He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “Do you want someone to worship you?”
Even with my eyes shut, I know he’s watching me. I shake my head.
“Someone to put you on a pedestal?” he continues. “Someone to lie and tell you you’re the greatest? I’m sure there are hundreds of guys—girls, too—out there willing to say whatever it is you want to hear just to get into your pants. Is that what you want?”
I shake my head again. “I want you,” I breathe.
“Because that isn’t real love,” he says. “That’s infatuation. That’s obsession, idolatry. That isn’t real.”
“I know,” I say.
I do know. What we have together, what’s between us, that’s real. The way he makes me feel, the way he touches me.
Those are the only things I know for sure are real.
“No one will ever love you for who you are,” he says.
