There were no photographers, violinists or hidden family members.
We were eating grilled cheese in the kitchen of my apartment because a storm had closed half the city.
Water was dripping into a bowl near the window when he placed a ring beside my chipped coffee mug.
“I know what people will say,” he told me. “They’ll say you want my money. They’ll say I’m lonely, foolish or afraid of dying alone.”
“Are you?”
“Probably all three.”
I laughed.
He did not.
“I’m not asking you to rescue me from loneliness,” he continued. “I’m asking whether we can stop rescuing ourselves alone.”
I looked around the apartment.
At the peeling paint.
At the unpaid bills.
At the life I was exhausted from defending.
I cared about Harrison, but I did not yet know whether what I felt was love.
I knew I felt safe with him.
