Blue sweatshirt

2008

The bell blares through the speakers tucked inside the white ceiling panels of the classroom, kicking off a series of noisy shuffling. 

Students tucking their papers into textbook pages. 

Then tucking those textbooks into backpacks. 

Then sliding their metal chairs back from their metal desks in a crashing wave of screeches. 

I’m one of them, following the same practiced dance until I’m stepping into the hallway, to the right, and then around a bend on autopilot. 

“I swear to god, if Mark tries to debate me again about the obvious sexism in the art world throughout history that has led to the overall lack of female representation in museums and the classroom, I’m going to paint something just to smash the canvas over his head.”

I smile and shoot my best friend a look from the corner of my eye when she joins me in the hall. “Still having a blast in Art History, I see?”

Bess blows out a breath and rolls her eyes, her stride lengthening unconsciously, like she’s trying to put distance between herself and the last period. “It would be wonderful, if pompous know-it-alls who are only taking it to round out their college applications weren’t allowed in.”

I sniff a laugh and take two steps to her one to keep up. “Now who’s being sexist?” 

Bess chuckles darkly, finally slowing down until she’s almost stopped, her body angled toward mine so she can meet my gaze for the first time. “I never said men.” She arches a dark brown eyebrow at me. “Now who’s the sexist?”

“Touche,” I shoot back, slowing to a stop to join her a few feet from our next class: Bio. 

And then I see him, over her shoulder. 

Technically, I see his bright blue sweatshirt first. It’s like his calling card, the only one of its kind in the entire school. 

The brilliant blue cut through with mismatching slashes of black and white. Baggy by design, made from a thick cotton-blend material that looks soft to the touch.

I long to touch it. To wear it.

The rest of him comes into view a second later. A mop of brown hair, gentle waves curling over the tops of his ears and falling into his green eyes. 

He’s tall, so even from several yards down the hall he already towers over the top of Bess’s head from my vantage point. 

I let go of a sigh and Bess shoots me a puzzled look. Then she cranes her neck over her shoulder and lets out a sigh of her own, only hers sounds tired. “Not this guy again.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes and I shoulder past her slowly under the guise of getting to class before the bell chimes again, but secretly I’m just eager to get a little bit closer. He’s stopped at a locker a few feet past our Biology classroom, his attention focused on its combination, so I can take him in unnoticed. 

His hair moves, his shoulders shaking from laughter at something one of his friends just said. I smile too, in on the joke, but not really. 

James Graham. 

“Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Bess asks from beside me. We finally enter the classroom, me a few steps behind her with my neck bent so I can sneak one last glance before a wall goes up between James and I. 

A wall. 

That’s what it feels like—something solid and impenetrable stopping me from reaching him. 

“And say what?” I ask Bess when James is finally out of view and my brain can think about something else. “Hi, I have a huge crush on you so we should date?”

“Obviously not that,” Bess sputters, taking her seat beside me in the second row of lab tables. “You guys are both in band, maybe something about that.”

I open my mouth to retort, but Mr. Turner claps his hands together at the front of the room right as the bell announces fourth period is officially in session, and my words die on my lips. 

Later that night, I sit at my family’s desktop computer in the den, the bright white and blue MySpace home screen lighting my face. Instead of my personal page, I’m signed into the second, anonymous one I created, dedicated to music. 

I made it a few months ago, to connect with people from around the world who love the same artists and bands and genres I do, so we can share our favorite songs and find new music. Despite the fact that my profile pic is a cartoonish avatar I found online that looks absolutely nothing like me, my friends list has grown like a weed to eclipse four hundred. 

Why not use my personal account?

Because I like music, not getting murdered. 

Not that I necessarily think any of these people would hunt me down from their homes in New Mexico, or California, or Michigan, or even my home state of Pennsylvania. 

But best not to take chances, right?

I click on the notifications pane of the home screen and start to plug away at my new friend requests. 

Accept. 

Accept. 

Accept. 

My finger hovers over the mouse and my jaw falls open. It can’t be. 

Even in thumbnail size, I can see the sparkle of those green eyes, one of them completely hidden behind a disheveled, wavy brown lock of hair. The half smile, like he just remembered an inside joke, is unmistakable. 

And even if either of those things weren’t true, the name would be a dead giveaway. It’s his personal page. James Graham. 

And he wants to be friends with me. 

