When Ivy realized I had heard her confession, she tried to pull her hand away.
“Forget what I said. I’m exhausted.”
I refused to release her.
“I love you too. I just never believed you felt the same way.”
Ivy stared at me before laughing and crying at once. For eighteen months, we had hidden our feelings behind sarcastic jokes and arguments about advertising campaigns.
“Do all your romantic declarations require emergency surgery?” she asked.
“Only when I need your attention.”
She leaned forward and kissed me gently.
When my sister arrived the next morning, she found us asleep with our hands still intertwined.
After I recovered, Ivy and I had our first official date beside the broken coffee machine where we had originally met.
Sometimes love does not arrive suddenly. Sometimes it waits patiently for two frightened people to stop pretending it is not already there.
