No shit, Sherlock,I nearly say.The question is, what?
But that question is answered when he turns the page toward me, revealing the final version of the equation.
“iis less than 3u?” I say, and it’s only when the words slip out of my mouth that I realize what it’s really saying. When positioned next to each other, the less-than symbol and the three resemble a heart. It isn’t just math. It’s a message.
I love you.
My pulse trips. Blondie loves me. Shelovesme. And she’s telling me the way she knows how to convey it best, in a way that’s comfortable and safe for her.
With numbers. With something she easily understands.
My breath catches as I jump up from the chair. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”
I hear a flustered, “No problem,” as I give the guy an appreciative slap on the shoulder, then I’m pocketing the paper and pencil, and sprinting for the exit, off to find my girl.
And finally tell her I love her, too.
Curious stares follow me as I race across campus, my ears only catching bits of the confused mutterings that accompany them, but I don’t pay attention to any of it. My focus is singular.
Blondie will be out of class by now, and though we usually meet for coffee at Izzy’s, we didn’t make plans for today, and seeing as she spent the night with me, it’s likely she’s heading home now to get changed and to check on her mom. I hope she is at least, since that’s where my feet carry me as I put Conwick’scampus behind me, and bolt through Newport’s streets like a man possessed.
Blondie’s neighborhood is only a few blocks away, and when I veer onto her road, relief and elation nearly bowl me over when I spot her walking on the sidewalk toward her house. Easing my pace to avoid alerting her to my presence just yet, I pull the paper and the pencil I swiped out of my pocket.
I only speed up again when she’s about to turn onto the short path leading up to her porch, breaking into a jog.
“Dornan!”
Her steps falter at the sound of my voice, and her gaze whips over her shoulder, those green eyes piercing beneath furrowed brows, which pop up when she spots me, reaching for her hairline with bewildered surprise. She turns to face me fully, her mouth puckering with probably several unasked questions as she takes me in.
“What are you—Did you run all the way here?” she asks, no doubt noting the slight bead of perspiration dotting my forehead. I’ve suddenly never been more grateful that I make it a point to keep fit, and actually have the stamina to run for a couple of blocks without breaking much of a sweat. Otherwise, I would be a disgusting mess right now, and what kind of aesthetic would that set for this moment?
I slow to a stop a few feet away from where she stands watching me, and hold up the folded piece of paper. “I solved it.”
Her eyes widen, fixing on my upraised hand.
A torturous silence stretches between us, and the only movement I notice her make is the subtle shift of her delicate throat when she swallows.
“And here I thought you couldn’t do math,” she rasps, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shrug. “I got a bit of help.” Drawing in a steadying breath, I take a step forward and extend my hand.
Her cheeks—which have turned a striking pink—twitch with an aborted smile as she hesitantly reaches out to take the paper from me. It doesn’t escape my notice that her fingers are trembling.
“So…is it right?” I hedge as she unfolds the note.
Blondie swallows again, more loudly this time, when her eyes lock on the simplified equation. She lifts a shaking hand to her glasses, and my stomach sinks a little when I recognize her telltale sign of anxiety. I didn’t get the answer wrong—the ridiculously gorgeous stain of red spreading across her face makes me damn sure of that—which can only mean she’s worried about my reaction. Perhaps she thinks it’s too soon, that we’re moving too quickly, and regrets telling me how she feels. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t solve it for another decade or two. Or more likely—given what she said to me at Grape Expectations that night she got drunk all those weeks ago—she’s worried that I won’t reciprocate. Not yet, at least.
I nearly laugh at the thought. How could Inotlove her? This brilliant, stubborn, fierce but soft-hearted, unapologetically blunt, beautifully chaotic gem of a woman who matches my weird and makes my world make sense just by simply existing in it. Even if I went back to the start of senior year without any memory of the last five months, I would fall in love with her all over again.
Because we’re inevitable. She is the exception to every rule I ever set for myself, the balm to my grief, the life-saving breath to my drowning lungs. And she has converted me, not only to love—to the raw vulnerability it takes to really let another person in—but away from my longstanding loyalty to Team Jacob, which is saying something. Because Blondie is the Bella to my Edward.
And we’re not just inevitable, we’re eternal.
“Turn it over.”
When Blondie peers up at me, I jerk my chin toward the note clutched in her hand, and as she slowly shifts the paper in her grip, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the message I wrote on the back when I first turned onto her street.
A confession of my own, unspoken but from the heart. Just like hers.