Not you, a voice in my head chides. With Marlowe Clarke. My avatar. 

Still, my hand trembles and my breath quickens as I debate my next move. There’s a fear, deep down inside me, that somehow he’ll be able to figure out my identity if I take this plunge. 

Bess would tell me I’m crazy. 

Just do it already! Besides, if he figures it out, is that really such a bad thing?

Maybe the Bess in my head is right. 

I draw my lower lip into my mouth and look at the friend request for one more moment, and then I click Accept. 

My breathing stops a beat later, my body still and solid as a tree in a forest with no wind, eyes focused on the screen.

Seconds pass, then a minute. Nothing happens. 

I’m not sure what I expected to happen in the first place. I exhale audibly through my nose and shrug to myself, then move on with my notifications. With all my friend requests accounted for, it’s time to answer the comments. 

Then the direct messages. 

Most of them are links to songs I simply must check out on iTunes, and the occasional Limewire link. 

I respond to each in kind, making promises to listen and even sending back my own recommendations. 

If you like New Found Glory and A Day to Remember, you should check out Hit the Lights. 

I’ve forgotten all about James and his friend request by the time I’m done. Until a new direct message pops up. 

I freeze when I see who it’s from. 

I humbly request you check out “In Defense of Dorchester” by Street Dogs, it reads. Very street-punk. I think you’ll like it. 

My mouth dries and I force myself to swallow. 

What would Marlowe do?

I minimize my browser window and drag my mouse cursor down to the Limewire icon on my desktop, double-clicking to open it. Seconds later, I’ve typed the song title and artist into the search bar and hit enter on my keyboard. I’m met by nearly a dozen results uploaded by different users, so I select the first one and hit play. 

It’s loud right off the bat, all slamming guitar chords and heavy drum beats, and I scramble for the dial on my computer speakers, turning them down a hair before the sound can travel down the hall to my mom’s perked ears in the living room. 

My toe involuntarily taps beneath my black desk, my gaze drifting off into the middle distance while I listen to the song. 

It reminds me a little of Bloc Party’s heavier stuff, but with a more old-school punk rock feel. Way more societal angst by far.

But James was right, I do like it. 

I listen to the song three more times, biting down on my smile.

Before I can think twice about it, my hand is dragging up my browser again and reopening his message. And then my fingers are flying across the keyboard of their own free will. 

It’s passable, is all I type, stabbing the Enter key before I can stop myself. 

Seconds later, a new message chimes in. Passable?! Ouch, coming right for the jugular.

I twist my mouth to one side, exhaling a laugh. 

Okay, fine. It was pretty good.

I’ll take pretty good. Now it’s your turn.

My turn?

Hit me with a recommendation.

My heart squeezes and skips a beat in my chest, eyes widening at the computer screen. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I try to skim through my entire mental catalog of music. 

But just like every time someone asks me my favorite song or my favorite book or my favorite movie, my mind is a blank Microsoft Word page, little cursor mocking me with each blink. 

My entire page is full of recommendations, I hedge. 

I’ve seen all those, I want something new. Something you haven’t shared with everyone else.

My stomach clenches and I’m forced back in my chair. I’m sure he didn’t intend it that way, but the ask is so personal. So… intimate. 

A song Bess recently shared with me pops into my head and I type gingerly into the text bar. 

Okay, fine. Try “Paint Your Target” by Fightstar. Post-hardcore, not street-punk, but I think you’ll like it ;)

Six and a half minutes pass before another ping! announces a new message. Exactly how long it would take to listen to the song twice, but who’s counting?

I may or may not be purchasing this on iTunes right now. 

A grin spreads across my lips and my face feels hot, like I just ran sprints in gym class. If I looked in a mirror right now, it would probably be bright pink. 

Wow, a song worthy of your 99 cents? I’m honored.

You should be, I don’t legitimately buy music for just anything.

The unwritten word bounces around my head: Or just anyone. 

We ended up talking back and forth like that for the next hour, until my mom reminded me I hadn’t finished my Stats homework and forced me off the computer. At school the next morning, I make a split decision not to tell Bess. I’m not one hundred percent sure why. 

I tell myself it’s because I know Bess. If I tell her, she’ll force me to come clean to him. Tell him who Marlowe really is. And she’ll convince me it’s a good idea because she can be very persuasive when she wants to be. Damn her. 

