Record scrattttchhhh. Wait a gosh darned minute. I resist a smile and put my elbow on the shared armrest, nudging his over a little. I line up our arms as best I can and then edge my hand over before taking Carrick's pinkie in mine, lacing them together—seventh grade-first date- at the movie theater style. His knuckles press into the soft part between mine.

  Simple fact #1: they fit together.

  Simple fact #2: I never want to let go.

  My heart knows this. We may have decided we're not defining this something else, but I'm pretty sure finger holding is allowed. He squeezes my pinkie and then doesn't let go.

  "Did you finish the book," he asks. "Is that what gave you the change of heart?"

  "I was really pissed that you basically wrote our story."

  "I know."

  "It hurt to see fragments and whole chunks of myself on the page like that."

  "I know."

  "I could have sued you."

  "I know."

  I laugh. "I wouldn't."

  "Thank goodness." He clears his throat.

  "It hurt so much I went home and cried for a few days."

  He flinches. "I'm sorry. I meant for you to read the book and see that there could be a happy ending. Instead of the end for us I wanted there to be possibilities and I didn't know how else to show you or tell you because I'm a big meat head."

  "I won't argue with you there, but I'll add that you're a really hot meat head. Jar head, whatever. Anyway, Katya read the book while I was gone and she made me look at it from a new perspective: a story of what could be, an actual love letter. She suggested I see how it plays out in real life."

  "I didn't mean to blur the line between fiction and reality quite so much."

  "But you did. That's what I'm getting to; I'm going to read the rest of the book, then you can tell me what happens next for Xavier and Olivia. And as for us, we'll write our own story."

  He scratches his thumbnail. "I've seen enough to know that real life doesn't always turn out for the best."

  "But it has the potential to."

  I take his entire hand in mine, our contrasts rarely more apparent.

  Big, little.

  Disciplined, a bit chaotic—or rather, neurotic.

  The beauty, the beast. Well, maybe we each inhabit both and we're not quite so opposite. Maybe we're big and little in different ways. I can be very disciplined about having very little self-restraint. And he's a beast, a sexy one, but also beautiful too. And perhaps he sees the same in me.

  But my original question pesters me. "I still wonder, after you write The End, what then?"

  "I did write a second book in the series," he answers. "It follows a different main character—she was a secondary character in the first novel, but you find out more about everyone's lives after the last page in the first book."

  I sigh. "Hearing you talk about novels is so damn hot."

  His lips quirk with amusement.

  I probe further as the flight crew prepares for takeoff.

  "We're talking fiction versus real life? Then I guess the characters live in me in a way. I don't truly know where they come from—bits and pieces from my experiences and people I know, but in order for them to be likeable, believable, and carry the story from start to finish, they have to be their own three-dimensional people. I guess what I'm saying is there isn't a clear answer. I think about the characters often, random ideas will pop into my mind almost like memories in reverse. I'll see Xavier and Olivia eating at a little restaurant with brick walls and linen tablecloths. Then I'll see it in real life. They're sharing this amazing pasta dish and falling more and more in love. I'm at a friend's house in Tuscany and my mind is blown by a plate of pappardelle."

  "It's strange to hear you of all people say the word love."

  "Why? I write love stories and I use it all the time: I love pizza. I love football. I love dogs. I love Italy. I love—"

  I stop him before he can say more. "Will you show me romantic Rome?"

  "Every piazza, bridge, museum, restaurant… We'll leave nothing unexplored. Every inch." He smooths a piece of my hair through his two first fingers. "Every inch, Navy."

  We both shift in our seats so we're face to face. He leans close, our eyes meet—blue still so clear and beautiful even though they've seen so much destruction and pain in the world. Yet he still creates love stories; he sees love everywhere.

  I watch his lips form the words, "What could be between us?" His voice is a whisper and he dips his nose to the side of mine and tilts his head slightly.

  I smile, envisioning us starting over, starting anew, and kissing like mad. "Remember you asked if I was going to give your book a chance? I'm going to give us a chance."

  He presses his lips to mine.

  The world falls away.

  Time stops.

  There is nothing but the ever holy now.

  Words, thoughts, questions disappear into the simplicity of mouths, tongues, saliva, and our beating hearts. This is what my father meant about mystery. There is no need to understand it; it just is, and it is beyond delightful, blissful, enjoyable, and pleasurable. It's something else.

  A kiss isn't just a kiss. It's more—the beginning, what's always been, the future.

  Carrick wraps his fingers around the back of my head, pulling me to him. I grip his shoulders, pressing my chest as close as the armrest will allow. Every inch of my skin responds to his touch. His thumb on my jaw between my chin and ear. The rest of his hand pressing into the side of my neck and the back of my head. His other arm wrapping around me, gripping my shoulder as we become part of each other. The pads of my fingers reach under his shirt, meeting warm skin, firm and muscled beneath my touch. I press down as though leaving a handprint, covering surface area, drawing him closer, mine, mine, mine.

  I shrug off my jacket, my breath heavy and my heart racing. His hands are everywhere as though trying to catalog my body and in turn, there's a burn, a spark, a surge of electricity across the surface of my skin. Energy builds between us, like the friction and heat created by two hands rubbing together.

