You looked more radiant than ever, with black formal pants and your pale lilac sweater to match the tips of your hair. You pulled me back from the door and I looked at the porchlights echoing in your eyes, your smile small and faint as you played with my fingers.
“What?” I mirrored the smile right back.
“What if they don’t like me?” you whispered, and I could’ve laughed, because you genuinely thought it was possible for someone not to like you.
“They’ll like you because I like you.”
“I like you,” you whispered.
“Well, good then,” I said, and reached for my doorknob.
“No, no.” You pulled me back and buried yourself into my chest, and I laughed as I wrapped my arms around your neck.
“Babe, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m just worried!” you insisted. “I’ve been a ruiner of things before, and I don’t want to be a ruiner of us. I quite like us.”
“You’re not a ruiner of things,” I said defensively, thinking of the cuts that are now scars, gliding like silkworms up the curve of your hips.
“You’re sure they’re okay with…” You gestured your hand and I thought of the obvious.
“Yes. They’ve known for years.”
“Okay.” Your voice got small. “Do they know about…my scars?”
“No,” I said, and kissed the top of your head. “Do you want them to know?”
“Well, they don’t need to. That’s over now and it doesn’t define you.”
I laced my fingers through yours and you said, “You are a perfect human.”
I smirked. “That’s a lie.”
You finally let me open the door, and the smell of warm chicken and Caesar salad bounced off of my walls. I worried that my house might not be good enough for you; I still saw the ghosts of loose coupon books and sweaters strewn across the backs of chairs that I’d cleaned up this morning.
My mother hugged you, and you didn’t bat an eye. “So nice to meet you! Thank you so much for cooking dinner.”
“My pleasure, dear,” Mom said, and Dad swooped in behind to shake hands.
Mom mouthed to me ‘good one' over your shoulder.
I could’ve married you that night.