But there’s something else. Some part of me that doesn’t want to break the magic. If I say it out loud, then the bubble is punctured and the rest of the world can break in and ruin it, as the real world sometimes does. 

As we walk side by side to first period together, I promise myself that if he messages me again tonight, I’ll tell her. 

And that’s when I see him. He’s at his locker again, this time stowing his trademark blue hoodie in his locker—it’s a surprisingly mild day for late February. Right as Bess and I pass by, he turns around, a bright smile lighting up his face. 

He looks right at me, his full lips slightly parted, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. My stomach flutters and my heartbeat races, both making it hard to breathe, and I steel myself. 

This is it. He must’ve figured it out. Figured out that I’m Marlowe. That it was me last night, joking with him about music and asking him about his favorite things and telling him mine. 

He doesn’t look upset though. If anything, he seems thrilled. My chest warms at the thought, some of the butterflies calming. 

I realize only too late he’s actually smiling at someone just behind me when he says to them, “Hey man, you in for tonight?”

My face falls, but I force myself to keep walking, gliding past him and the guy I vaguely recognize from the drum line now posting up beside James and his locker.

It’s for the best, I tell myself, trailing one step behind Bess as we head into our Statistics class. I’m not ready for him to know me yet. 

Taking my seat in the middle of the classroom, I pull my notebook, pencil, and textbook from my backpack, setting each one out neatly across the top of my desk. 

What’s not for the best is it sounds like he won’t be online tonight.

Seems like the real world got in the way anyway.

James wasn’t online that night, just as I’d suspected. 

He was the following night, though. 

There was a new message waiting in my inbox for me when I sat down at the desk in our den at seven, under the guise of working on my English paper. I asked him: if he could be anything in the world, what would he want to do?

He told me he’d be a pro skateboarder. Like Tony Hawk, but even better, he’d said.

When I asked him if he skateboards now, he told me yes, but he’s pretty bad at it. I knew he was being modest—I’d seen him skateboarding before with his friends. But I liked that about him.

He was there the night after that, too. 

He asked me what my perfect day would be. I’d had to think about it, determined to be one hundred percent honest. It was easier to be vulnerable, behind that computer monitor. Behind that made-up name. 

I’d told him it would have to be a crisp fall day, highs in the mid-fifties but with plenty of sunshine. I’d wake up when I felt like it, without an alarm, and go for a light jog outside. After that, I’d spend the day at a homey cafe downtown, sipping as many lattes as I wanted without getting the jitters, listening to all my favorite music in my headphones, and writing my bestselling novel in a fancy moleskin notebook with my equally fancy fountain pen.

I’d never told anyone that before, not even Bess. 

She knew I liked to write, obviously—who else would read my weird little short stories? But as far as she knew, it was simply a hobby. Something to pass the time.

Now James Graham knows my biggest dream, only he doesn't know it’s mine. 

Something dark gnaws at my stomach at the thought.

For weeks, we went on like that, chatting online almost every night. Eventually, I told Bess what was going on. She was shocked at first, as I’d figured she would be, but surprisingly cool about it. She didn’t tell me to go up to him and confess my identity outright, like I’d assumed. Being Bess, though, she did encourage me to consider opening up to him eventually. 

“It sounds like your conversations are getting pretty serious,” she’d said to me after I’d filled her in on everything. Well, mostly everything. “Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to show him who you really are?”

I’d bit down on my lip, silently considering. What I didn’t tell her was that it felt like he does know who I really am. One of very few people who do. The only thing he doesn’t know is my real name. 

Is that really the most important thing? Is that a crucial part of knowing someone’s soul?

Instead, I told her I’d think about it. And I did, I really did. 

In fact, it’s all I could think about. Finding the right moment to tell James it’s me. How I would do it. It consumed my every waking thought. 

Each time we chatted, I felt more desperate for him to know. 

We’d become so close, baring bits and pieces of ourselves in between banter about what counts as grunge—he considers Bush to fall squarely in the genre while I, rightly, consider them alternative rock—and what the best horror film franchise is—Halloween, we both agreed, obviously. 

Finding out my real identity would be a blip on the radar. He wouldn’t be mad at me for concealing it. He’d be excited to finally see me. To fill that gap in his mind. 

