I drove another block after the light changed, then pulled into an empty parking space beside a closed bookstore. Maya looked around and asked what I was doing, and I told her I was giving the question the respect it deserved. I took her hand, feeling the familiar warmth of her fingers settle against mine. “No,” I said, “you’re not just my friend.”
“You’re my best friend,” I continued, and her smile softened. I told her she was also my girlfriend, the person I wanted to tell things to first, and the reason my apartment felt wrong when Sunday breakfast didn’t happen. She laughed when I added that she was the only woman I knew who could turn a lemon tree into a character witness. I let the laughter pass, squeezed her hand, and finally said the thing that had been true through every version of our story: “I’m in love with you.”
