Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

job. Not because I need to but because I want to."
    "What will you do?" Sam asks near my ear.
    He doesn't tell me not to work, so I say, "Not sure yet. I could go back to the bar—" He tightens his grip on me. "Or I could get an office job or wait tables or sell clothes or a thousand other things. I like modeling, but I won't be able to do it forever."
    He sighs. "I know."
    "So maybe I go with you on your road trip, but then when we get back, I try to get a job. I try to do something new."
    "Yeah?"
    "Yeah. I've always wanted to see San Francisco, and a month without you will be unbearable."
    He doesn't really react at first. I worry maybe I've said the wrong thing. But then his lips are on my jaw, my neck, his teeth scrape against my earlobe, his hands are in my hair. Then we're kissing like we haven't kissed in a long time, mouths open, tongues tangled, sweet and slow and sensual. Against my lips, he murmurs, "I love you so much. Did you really think I was cheating on you?"
    "I… yeah, maybe, sort of. I didn't really believe it, but I was trying to figure out why things between us had gotten weird."
    "I just lost track of what was really important."
    "I love you, too, you know." And I'm reminded of that trip he took upstate when we were still in college, right after we said "I love you" for the first time, when we couldn't stop saying it, when every phone call was just, "I love you! It's awesome!"
    We still have that in us somewhere, still have the power to surprise and delight each other, still have all this love and hope and fear bottled up inside just waiting for the other to hold it or set it free.
    I'm glad it's not lost. I don't know what I would do without Sam.
    "Tyler wants me," Sam says.
    "Your costar?"
    "Uh, huh. He's been pursuing me, but I never did anything with him. I keep turning him down."
    I believe him. I also tell him the whole truth. "That guy Matt? I thought he was stalking you, but today he hit on me."
    Sam kisses me again. "We have to stay honest. We have to talk through our issues without making assumptions. And we have to come back to each other. Sometimes it's not easy to say no."
    "But sometimes it is."
    He smiles. "Yeah. You're still beautiful, you know that? My beautiful boy. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Designers, casting agents, none of them know shit."
    I shrug. "I don't care what they think as long as you think I'm beautiful."
    "I do. I know it. I will always come home to you."
    "I know." I kiss him. "I think you're beautiful, too. And smart and talented. And the best guy I know."
    He smiles. "Come to bed with me. I have to have you right now."
    "Yes." Because there is no other answer.
    ****
    SAM
    In this lighting, I can see the darker roots of his otherwise blond hair, and I can see the eyeliner and the manicured nails. But these are affectations. He's got my name tattooed on his hip, but that's just ink. These things are gorgeous, but they don't matter; they're a part of him but they're changeable—well, maybe not the tattoo—and they're not his essence. They are not the long lines of his nose, his arms, his chest, not his laugh, his brain, his heart, not all the parts that make up this man that I'm so deeply in love with.
    He's splayed on the bed, on his back, naked. I climb onto the mattress. I hover over him. I'm naked, too. He smiles and it's like a thousand smiles and yet like none because such a smile is so rare these days. But it's real and I love him and he loves me and everything is fine. I dip my head to kiss him and he puts his arms around my neck, holding me close, forcing my body to line up with his.
    How could I have ever overlooked this? When did sex become perfunctory, just this thing we did to get our needs met. My need for Jess is deeper. I need him close to me, I need him to love me, I need to love him, I need for us to be together.
    We kiss languidly, like we've got all the time in the world. And maybe we do.
    We make love with the rising moonlight bouncing off the walls of our bedroom—mingled as it is with the streetlights outside, with the sounds of backfiring motorcycles and car horns and people shouting, reminders of our urban existence—and he's everything and everywhere and so fucking beautiful it still hurts to look at him sometimes and it's perfect.
    Afterward, we lay together, sweaty and panting but happy and satisfied, our fingers and legs tangled.
    "We still have a future to look forward to," he says. "Life is always changing. We