“I’m going to tell him,” I blurt out now to Bess, who stops midstride across the floor of the gym. We just finished changing after our Strength and Conditioning class and now had a few minutes to kill before the bell. 

She turns to me, her brows knit into a V in the middle of her forehead. “Henry the VIII?” she asks slowly. She’d been in the middle of a rant about him and his six wives. 

I sniff a laugh and shake my head. “No, James. I’m going to tell him it’s me. Tonight.”

Somewhere between learning the proper form for squatting with weight and pretending to exercise our cores with medicine balls in the hallway outside the weight room, I’d decided. 

A slow smile breaks across Bess’s face and she hastily pulls me into a hug. “Proud of you,” she says when she pulls back, arms on my shoulders. 

I grin back at her but try to roll my eyes, downplay it. “It’s no big deal. But you were right, he deserves to know. And I deserve for him to know. No matter what happens.”

Bess squeezes both of my shoulders and nods. “Damn right.” She drops her hands to her sides. “So how are you going to do it?”

I roll my lips into my mouth and consider, then part them to say, “That piece I’m still a little fuzzy on.”

“Best to be direct about it if you ask me,” Bess says right as the bell rings. We both aim our strides for the heavy double doors that lead out of the gym. “Send him a message that says, Hey, I’m Daisy Fitzgerald. From your class at Penrose High. We’re actually in band together, and occasionally study hall. We should date.”

This earns a loud snort from me that turns into a fit of giggles when Bess makes a kissy face in my direction. She joins my laughter, looping her arm through my elbow when we reach the hallway and turn left, toward the senior classrooms.  

There it is, that flash of bright blue at the end of the hallway, slowly making its way toward me amongst the throng of students. It’s a sign, I know it. 

The crowd between us grows thinner and thinner, students peeling off in every direction, until we’re nearly on top of one another. 

My foot hovers in midair, my whole body frozen when we’re just about two yards apart. 

It’s definitely James’s sweatshirt. 

But that isn’t James wearing it. 

It’s Shannon Grier, another girl in our grade. She’s in my homeroom and a few other classes I’m taking this semester.

Time seems to slow around us. I have to force my feet to start moving again, but it feels like I’m walking through molasses. 

Maybe it’s a coincidence. She bought the same sweatshirt. Or borrowed it from another friend because she was cold. 

What little hope I have left is dashed though, when James himself steps out from the hallway adjoining ours, the one where his locker is, and strides right up to Shannon. 

He slings an arm around her shoulders, easily a foot taller than her, and pulls her small frame against the side of his body. 

My mouth runs dry when he leans down to give the top of her head a short peck. 

Bess turns her head slowly toward mine, eyes widened in horror, lips parted in a silent scream. She isn’t really trying to scream, I know that, but no words come out so she might as well be. 

Her arm still looped through mine, she tugs me along until we pass them. James doesn’t even glance our way. 

He has no idea the multitude of ways he just broke my heart. 

He has no idea it was even his to break in the first place. 

2018

I stopped using Marlowe Clarke’s account not long after that day. I never replied to another one of James’s messages. It didn’t take long for those to stop either. 

It wasn’t just because of James. 

I got accepted into my first choice university: University of Pennsylvania. Then I got an after school job at the Barnes and Noble near the mall, because I knew student loans were going to be a nightmare. 

Soon it was time for finals and, even though I’d already gotten into my dream school, I couldn’t afford to coast. All our teachers told us colleges still looked at final semester grades. I couldn’t prove them wrong, so I had no choice but to assume they were right. 

Summer flew by in a montage of shifts at the bookstore, lounging by the public pool with Bess, and shopping for my dorm room. 

I never forgot about James, or Marlowe Clarke for that matter, but soon both were tiny whispers buried deep at the back of my head. Memories there, waiting in the wings to be drawn out by the right song or the right shade of blue in my periphery, but no longer a weight on my chest.

Although I sometimes still like to use the alias. 

It started with my short stories, posting them to Tumblr and Medium under the familiar pen name, things I’d written for my Creative Writing degree, and a few I’d written just for me. No one ever made the connection to the original Marlowe, or if they did, they never called me out. It made sense that the name could take on a new life just like I had, considering how quickly MySpace fizzled out once titans like Facebook and Instagram came to play. 

Now, it’s the name I plan to use when I publish my first novel next year, a fiction story about an English professor in upstate New York who crushes on her hot new next-door neighbor, only to realize he might be a serial killer. 

