Finding Love in Winter Nostalgia

Chapter Seventeen

A weekend of no poignant wake-up calls from this dream I'm living.

Our Saturday went according to plan. Our Sunday has been slow. We've spent the entire day idly in bed. Kairo went to the door twice to pick up the takeouts we had ordered earlier, but that was it. We've been making out and talking about our interests—mostly him going on about politics, and I debating with him on certain points.

Rookie mistake. The boy knows his International Law and Theory guide from front to back.

I love seeing his face light up as he tells me of his days in the Commonwealth Youth, being president of the student representative council, and leading his rugby team.

I don't have much of a passion for anything apart from cooking. There isn't much of a story behind that either. I watched Chopped as a child, and one day decided to follow a recipe on the internet. I only got into Karate to learn the skills, MMA to channel my anger, and I haven't done sports since high school.

It is currently dusk. We have school tomorrow, and not once did we open our books this weekend. My phone is still disconnected, so no one has been able to contact me since Friday.

"Would you like to do song-deds to top off the weekend?" I ask, caressing his cheek.

He beams at me and nods his head enthusiastically. "Although, I doubt anything will ever top the Hershey's Kisses playlist."

"Oh, come on."

"No, I'm serious, babe. I'll carry Victoria Monét in my heart forever."

I kiss him. "I'm glad you love it so much."

We listened to the playlist at least three times yesterday.

"I do."

He grabs his phone from the bedside pedestal and turns back to face me, throwing his leg over mine.

He certainly downplayed the severity of his love for physical contact. He never lets me go when I'm around him—no matter what he's doing. It makes me feel wanted and safe—something I didn't know I needed. I'm grateful for this quality.

"Would you like to go first?" he asks.

"Sure. Play Brown Eyes by Destiny's Child."

"Interesting." He seems sceptical. "And you're dedicating a song about brown eyes to me?"

Am I colourblind, or is he?

"Yes. Do you know the song?"

"No—no. I don't know much of Beyoncé before Lemonade."

I sit up, leaning my back against the headboard, and look down at him. "This is Destiny's Child, not just Beyoncé. But what's the matter with dedicating a song about brown eyes to you, babe?"

"Nothing, I guess. It's just . . . you seriously like my eyes?"

"I compliment your eyes, like, every other day if not every day. I love your eyes. Why does it seem as though you find that hard to believe?"

"I don't know. Not one person had ever complimented my eyes before you, so it always feels like the compliments come from a place of pity because people only ever mention yours."

What the fuck?

I've complimented his eyes aloud at least a dozen times. I can't believe this is what was going through his head the entire time. It all makes sense now. The doubtful looks I receive from him every time I happen to mention his eyes stem from this belief.

"Why would I ever do that?" I furrow my brow. "Did you grow up in an environment which made you believe your eyes are unattractive or something?"

"Don't get me wrong—I don't hate them. I just don't particularly believe they're so great that they deserve the adulation you give them." He shrugs his shoulders. "What do you like about them specifically? The shape?"