  Someone clears their throat nearby. "Excuse me, we're starting our in-flight service, can I get you a beverage?"

  The flight attendant douses us with icy words. We sit there stunned, returning to planet earth or somewhere about twenty to thirty thousand feet off the ground.

  There's a little privacy screen and as Carrick closes it he says, "No thanks, we're good."

  At last, we are.

  We kiss some more and some more.

  When we part I say, "This isn't how I expected to spend Valentine's Day."

  "On a plane? With me?" he asks.

  "Check and check." And in love, my heart tells me. And maybe it's always been this way, like my dad said, if we've felt this way for each other since we were teenagers and suppressed it, ignored it, fought it, and denied it, now we're just making up for lost time. However, we have a few more bases to cover before we can mature enough to use the L word.

  Chapter 34

  Love Letters

  When the plane touches down in Rome, my mascara has given me crazy witch eyes. My hair is up to its usual unruly tricks, and although the food in first class was decent, by airplane meal standards, I hardly ate. My lips were too busy tasting what I missed for the last ten years.

  The drive to the hotel is a blur as we continue to make out in the cab. Without an armrest between us, I climb into his lap, straddling his legs, our kisses becoming more urgent. He grips my head in his hands drawing me close, closer, closest. The bulge in his pants presses against me and I want him now.

  I want him so bad.

  Our breathing is loud and rough and ragged like wild beasts. Poor cabbie.

  Carrick adjusts himself when we arrive outside the gilded and lit up entrance to the hotel.

  "Wait," I say, resting my hand on Carrick's arm. "Before we go inside—" I inhale deeply, breathing in romantic Rome, tour bus exhaust, the yeasty scent of fresh baked bread, the chill of winter, and the faint salt of the sea a few miles to the west.

  Golden haloes ring the streetlights like mini radiant suns. The sounds of honking, laughter, and a moody violin melody are clear, dreamy, and sonorous. I rush down the sidewalk to a small bridge, running my hand along the rough stone railing. I stop in the middle, turning in a circle at the enchantment around me. My heart leaps when I stop, my eyes landing on Carrick standing a few feet away.

  I rush over, once more, I kiss him, tasting romantic Rome on my romantic Marine's lips.

  Despite our level of dishevelment, the doorman greets us like royalty, gesturing us inside with a white-gloved hand.

  I link my arm in Carrick's. "Fancy," I whisper.

  He winks at me.

  After we check in, we familiarize ourselves with the wall of the elevator car: Carrick presses me against the mirrored glass, one arm caged over my head, the other exploring under my shirt. We kiss.

  We delay when the ding sounds for our floor and wind up several stories up, ignoring the other passengers in this impassioned moment as we return to our level. We kiss.

  The floral wallpaper in the hallway is an especially lovely backdrop as we continue to make out like two teenagers whose parents are out of town. I'll have to inform him of my making up for lost time theory. Our lips don't falter when a door slams down the hall. We don't break contact when footsteps patter by. We continue our slow progression toward room 244. We kiss.

  Carrick presses me against the door, fumbling for the card to slide into the lock. I koala hug him and we both crash to the floor when the door slams open. We inch our way across the carpet and to the bed, wherever that is. The room is dim, the only light sparking in Carrick's eyes as we pause and look at each other, each agreeing that yes, this is real, before lips and teeth and tongues crash into each other once more. We kiss.

  He hoists us both onto the bed. Shoes are kicked off. Coats drop to the floor. I'm balanced on my knees and nearly out of breath as I struggle to get his shirt over his head. There are unexpected buttons involved.

  Breathless I say, "I have a theory."

  He nods, nipping my lip.

  "We're making up for lost time."

  "If that's the case we're not leaving this room for a week. Two. Ten….Years."

  I stroke his bare, muscled arms, my attention on his lips. How our mouths pressing together work miracles and make me feel like I'm coming apart and coming together at the same time.

  He takes my shirt off, sliding my bra strap down over my shoulder and then the other before his hands are on my chest, cupping my breasts. "I did tell you I prefer organic, right?" he asks.

  I crash into him, skin to skin, nothing left between us except for his pants and my skirt.

  With one arm slung around my back, he hefts us both higher on the bed toward the pillows. I giggle. I can't believe this is happening. It's cotton and marshmallows, and I'm a happy ball of fluff floating on clouds. Except the sharp edge of something stabs me in the side.

  I reach underneath me and pull out an envelope.

  In curling script, I read my name printed on the front.

  Kneeling over me on the bed, Carrick rocks back on his heels. "I almost forgot." He wipes his brow. "I got carried away."

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Open it," he says, lowering down next to me and propping himself up on his elbow.

  I carefully tear the seam of the envelope and pull out a stiff piece of cardstock. I turn it over and read,

  Dear Navy,

  If you're reading this that means I'm just an arm's reach away, which means we're together in Rome.

  I want you to know, it's always been you. I'd tease you to hear you talk. I'd playfully wrestle with you so I could feel your touch. I'd take the drink out of your hand and take a sip so I could be closer to your lips. I'd sneak around, bothering you and my sister so I could be near you.

