The first time you told me you loved me, you warned me. You were drunk as all Hell, throwing up on the front porch, and I was at the 24-hour CVS picking up band-aids for your bloody thumb when you called me. You told me that tonight you were going to tell me a lot of things. They were all good things and I’d like them a lot but I’d have to ignore it. When I got back to your house, we went up to your room and you got the spins and threw up out the window and then sat with your back against the bed, begging me not to hate you. “I never would,” I laughed. You said, “I know I told you to ignore me, but only ignore it half way because it’s all true.” You told me some things you loved about me and then, “I love - nevermind.” But I wanted to know and you admitted you were going to tell me you loved me, but I told you you didn’t. “You’re right it’s too soon.” And it was, but I was glad you said it.
The second time you told me you loved me, I think we must’ve been high because I don’t remember why but we were laughing uncontrollably in your bed. I was watching you (you know how I love watching you do anything), and I admired the way your eyes crinkled and the creases your dimples made in your beard and the little gap in your toothy smile and thought how beautiful you looked, but I didn’t say anything. Still laughing and with such confidence you said, “I love you so much,” and I stopped laughing but still smiled just the same. You told me you were sorry and I told you not to be. You asked why, but I didn’t say anything. You said you were sorry, but you never took it back.
The third time you told me you loved me was early on a Saturday. My hair was still wet from the shower that morning and your skin still smelled sweet. You had been telling me all morning, “I think it’s more than ‘like’,” and still, all I could do was smile. You sat on the edge of the bed while I gave you a massage and when I put my ear next to your cheek you whispered, “I might love you.” I might, I might, I might.
The first time I told you I loved you, I whispered it to myself while you were asleep. Just to see how it would sound out loud. I loved the way it sounded and I might have loved you too.
The first time we told each other we loved one another was this morning. We got into our first fight last night, with me crying and yelling about the dark of my past, and I was drunk but I think I went to sleep feeling safe again, drowning out the sound of old demons with the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat. This morning, you pulled me in close and planted a trail of kisses up my spine, to my shoulder, to my neck. I turned, smiling sleepily, and with wide eyes and your pupils dilating, you said, “I love you.” Just like that. Almost in a matter-of-fact way, like we’d already known it for a thousand years. In that moment, hearing you say those words felt like unexpectedly hearing my name being called in a raffle with a million people. It felt like the best part of your favorite song you always wait to sing along to or adventitiously finding something you’d lost years ago. It felt like one of those perfect dreams where you wake up happy and even though you know it wasn’t real, you bask in the fantasy for a while. But this wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t a fantasy and the truth was on your tongue and the proof was in your eyes and I admitted it; I love you too.
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