I slipped a hand into her back pocket, steered her toward the island. "Let's get you fed. You'll want that for the next part."
"What's the next part?"
"It's a bloodthirsty debate of the Thanksgiving weekend college football rivalry games," I said, gesturing to the whiteboard propped up in front of the fireplace. "This started as a conversation over lunch a few years back. Which was the best rivalry game? Which teams looked strongest that year? It spiraled out of control. Now, we get together and yell about it over beer and pizza." I tucked some hair behind her ear. "The USC-UCLA rivalry is one of the most notorious."
"As it should be." She reached for a plate, a tart little grin on her face. "Seems we'll be at odds once again."
I spent a lot of time thinking about obscure things. Thinking about everything inside me and also everything outside me. In that endless volume of mental work, I'd never once put thought into what it meant to choose someone for myself. To pluck her out of the rush of people who buzzed past me every day and say, "I'd like to keep you."
And here I was, standing in Hartshorn's kitchen with an empty plate in my hand and that woman's smile calling up my own. I couldn't help it. I couldn't.
All I knew was that I loved her and I loved who I was when I was with her. It was a gift that I was allowed to choose her, to convince her to choose me, and one of these days, we'd cement that choice with some legal glue.
I didn't think I was languishing any more.