Page 84 of Only and Forever
“For what?” I whisper tearily.
He raises his eyebrows. “You just trusted me, Tallulah. With so much tough shit. That’s... wildly brave and vulnerable and...” He swallows roughly. “I don’t take it for granted, that you trusted me with all of that.”
I shrug. “Gotta start somewhere, I guess.”
He laughs softly. “Then you are one hell of an overachiever, for just getting started.”
His thumb skates over my knuckles. His eyes search mine. “Would it help if I did that, too?”
“Did what?”
“Trust you? Tell you about my tough shit?”
“What tough shit?” I pull my hand away, dabbing at my nose, which has started to drip.
Viggo pulls out a hankie from his pocket. I laugh tearily. Of course he’s got a hankie. It’s probably hand stitched.
I look closer as he hands it to me. Sure enough, it is embroidered with tall, spindly blue flowers, and in the corner, the initials,VFB.
“You are too much,” I mutter before blowing my nose.
Viggo scrunches one eye shut, bashful. Adorably bashful. “I went through an embroidery phase shortly after I left USC. Thought it was a very romantic idea, to have an initialed hankie I’d give someone if they needed it, if they cried in front of me.”
I stare at him, that word ringing in the air, frightening the living daylights out of me.
Romantic.
He peers down at his hands, clasped over mine still. “That’s what happens when you’re ateensybit emo and lonely and reading too much historical romance.”
A laugh jumps out of me. I sigh, staring at the handkerchief. “I think it’s sweet. Can I keep it? Or is... that too... intimate?”
Viggo’s gaze jumps up to mine, pale eyes pinning me in place.
“Because...” I exhale shakily. “If you wanted it to be... romantic, I couldn’t guarantee... I’m not sure what it would mean, if I kept it.”
I hope he hears what I’m saying without saying it, as much as I know I should be bolder, braver, tell him straight out,I want to try and give you everything you might want with me—ifyou want anything with me—but I have no idea what I know, what I can do, what I can be with someone else. I’ve never tried. I’ve never thought it was even possible.
Viggo squeezes my hand. “It can mean whatever you need it to, Tallulah. So long as you know it means I... care. So much.”
He does know what I’m saying. I’m relieved. Grateful. I want to be able to say more, but I’ve said so much that’s so hard already, and I don’t have anything left in me. Not today. Not yet.
“You’re sure?” I ask quietly. “You don’t mind it being... unclear? Undefined?”
He tips his head, his expression serious as he gazes at me. “I’ve started to realize, Tallulah, that life, people, connection, most of it is unclear and undefined. I love that romance novels break it down into these linear, straightforward steps. But... that’s not how life works, not how people or relationships work; not how you feel about someone, how healing and growing and taking risks, works.”
“You don’t think?” A tiny glimmer of hope sparks inside me, flickering delicately, so faint, it could snuff out at any moment.
He shakes his head. “Iwantedit to work that way. But life is meandering side trails, accidental shortcuts and detours, dead ends, turning back. It’s not just a path rolled out before you; I wanted it to be. And that’s because... I’ve struggled for a long time to find my path. To find my place. I’ve made friends and lost some, tried things that I thought would fill that ache inside me, make me feel better about myself. When I’ve come close to failing those things, I’ve turned around, taken new trails, found something else I was sure I’d be better at, that would finally make me feel like I was walking the path I was supposed to be on, make me feel good about myself, at peace with who I am and where I’m going.
“I haven’t wanted it all to be so... messy, for myself or the people I love. Life’s chaos makes me worry that the people I care about won’t be okay, makes me anxious and unsure of myself. And so I’ve clung to my happy stories, to this idea of a formula for my and others’ happiness—my own kind of ideological rigidity.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Your ‘own kind’? Are you implyingIhave an ideological rigidity?”
He shrugs, a grin brightening his face. “Just a bit.”
I slide my fingers into his and lock our hands tight. “I’m trying to be... flexible. I want to be. All that’s happened, the past few weeks, it’s made me realize I want to be open to change, to believing new things. A lot of work lies ahead for me to do that, but I want to grow. I really do.”
“I want to grow, too,” he says softly. His fingers graze my palm as he stares at me. “It’s not...justyou, but you do make me want to grow, Lula.”