He’s so solid beside me, so vital. The idea of moving out of the circle of his arms is almost as appealing as cutting off an arm or leg.

What happens when emotion is too big, when it fills the chest and the veins and the limbs? I imagine sunshine filling me until I shatter—leaving starburst-coated girl shrapnel strewn across this bed.

I close my eyes, mentally drawing the way the sun slants across our bare legs instead. I count to ten, and then twenty, focusing on pulling air into my lungs. It will never be what it was before. Oliver and I are forever changed. Something clicks inside me, something permanent and concrete, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying. . . .

I’m wildly, deeply in love.

He lifts his head from where it was buried between my neck and shoulder, kisses me, and whispers, “Good morning, Lola Love.”

I pull the sheet up over my mouth. “Morning.”

He kisses me again through the sheet. “I love you still.” He pulls the sheet away, kissing my chin, and watches me as his smile straightens a little but doesn’t leave his eyes. “Whatever else you’re thinking . . . that’s not changed with the sunup. I loved you before last night. I’ll love you tomorrow. I’ve just said the words now.”

I saw my teeth across my lip, feeling the sunshine fill my chest and bleed up into my eyes.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you long before last night,” he says, playful smile back in place as he climbs over me, spreading my thighs with his knee. “And now that I’ve had you, I want it even more.”

This is a sentiment I can easily reciprocate: “Let’s fuck for the rest of the day.”

His laugh is a happy, warm sound. “Week.”

“Month.”

“Year.”

He’s said it. It’s longer than I’ve ever been with anyone else, so easily assumed. We stare at each other, neither of us saying it. It’s too soon, even with all of the declarations rising like smoke in the air. But the longer Oliver looks at me, the more I know he’s thinking it.

Life.

“All right then,” he murmurs.

I answer against his mouth: “All right then.”

Chapter

TEN

Oliver

A  N ALARM ON Lola’s phone goes off halfway through her first cup of coffee. I tried to keep her in bed for the agreed-upon duration, which I considered an ironclad contract, but eventually we both needed a bathroom, caffeine, and food.

“Oh, shit,” she says, reaching for it and opening the calendar app.

We’re sitting side by side at my dining room table. I’m in jeans; she’s in nothing but the shirt I wore yesterday. It’s long, but not so long that I can’t see all of her, especially with one of her legs on the ground, our ankles pressed together, and her other leg in my lap. Caffeine is slowly bringing my brain to life and I still feel warm and slow, like well-worked clay. I really don’t want her to have to leave quite yet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I have this thing I’m supposed to do at eleven.” She frowns, and I look up at the clock. It’s nearly ten.

“ ‘Thing’?”

“It’s a chat with the UCSD Arts publication.” Steam rises up from her mug and twists in the space between us, dissolving in a beam of sun overhead. “Shit. I completely spaced it,” she says, and then more to herself, “I never forget this stuff.”

I set down my cup and lean forward, taking her free hand in mine. “Can you do it from here? The Wi-Fi can be a bit spotty, but my laptop’s in my room. You’re welcome to it.”

She’s already shaking her head. “It’s a video chat,” she explains, pointing to her hair. Lola’s hair is naturally smooth and straight. Right now it looks like it might house a family of small birds.

Laughing, I lean forward, kissing her nose. “I have to get to the shop this morning to check on Joe, anyway. Maybe we can meet up for a late lunch?”

Reading my expression, Lola pushes closer, tilting her head to my mouth, speaking between each kiss: “I’m not sure how long I’ll be.” She pulls back, rubbing her thumb over my stubble. “I have to shower and then I have a call with Benny after—but I’ll text you when I’m done?”

“Yeah. Text me.” My words are tight, and I lean back in, kisses growing more desperate. “Stay here again tonight. I need . . .”

I need to drink, and drink, and drink of her. I’ll never get my fill.

A rush of breath escapes her lungs and she pushes off her chair and onto my lap, whispering against my mouth. “I don’t want to leave,” she says, and her hand slides over my bare chest. “Let’s go back to bed.”

My jeans have slipped so they’re barely hanging on, and all I can think of is how easy it would be to push them the rest of the way down, lift my shirt up, and make her come, right here on my kitchen table.

She grinds into me, sliding wet across my button fly.

“Get up on the table,” I say into her open mouth. “Let me kiss that little cunt.”

She pulls back, blushing. Her lip is trapped between her teeth. “I like the way you say that word.”

“I can tell. It makes you get all squirmy and bashful. . . .” I lick her mouth, saying, “Not entirely sure yet—need to do a few more studies—but I believe there’s a direct correlation between me saying it and how fast I can make you come.”

I notice she hasn’t, in fact, climbed up on the table. Slipping my fingers under the shirt, I rub my hands over the warm, soft skin of her waist.

“I know you’re sore,” I tell her. “I’ll be sweet, I promise.”

Her phone goes off again and we both grow still.

“Alas: real life invades,” I murmur.

Lola pouts. “I really hate interviews.”

“And here you are, getting better at them every day.” I help her up, standing after her and holding her face, kissing her once. “Just let me know when you’re done.”

I go for a long ride after Lola leaves, taking the road that leads down to the beach and biking the trail as long as I possibly can. Although we slept in tiny bursts broken by two more rounds of frenzied, wordless fucking, I’m full of an energy that feels nearly limitless. I go from Pacific Beach to Carlsbad, legs pumping, heart propelling blood in enormous, victorious spasms.

I hurt when my mum left. I was angry and sullen, and upset with the world for a long time. I hated my dad for leaving me. I couldn’t imagine that I would ever experience true contentment or joy, but now I have both. The store is situated. My home is mostly paid for. The love of my life slept in my arms last night—in my bed, where I hope she will stay forever. I want for nothing.

THE BELL RINGS over the door to the shop as I step inside, and a strange calm settles over me. It’s barely half-past eleven and the aisles are pretty packed for a nonrelease day, people spilling off the couch in the front reading nook and crowded around the pinball machine near the back. Joe is at the register, a line of customers behind him.

He nods in my direction but everything from last night is too fresh, and I’m not sure I’m ready to put my game face on, especially with Joe. For all his flaky mannerisms, I’m often surprised by how acutely he pays attention.

I return Joe’s nod and round the counter, stepping into the back office and hanging my jacket on the hook. Only now that I’m here does it occur to me that I’m not clear what the rules are. If I’m reading things correctly, Lola and I are together—I’m just not sure who else is supposed to know that. Lola isn’t guarded in a stereotypical way; she shares things, but she does so in inches rather than miles, and not always immediately. It’s entirely possible she’ll wait to tell Harlow about this until whenever she happens to see her next. Lola isn’t exactly a close-the-door-behind-him-and-call-the-girlfriend-to-dish kind of woman.

Which puts me in a weird spot: If I tell Finn, and he tells Harlow, and Harlow hears it from Finn before she hears it from Lola, Lola will be in trouble and I may be, too. If I tell Ansel, and he mentions it to Mia, which he definitely will, there is no way Mia won’t call Harlow immediately.