“I like being a couch potato,” I told Matt.
It was a Saturday, a year earlier, February of high school year. Outside it was freezing – it hurt to breathe. We were in his basement, on his brown suede sofa, under a blanket. I was cuddled in the nook of his arm. His fleece sweater was soft against my cheek. Matt and I hadn’t moved in two hours.
He played with a strand of my hair. “Let’s stay here forever.”
“We may have to eat eventually,” I said.
“We’ll get takeaway.”
“We’d have to answer the door.” I made walking motions with my fingers.
“My parents will answer it and bring the food to us.”
“What about school?” I asked, closing my eyes.
“We’ll home-school.”
“My dad might wonder where I am.”
“Tell him we ran off and got married.”
I laughed. “He likes you, but not that much.”
He pulled me tight. “Could you imagine?”
My heart stopped. I opened my eyes. “Running off and getting married?”
“Yeah.” He turned to face me. “I could spend every day with you. Right here. On the sofa.”
My whole body felt warm. Safe. Loved. I traced my finger from his nose to his chin. “I love you,” I said. Part of me could do it. Run off and get married. But another part…another part of me wondered if I could really trust anyone. If anyone could really trust anyone. If all relationships were doomed.
I couldn’t say this to Matt though.
“But…there is the small fact that we’re fifteen,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“So?” His eyes lit up. “I love you too. That’s why we should do it. It would be fun! And exciting!”
“And illegal. I think you have to be eighteen to get married.” I lifted my hands above me to stretch. “We’d also have to get off the sofa.”
He pressed his hand flat against mine. “I bet we could get a rabbi to come here.”
“I’m not sure I could get married in yoga trousers. Maybe if they were white instead of black.”
“Fair enough.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I really would do it, you know.”
I snuggled into the softness of his fleece. “So would I,” I murmured, not wanting to let go.
