Page 145 of Fumbled Into Love

“Is that true?”

Please, please, please. Say it’s true.

Deon rises from the couch, hand outstretched. He dodges my question, but I allow him to lead me into the garage, a place I never once stepped foot into while I was living here.

“I thought—For a long time, I believed I was wrong for love.” He lets go of my hand and spins to face me, standing in the center of the garage. “I was drowning, simply skating through life. I didn’t know how to convince myself that I was worthy of giving or receiving love when the person I thought I was going to marry was sleeping with someone else.

“Savannah broke something inside me, but I don’t think I realized that it was broken until I met you. Until you shined a light on what life should look like. How someone who you love should make you feel. With you, I am heard and understood and acknowledged in a way I never knew was possible. I was afraid to date and afraid to feel anything for another person because I was terrified that they would take my love and throw it away.”

A lone tear streaks down his cheek and I grab onto a shelf for stability to keep myself standing. I glance at the shelves.

Are those my storage boxes?

“Deon…” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Please, let me grand gesture the shitout of you.”

Another rough choked laugh tumbles out from me. “Did you turn ‘grand gesture’ into a verb?”

Twin dimples appear as he smiles and my chest ignites. He points at the shelves.

“This is where we’ll keep all of your decorations.” He pulls a box down. “They’re color-coded by holiday. Orange for Halloween. Red for Christmas. Pink for Valentine’s Day. Grey for miscellaneous. There are also labels at the top.”

I’m finding it difficult to breathe, hard to think, and impossible to stand as he shows me the organizational system, pride in his voice.

All labeled with his precious label maker.

With every word, his voice transforms from shaky and nervous to confident and direct.

He guides me intoThe Lairand stands in front of three brand new bookshelves, the same mahogany wood as the others, except these...they're covered withmythings.

My precious collection of rocks. The dozens of romance and fantasy novels I’ve collected. The crochet set ofLord of the Ringscharacters.

“These are your shelves.” His smile is bashful, “If you want them. You can fill them with all of your trinkets and bobbles and romance novels.”

I nod my head erratically, entirely incapable of forming words. I’m only capable of happy sobs and tears as he leads me out of that room and into the kitchen.

He opens an empty drawer that used to hold all of his pots and pans.

“We can keep the cookware you won here.” Deon opens another drawer. “And the bakeware I bought to match it in this drawer.”

“Deon,” I croak out, needing a moment to comprehend what’s happening. He—He wants me here? With all of my things and mess and crying when I have my period?

That’s what he’s saying, isn’t it?

God, my brain is fuzzy. He clasps my hand and leads me into his bedroom. I notice that his hands have stopped shaking, but mine imitate an earthquake, trembling in his grip.

“You showed me that the life I was living is not the life that I want. The one that I want is one with you and Gordie, and holidays with our friends. I want nights watching dating shows, completing puzzles, and last-minute dates to sketchy taco trucks. I want to point you out in the stands at my games to embarrass you and hold your stomach when you’re in pain, to visit you at work because I missed you, and know that you’re waiting for me at home when I’m away for a game.”

My mouth opens and closes and I flail to say something when he drags me into the closet, one half of the large room empty.

It’s waiting for someone to fill the space.

With a smile full of excitement, Deon reveals three shoe racks against the back wall. He opens one and I gasp as I realize he organized every pair of my shoes and placed them into the organizers.

They’re obviously color-coded.

This is all too much, too overwhelming, toograndand I collapse to the floor, unable to stand beneath the weight of all that he’s saying and not saying.

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