My heels click-clack against the terrazzo floor of the Starbucks just down the street from the publishing house I work for and I join the back of a lengthy queue. This place is always hectic in the morning, but especially on Mondays. Everyone needs a little extra juice to get them going at the start of the week. 

Usually, I’d be one of them. Eyes half shuttered, feet dragging. 

But not today. Today is not just any Monday for me. Today I have a call with my editor and afterward, my publisher will share the first draft of my cover art.

The only reason I need an extra dose of caffeine is because I awoke with a start at four, a kid on Christmas morning, too excited about what the day will bring. What the coming year will bring, really. 

Me, a published author. Finally living my dream.

It’s hard not to think of James now that I’m so close to reaching it. The dream I’d shared with him before anyone else. Though I have absolutely no control over the best-selling part, of course, simply making it this far feels like fulfillment enough. 

Once I’d shared it with him, it got a little easier sharing it with others. First Bess and then my parents not long after that. Soon, my professors and academic advisors, each of them helping me move toward it like a piece on a chessboard.

I suppose I have James to thank for helping me get here, too.

Used to the heavy volume, the Starbucks baristas work through the queue quickly and soon it’s my turn to order. The reminder of James and that long-ago confession brings a small curve to my lips and a slightly hollow feeling in my chest. 

In honor of that girl and the dreams she had, I give the barista the name Marlowe Clarke when I order my Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew, then join the rest of the caffeine-deprived patrons huddling by the order pickup counter. I find a small gap of space at the far side of the warm press of bodies and plant my feet, pulling out my phone to scroll through my work email while I wait, just like the rest of them. 

The crowd thins and expands as the people waiting get their order and new customers slide in to take their place. Finally, a female barista calls, “Marlowe Clarke!” as loudly as she can over the din in the crowded space and deposits my plastic cup on the counter. 

I slip through the huddle of guests and, at the same time I grab for the cup with my hand, another hand reaches out to brush my extended arm. 

“Excuse me, did she just call you Marlowe Clarke?” a familiar, deep voice asks from over my shoulder and I freeze. My fingers flex around the cup, but it’s like my brain disconnects from my body and I can’t pick the damn thing up. 

The same barista comes back and drops off another cup, this one for someone named Jess. I presume it’s Jess who then shoulders by me to collect her coffee, the force of her shove jerking me back to reality. 

I pick up my cup and slowly turn around to face him. Because I know it’s him, even before I see the tall, lanky frame and the green eyes. 

James Graham. 

His hair is still the same shade of brown, like the bark of a maple tree, but it no longer curls around his ears. Instead, it’s shorn close to his head around the sides and just a little longer on the top. He’s not wearing his blue hoodie either, instead sporting a charcoal gray suit. 

He’s still impossibly handsome, though. Perhaps even more so with a few years to fill him out. 

He squints those green eyes at me, mouth twisting to one side, like there’s a word on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite make it materialize. 

I know exactly what he’s trying to come up with. Me. My real name. 

We may not have run in the same circles in at the time, but Penrose wasn’t the biggest school and we knew of one another from classes and extracurriculars. We’d likely recognize each other even if my crush hadn’t pressed me to know him more.

Then his eyes un-crinkle and his mouth un-twists, one corner of it tugging up as if pulled by a string. “Daisy. From Penrose.”

I try to smile but can’t, my knees knocking together from shock. My voice is like sandpaper when I finally rasp, “James, hi. It’s been ages.”

Another patron shoves their way between the two of us completely to collect their order at the pickup counter and I look down at my feet, flushing. I assume this is it, forced apart by the real world once more. 

It’s not like I haven’t dated since James, of course I have. 

It’s just that none of them really took. Not because I was hung up, but because we simply didn’t fit. 

They never asked me the questions that matter, or deigned to listen to my responses when they did. 

The patron storms off, hot cup in hand, but instead of retreating to the exit, James swoops closer to me once again. “Can I… do you… can we talk? Just for a few minutes?”

My eyes spring open wide, eyebrows lifting, and I shuffle my sweating cold cup from one hand to the other. I really shouldn’t, I think to myself, running my teeth over my bottom lip. I’ve got to get to work, and I have that call with my editor. 

But it’s James Graham. 

