Love and Other Things

chapter eighteen: the company

When I showed up at Love's doorstep with hot chocolate that I'd made in my apartment and trudged to her apartment with the heat blasting in my car to keep it warm, I wasn't sure what I was expecting.

A thank you, maybe? Sure, but I know her too well to expect as much.

What she gives me, however, is probably better than anything I could've imagined: her company. Even though we're on opposite sides of her couch, at least we're watching the same movie on the same TV in the same room on the same couch.

We're set to leave in about thirty-six minutes and soaking in the last couple minutes of warmth and the end of this very niche movie she randomly selected.

The longer we sit here, the more my eyes inconspicuously find the side of her face. She's pretty when she's focused. But then again, she's always pretty.

The only sound between us is coming from the television but her now empty cup of hot chocolate sits on the coffee table while I cradle my now cold cup in my hands. Am I nervous? Should I even be this nervous?

Considering how good she smells, all my bets are on yes. Her hair is pulled up into a cute bun, she's wrapped up in her oversized clothing, her lips are glossed from the Aquaphor she applied, skin glowing from whatever skincare she did before I got here.

Her bag is packed and in the corner of the room. She managed to convince me not to order food because we can just get it on the road. I know she just wanted to be able to debate against me and win so I folded.

Only for her.

The silence carried on when she turned off the TV and every other device in her apartment and I carried her suitcase downstairs — well, scratch that because she wasn't silent.

"I can carry my suitcase." She argued which I promptly ignored. "Marshall!"

"I heard you," I told her. "I'm not giving you ammunition to run and tell your mom that I wasn't being a gentleman."

This made her stop at the top of the stairs and cross her arms over her chest with that familiar pout on her face, "What, so you're doing this so you can stay in my mom's good graces?"

"Nope."

"Yes, you are. God," She groans and throws her head back in frustration, "Every time I think you're doing something because you want to, there's always an ulterior motive behind it."

It was interesting to know that's what she thought about me. But I guess I can't blame her. Every time I want to explain why I do certain things for her, it comes out in some jumbled mess that starts an argument and makes me sound selfish.

But I guess that's what she wants to see in me so that's what I allow her to see. I don't want to tell her that, as independent as she is, she deserves a break from doing everything herself. That she deserves someone who will see to it that she doesn't touch another door handle, doesn't have to walk if she doesn't want to, doesn't have to carry anything. Someone who spoils her.

The conversation went on a pause since then and now we're seated in my car, both of our suitcases in my trunk and my hand itching to hold hers. I'm overwhelmed by her scent of shea butter but the heat blasting from the vents is enough to slightly mask it.

Cheeto is fast asleep in his mobile cat bed on my back seat and has been for the past three hours. He's been sleeping a lot more and eating a lot less recently. The thought of what that could mean plagues me but thinking is the best form of manifestation so I try my best not to think about it.

David Kushner's Miserable Man is quietly playing and I can tell Love is enjoying it. Well, she didn't immediately turn it off so that's progress.

I know I'm trying too hard to be liked by her but I feel like I owe her as much. But then again, I can only do so much and she can only return as much. Right now, I'm not feeling any reciprocity.

The silence is turning gears in my head and as I lean back in my seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on my lap, a point of conversation comes back to me.

"You always think I have an ulterior motive, huh?" She glances at me before averting her gaze to her lap. "And don't sugar coat it or be mean about it just to be mean about it. Be honest about it."

"I try not to think you have one." She says, "I think you are a nice person but I also think you care too much about what other people think so you allow that to guide your actions."

Interesting.

I guess she's not wrong. Dad is the only reason I'm pursuing law and not looking at anything else. But I don't listen to everyone, just people who are funding my entire life.

"And what actions are those?"

"Well, you punched Chris because you knew London would crucify you if you didn't defend me. You're doing weird, gentlemanly stuff because you know my mom would crucify you if you didn't."

"Okay, since you know so much, why did I bring you a hot chocolate?"

"Because you want me in your good graces."

"Why am I driving you home?"

"You're driving yourself home too. And you just wanted the company."

"Then who am I trying to appease, Love?"

"Yourself." Wrong. She shakes her head as if she's made a mistake speaking up, "You know what, forget what I said."

"Why would I?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

I spare her a glance, "Everything you say matters, Love. You might not always be right -" She hits my arm, "But your words always matter."

"Corny." She snorts. A dramatic gasp escapes me and her eyes widen as she looks at me. Her smile falls. "What?"

"Did Love Lewis just laugh?"

She rolls her eyes and relaxes back in her seat, "At you. Don't let it get to your head."

I adjust my grip on the steering wheel, "Yeah, yeah." I can feel her eyes burning into the side of my head but I'm too nervous to look at her. If I do, I might crash. I don't think she'd appreciate that. It's almost one in the morning and the feeling of starvation hits me like a punch in the gut. "You hungry?"

"Are you?"

"Are you?"

"That depends. Are you?"

"Love, do you want some food or not?"

She pauses, "Wendy's, please."

"Coming right up."