Page 150 of The True Garza
Finally.
After months of utter and complete sexual frustration, it’s the fastest, hardest, and loudest I’ve ever come.
When we makeit back downstairs, the reception is—thankfully—still in full swing. The father of the bride has just finished his dance with her and, with glassy eyes, he gives his daughter’s hand to her new husband.
Lyra looks so happy. Deliriously happy. Like a woman who’s finally gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. Front Porch Step’s“Private Fears in Public Places” starts to play, and so begins the bride and groom’s official dance.
True wraps his arms around me from behind. With a contented sigh, I ease some of the pressure off my crutches and relax against him.
After a while, he lowers his mouth to my ear. “London?”
“Mhm?”
“I’m gonna work hard enough so in the future, I’ll deserve the right to ask you to marry me.”
My heart stops. Just like that. “Baby steps, babe.”
“I know. That’s why for now, I’ll just ask….”
Beat, heart, beat.Don’t kill me before I can get a chance at happiness.“What?”
“Will you share my Sunday dinner with me?”
Now I’m giggling. “Haven’t we been eating Sunday dinner together for weeks now?”
“That’s Sunday dinner thatImade, for you,” he points out. “I’ve never sharedmy‘mother’s love’ Sunday dinner with you.”
“And that’s different?”
“I don’t share that with anyone, ever. So yeah, it’s tantamount to a wedding ring.”
I can’t stop giggling, because he’s so damn ridiculous. “There are conditions, then.”
“Conditions?”
“If you’re sharing with me, then you’resharingwith me,” I say. “You must share directly from your portion.”
“Done.”
“And you can’t secretly ask Monica for extra portions.”
“Dammit.”
“And I get to have the best parts of everything.”
He groans. “Ehh, I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He chuckles, his arms around me tightening. “Conditions accepted.”
Sobering, I watch the newlyweds get lost in each other as they sway to the music. They make me feel hopeful and hopeless at the same time. The way they look at each other, like one hangs the moon and the other sprinkles the stars, tells me that their love is the kind that will last. The forever kind of love that lives on even in death. And I wantthatwith True. Oh, man, do I want that. But I’m so fucking scared we won’t make it.
“True?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think we’ll make it?”
