Lovebirds

I LOVE YOU

He taps on the doorframe when he arrives, asking "Spence?" To make sure she knows it's him.

The window's open again, curtains sending a chilly breeze throughout the room, and Vince is thankful he'd insisted on keeping his jacket when Mr. Sofia had offered to hang it in the closet.

From his place at the door, he sees her huddled on the roof. Her eyes staring out to nowhere in particular, and she's wearing just pajama pants and a hoodie. Hair blowing freely in the wind, and he can just see the pink of her cheeks when the wild strands dance in the other direction.

He has butterflies. Tumbling around his stomach—and he's not sure if it's fear or anticipation or just plan old stupid love. She was in the same position when she broke his heart last time. Being in this room again... it's smell, the color of her bedsheets, the schoolbooks stacked haphazardly on the corner of her desk—

But she sent him that email. And she's confused. He's seen it in her eyes; sees it in the rigidity with which she sits on the roof, realizing that, despite the hell she's put him through these past few weeks, she's been broken too.

This hacker sent them both for a loop, but Vincent already knew where to stand; is familiar with the rock on which he places his feet, yet she...

Vincent walks further into the room, hands fisted in his pockets. On her desk sits her geology textbook: Chapter 8, tectonic plates.

"Spence?" He asks again, reaching the window frame. The bite of the cold comes sharper as he maneuvers his way out. "Are you feeling okay?"

She says nothing as he settles. But something in her face relaxes. Her jaw settles and the tension in her brow releases as her shoulders drop and she leans against his shoulder.

"Thanks for coming," she finally murmurs.

He tips his head to rest upon hers.

She can break his heart a million times and still he'd sit beside her with this kind of closeness; hold her with all the warmth she needs. And maybe that makes him stupid, but it also makes him happy.

"So, quality time and acts of service?"

She chuckles, "apparently," lifting her head to look him in the eye, "did you take the test too?"

"Quality time and physical touch," he admits, nodding.

She smiles, returning her gaze to the street.

"I'm really sorry for pushing you away, Vince. I just—"

"—You don't need to justify it—"

"—I kinda do. To myself more than anything." She smirks. "Maybe in rambling about it I'll figure it out completely, but..."

He takes a deep breath. "Let's start with questions, then."

"Okay," and she wraps her arms around the knees she pulls to her chest.

In seeing her cold, he wants nothing more than to lay his arm across her shoulder drawing her close—or at the very least, run inside to grab a blanket. But he stays still, knowing this moment is delicate.

"Why did you go with Ambrose to the game?"

"The date," putting it painfully in the open.

"If that's what it was, then sure."

Spencer nods. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just tell me, Spence."

Deep sigh, "I got freaked out. I was thinking about the idea of being your girlfriend, being thought of in that way by everyone—including myself—and it made me... it made me sick. I felt trapped in the idea of not being able to do anything wrong, in having to be the perfect gir— person for you that I... Ambrose asked and I accepted."

"So it was to shove me off?"

"Not you," tension visible in the creases across her face. "I was pushing myself out of the corner. By way of another person."

Vincent swallows, worry etched in every line of his irises; in the bile that rises at the back of his throat, tainting his sense of taste and smell.

"I put you in a corner?" He whispers.

"—No! I put myself in a corner...but...I guess a little." She looks across the street again. "I don't like labels, Vince. They seem like boundaries; like rules--like playing parts and it makes it hard for me to understand what's real and what's just you being the 'boyfriend.'" She sighs. "We don't have to be 'relationship goals' or anything like that. I just want to be with you."

Vincent nods, processing.

"Is it okay to tell you I love you?"

Her eyes shift to him almost mechanically. In her head, the three words sound like the very drum of her heartbeat. Warm, yet also a little frightening.

"Okay," she says. Sits a moment. "Do you expect me to act differently now?" She asks, somewhat sheepishly, tucking her nose into her forearms atop her knees. Her eyes stay fixed on him while the rest of her stays facing away.

He shakes his head. "I don't want you to be anything other than you."

She rolls her eyes. "That sounds so cheesy."

"Still true," a smile touching the corner of his lips.

Spencer nestles her nose further into the sleeves of her sweatshirt, shifting her gaze to the horizon line. And then the stars. And then the moon.

"Is something wrong with me?" Gently. "Am I supposed to like the idea of being a 'girlfriend?' Does that mean what I feel isn't what I think it is? Am I misinterpreting myself?"

"Maybe," he offers. "But probably not." Bravely, he moves closer. Tucks his hip beside hers and she hip-bumps him in response. A smile flickers across her face on instinct. "Like you said: this is ours. There aren't any rules."

They sit in silence for a moment; hear the bass of another street race in the concrete jungle down yonder. From inside, Mrs. Sofia talks passionately with her husband about the merits of television watching. The air smells cold, and in trying to chill their skin, it only draws them closer.

Two little lovebirds.

Her head nestles into his chest. His arm wraps around her back, drawing her close.

"Thank you for coming," she says again.

"Anytime."

The sound of an engine. Laughter from downstairs.

"Hey Vince?"

"Spence?"

"No matter how much I tease your romantic sentiments, please don't change."

Smiling broadly, "me? Change?" Pulling her closer. "Don't worry about me, Spence. I'm good now."

"Home now," she mutters.

And he smiles.