Though he desperately refuses the conformities of modern novel tropes, George acknowledges he's just the same as every book character. A side character that is. Studying his way into writing a hit novel George has to master the ups and downs of his...
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"And all at once, you are the one I've been waiting for" King Of My Heart Taylor Swift
Dream
Love is everywhere I realize. It's malleable like silver and moldable like pottery. Some find it in the hands of families and home-cooked meals, others in ocean waves. I've found nearly a hundred forms of love in my small years of life's beginning. My siblings tugging on the hem of my summer jeans, my mother and father's lithe laughter through the house, the stolen moments walking my best friend home on a warm summer night, the ice shavings stuck to my ice skates, it's almost cliché.
If I was more creative I think I would paint moments, create memories to remind myself to never get stuck in my own miseries. A physical reminder to never let myself stray from the love I already have while desperately trying to find an idea of it.
One of the most important mornings of my college career started with laughter. Much like all of my game days did at the age of 10, it was a ritual for George to spend the night just before a big game. We haven't indulged in the tradition since middle school but here we are. My fingers trace over each bump of his ribs as he rants on about Karl.
We're back to who we used to be, back to being us. Back to me being enthralled with him once more, although this time I understand that it's love that I'm stuck in with him. And it's love that he's stuck in with me. We just don't acknowledge it, or at least we haven't.
"They weren't having sex but I was still uncomfortable walking in on Karl on top of him."
My smile melds into the pillow beneath me, sun rays peaking through the window near the door. He is beautiful, always has been, but especially in the morning with scuffled hair and pillow creases in his cheeks.
Love. Love. Love. Love. I love you. It plays in a buttery mantra over in over as our days go on together, and I often wonder if this is what George dealt with for years. Silently, holding out hope for my dumbass who doesn't deserve it. I cover gentle bitterness and guilt over with useless drawings of hearts and flowers. They've always been George's, I could never quite give her this.
"Are you listening?"
I love you. His eyes meet mine and I smile at him, "yeah. I'm happy you and Karl worked it out."
He huffs but hooks my ankle around his beneath my blankets, "I know."
"My parents are flying in."
Another soft breath, "I know that too. Mom called me to invite me to lunch with them yesterday."
"Mom," I repeat and grin at him, "she'd probably cry if she heard you call her that."
"Yeah," George tilts his chin down to look at our hands just above his stomach, "well she's... she's my mom too in a way. I haven't really spoken to mine other than a few texts."
