Idly, amused little smile sidling across her lips before she looks away, out the windshield, absently tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.
It feels good. Like it always does, being with Steve. He gets her, they get each other. Never wanting more than what they've got, but living it up for those few days or nights or hours, with plans continually getting pushed aside for the way her leg curls over his hip, for the weight and warmth of him and the laughter that gets carried up into his bed or hers.
'Friends with benefits' doesn't cut it, which brings her back to that question, the one that stopped her dead to rights, staring at Doris McGarrett with disbelief and teenage, coltish awkwardness written all over her suddenly too-clumsy mouth and body. Does she love him?
How is it even a question? Of course she loves Steve. She loves Steve like she loves her uniform, her duties, her days off. She loves him like she loves the sight of a long, sweeping stretch of sea, like the rush of surfing and the crest of a wave. It's like breathing. Infatuation burned out years ago into this: comfortable. Like wearing an old flannel shirt on a cool evening. He's Steve. How else is she supposed to feel about him?
Even if she knows that isn't really what was asked, or what made her so uncomfortable. It's the same feeling she gets when her mom asks about Steve, asks why Cath hasn't brought him over, asks why there isn't more of a commitment. It just -- isn't needed. Or wanted. Right? It's what they've fallen into, what they are. Boyfriend too specific, friend too general. Nothing that really covers the way he makes her smile, how her heart lightens like a helium-filled balloon when that goofy picture of him pops up on her phone.
But it's good. What they have. And she loves it, and loves him, too. Just, in her own way. Which, she has to say, she doesn't think is any less than what was implied. Just, not the same.
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Idly, amused little smile sidling across her lips before she looks away, out the windshield, absently tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.
It feels good. Like it always does, being with Steve. He gets her, they get each other. Never wanting more than what they've got, but living it up for those few days or nights or hours, with plans continually getting pushed aside for the way her leg curls over his hip, for the weight and warmth of him and the laughter that gets carried up into his bed or hers.
'Friends with benefits' doesn't cut it, which brings her back to that question, the one that stopped her dead to rights, staring at Doris McGarrett with disbelief and teenage, coltish awkwardness written all over her suddenly too-clumsy mouth and body. Does she love him?
How is it even a question? Of course she loves Steve. She loves Steve like she loves her uniform, her duties, her days off. She loves him like she loves the sight of a long, sweeping stretch of sea, like the rush of surfing and the crest of a wave. It's like breathing. Infatuation burned out years ago into this: comfortable. Like wearing an old flannel shirt on a cool evening. He's Steve. How else is she supposed to feel about him?
Even if she knows that isn't really what was asked, or what made her so uncomfortable. It's the same feeling she gets when her mom asks about Steve, asks why Cath hasn't brought him over, asks why there isn't more of a commitment. It just -- isn't needed. Or wanted. Right? It's what they've fallen into, what they are. Boyfriend too specific, friend too general. Nothing that really covers the way he makes her smile, how her heart lightens like a helium-filled balloon when that goofy picture of him pops up on her phone.
But it's good. What they have. And she loves it, and loves him, too. Just, in her own way. Which, she has to say, she doesn't think is any less than what was implied. Just, not the same.