I look him over for a fleeting moment while I consider and notice beneath his charcoal sport coat is something familiar: a bright blue button down. His signature shade. 

It’s not a hoodie, but it sure seems like a sign. The one I misread ten years ago. 

Craning my neck to meet his gaze I nod, my fake smile earlier replaced by one much more genuine. “I have a few minutes before work.”

A few minutes, it turns out, was not nearly enough. 

For hours we sat opposite one another in a window seat of that Starbucks. Both of us had to call in sick to work that day—me to the publishing house and James, it turns out, to his job in cybersecurity at a firm a few blocks from my office in Old City. 

“You didn’t become a pro skateboarder?” I asked him and he blinked his surprise at me. Surprise for remembering. By that point, I’d already confessed to being the Marlowe Clarke he remembered. 

He grinned, bright white teeth flashing, when he answered. “Nah, I told you back then I was shit. I got really into coding in college. It was either this or software engineering and—” He stopped then for a second, thinking. Like he wasn’t sure if he should tell me something. 

Eventually, he relented, explaining, “I think part of me was drawn to this field because of Marlowe—because of you. I had this crazy idea that one day I’d be able to use my sick skills to figure out who you were.”

My mouth popped open in surprise. “What stopped you?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. “They make you take classes on ethics when you want to work in this field. I realized very quickly how wrong that would be. A total invasion of privacy.”

I nodded slowly, taking a sip from my watered-down coffee, not sure whether I was grateful or disappointed he hadn’t tried it anyway.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, then added, “I figured if you wanted me to know you, you’d tell me.”

I’d had no choice but to explain that day, the day I’d planned to tell him the truth and the reason why I didn’t. 

He laughed. Actually laughed. 

I guess he and Shannon didn’t make it past high school graduation. Oops. 

“So, Daisy,—” Hearing him say my real name sent shivers up my spine. “How about you? Did you ever get your perfect day?”

I smiled down at the cup still cradled in my hands, shoulders vibrating with a barely audible laugh. When I looked back at him, for a second he looked just like he had in high school. Like we were getting the date I’d always wanted but was too afraid to ask for. 

“Not my perfect day, but I did become a writer. My debut comes out next spring.”

James had bounded up from the table, crossing the few feet around it to pull me into a tight embrace. He smelled like the air after a rainstorm, and a little bit like warm coffee. He felt like a fulfilled prophecy. Like meant to be. 

We made plans for dinner the next night. And the night after that. And the next one, too. It was like history repeating itself, only this time I wasn’t hiding behind a screen or an alias. 

No, James was really here. Holding open doors for me and pulling out my chair and remembering the kind of wine I liked.

Bess lost her mind when I told her. 

Daisy, I’m so happy for you, but if he hurts you again I will seriously make him wish he’d never been born. And you can tell him that, I don’t care. 

There’s a reason we’d been friends for more than twenty years and that fierce loyalty was ninety percent of it. 

“Fitz, we’re going to be late!” James calls from the kitchen of the apartment we now share. He’d taken to calling me by my last name a few months after we started dating. 

That’s three names you’ve had for me, I’d told him as he’d snaked his arms around my lower back, pulling me in to press a soft kiss to my lips. 

Your next one will be my favorite, he’d whispered against my mouth, then kissed me again. It set a kaleidoscope of butterflies loose in my stomach and I tightened my arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. 

“Fitz!” he shouts again from the kitchen and I hurry to stab my pearl earrings through my lobes. I give myself one last look in the mirror, fluffing the loose waves framing my face and spraying them with hairspray one more time for good measure. 

Then I’m walking down the hallway of our apartment in Rittenhouse, heels rapping a staccato tune against the hardwood. When I reach the kitchen, James turns around and lets out a low wolf whistle. 

“You’re lucky you’re this beautiful or I might be a little more peeved about being late to our own engagement party.”

I snort loudly and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down to my level so I can press a long kiss to his lips. He cradles my spine with one hand and cups my jaw with the other, deepening the kiss. 

“I think I have a new perfect day,” I whisper against his lips and James pops open his eyes, pulling back just far enough to look at me. The tips of our noses still brush. 

“You, me, the end of a long aisle.” I press another quick kiss to his lips. “That’s it, that’s the perfect day.”

James chuckles, more of a rumble of his chest than an actual sound. “Lucky for you, we have a whole lifetime of perfect days ahead of us.”