His raw honesty made my heart ache, just a little.
"I don't care if you say the wrong thing, as long as you say something."
He chuckled a little. "You say that now," he said. "But I know better."
"Did anybody ever tell you that you're too smart for your own good?"
"Every day of my life," he said, dryly, settling back down next to me. "You know, if I
could change any of this, if I could make it simpler - I would. If I could build a machine to go
back in time and have us meet some other way, I'd reprogram my brain so the right words
always come to mind without having to hesitate. But that's still beyond me. There are these
problems I can't solve with schematics and ones and zeroes. Or money. And I don't know. I
don't have the answers, and it drives me insane."
"But you try," I said, gently, hearing the frustration in his voice, and understanding it
completely. "Hell, it's not like I always say the right thing. Most of the time I don't. But we
try, you know, and that's what counts. As long as we're trying, that's all that matters." I
paused, hesitating over the words I was about to say, for some reason. But then I saw my
drawing out of the corner of my eye, and I remembered. I remembered the way he made me
feel, and I swallowed my hesitation. "I love you."
"I love you, too." His voice always had this soft, surprised tone to it, whenever he
replied to that. He looked up at me, and the tension melted. "What do you think about a picnic
tomorrow?" he asked, a smile tugging at his mouth. "It's supposed to be beautiful."
"That sounds nice." I stroked his hair. "A shower sounds nice, too."
"Doesn't it?" He stood up and extended his hand down to me, and I realized I could
actually use a little help. I still felt weak in the knees.
And when it came to him, I supposed I always would.