  I wish I hadn't waited so long. I wish I had then the words I have now. But there's no going back, only forward. I wish when I started writing the Love Letters book series that I wrote them to you instead of hiding behind Xavier and Olivia. I wish more than anything I hadn't waited so long. But here we are. We have now.

  However, there is pleasure in anticipation. I've spent countless nights envisioning this moment, us talking to each other like civilized human beings, our lips pressing together. But I venture to say there is even more pleasure in the action.

  It's always been you, but if things had been different, I wouldn't have had time to make mistakes, to realize what an asshole I was and become the man I am. I'm afraid it wouldn't have worked. You'd probably end up hating me anyway.

  Now we can do it. We get to experience all of the firsts:

  Flirting

  Kissing

  Traveling

  Exploring

  All of the -ings and we don't have to worry about what it'll be like if we get into an argument: we know we can make up. We don't have to worry about farting in front of each other (I know, gross) because you've heard me and my brothers do it plenty of times. We don't have to be afraid of hurting the other because we both did that and know well enough not to do it again.

  I've wanted nothing more than to start over. To meet you for the first time. To begin again. We can, sort of, but it's built on everything that came before which makes us stronger.

  There are so many what ifs, but you will always be my favorite.

  Want to see where this takes us?

  Look in the morning paper.

  XO,

  Carrick

  I'm quiet a moment letting the message settle over me. Then I ask, "In the morning paper?"

  "You made it to chapter seventeen, surely you remember Xavier left Olivia love letters."

  Realization dawns. I tap him on the arm with the thick card. "You wonderful, clever, amazing man."

  "Mmm. I like that. Keep going," he says, pulling me over to him. Our stomachs press together. He slides his hands under my skirt, gripping my backside.

  "I have to wait until morning for the next one?"

  His hips thrust forward, his bulge pressing into me. "Remember what I said about the pleasure of anticipation?"

  "All I heard you say was pleasure and I can't wait another second." I unbutton his jeans.

  He cages me in his arms and pushes me down onto my back before shimmying me out of my skirt. He smooths his hands down my bare thighs and kisses a trail from my belly button, between my breasts, to my chin, and then my lips.

  "I can't tell you how much I've anticipated this moment." He takes off his pants.

  "I can see that," I say with a smile.

  He settles over me and we kiss, covering every inch: ears, collarbones, necks, shoulders, the fold of the elbow, his tattoo and scar, abdomen—his is like a washboard—, he explores my breasts with hungry tenderness.

  Then at last, it happens. I am his and he is mine. We fit together perfectly until we unravel, coming apart at nearly the same moment.

  Memory comes back of that night on the beach, the two of us making love under the stars to the sound of the waves, to the sound of hello and goodbye, to the sound of us.

  I breathe, "Carrick."

  He rejoins, "Navy."

  "Why? Why did I wait so long for that? Why did I deny myself?"

  "I've never forgotten how you made me feel."

  "Then why did we fight it?"

  "Let's make up for lost time," he says, pulling me to him once again.

  We explore new and familiar terrain, hills and valleys, mountains and rivers of pleasure not yet tapped.

  When we lay together, his arm wrapped around me in a promise, I trace the letters of another tattoo. This one hidden on the inside of his upper arm. "Semper fidelis. What does that mean?" I ask, knowing it's a Marine slogan.

  His summer blue eyes are soft and I smile at the sight of his luscious lips and the evidence of many hours of exercise. He's delicious. "Always faithful. That's what I promise you, Navy, from here forward. I will always be faithful to you and to us."

  I kiss him gently on the lips, sealing the promise.

  "Katya said this whole thing started as a game of truth or dare. I dare you to tell me the truth."

  "No, this whole thing started years and years ago between two crazy kids. But if you want to know the truth, it's that I love you, Carrick."

  We snuggle closer, skin to skin, heart to heart.

  He kisses me gently on the lips and says, "I love you, Navy. Always have. Always will."

  Acknowledgements

  I offer the warmest thank you to my friends and family. Although I may write the actual words, a book isn't written alone. Without their support, these pages wouldn't exist.

  Hugs to Cheyanne Young for being the very best running buddy in this mad writing and publishing marathon. I say it all the time, but you are the BEST. The best listener, the best collaborator, the best designer, the best puzzle-doer. The BEST! And hugs to Jessica Serra Huizenga for being my confetti and sugar-free sister. The cover tho! If anyone is wondering where to get custom confetti, scented confetti, ALL the confetti, check out The Confetti Bar. It'll make you so happy.

  Kisses to the red gorilla and our chongitas.

  Thank YOU to all you unicorns who double as readers for adding a little magic to Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told by partings its pages.

  About the Author

  Deirdre Riordan Hall is the author of young adult fiction, including the Amazon bestsellers Sugar and Pearl along with the new adult Follow your Bliss series. When she's not writing, she's probably surfing or in pursuit of magic. She also has a healthy case of wanderlust, loves chips and salsa, and dreams about learning to speak at least three languages.

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