new. I’d never seen him so happy. “Lately, I sure have been. Open it,” he said, nodding to the box. He folded his arms and rested his elbows on the table.

“Aren’t I supposed to do that for you? You’re the one going away.”

“Any excuse I can find to see that smile on your face right now.”

I reached for the ribbon and pulled. Inside was a key on a keyring with a gold pendant in the shape of a heart, and next to it, a necklace. I held them both up as Kitsch stood and walked to stand behind me. The keyring’s pendant had an inscription in delicate font that saidMy Girl.

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