I'm gonna tell him.

Warm Milk

"My sister is like my best friend,” I explain to Book Boyfriend one night over dinner.

We’re sitting at the bar, enjoying pasta and espresso martinis. I secretly love when there aren’t any tables and we have to sit at the bar because it’s an excuse to be closer to him. I get rewarded with the feeling of his fingers brushing the back of my neck or his shoulder grazing mine. Small jolts of electricity each time, traveling all the way down to my fingertips.

We’re talking about family, and I tell him about a special drink my sister used to make me when we were growing up. When I couldn’t sleep, she’d warm up milk for me, but she always made it fun by adding cinnamon, vanilla extract, and a few drops of food coloring.

Later that night, I’m sitting on his bed watching a movie when he approaches me with a warm mug, steam rising from the top.

“I didn’t have any food coloring,” he says, “but I added honey.”

I grab the cup and peek inside. Warm milk with cinnamon and vanilla. I bite my lip, trying to hide the giant smile I can feel forming on my face. I blow on the cup, watching the steam move in swirls and circles before taking a sip.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He winks and joins me on the bed with his own mug of my sister’s secret recipe, not so secret anymore.

It becomes a bit of a movie night tradition. Halfway through the film, I’m greeted with a steaming mug of warm milk.

The night I decide to tell him I love him is no different.

I'm gonna tell him.

We’re cuddled under a blanket, watching a movie, when I pause the television and tell him I have something to say.

He raises an eyebrow, a silent command to continue.

I take a sip of my milk.

I stare at him.

I take another sip of my milk.

My lips part to speak.

“Let’s finish the movie, actually.”

“You sure?” he asks, gently rubbing my back.

“Mhm.” I press play on the remote.

(Come on, girl. You can do this. It’s just three words. It’s not that hard.)

Some time later, the movie ends and he gets up to grab my jacket for me.

“Um… no, I’m not leaving yet,” I blurt out.

“I’m still drinking my milk.”

I lift my mug, no longer steaming. Not even warm.

He sits back down. I take another sip.

“So…” I start again.

Both eyebrows raise this time.

“Yes?” he asks.

I take a sip of milk.

This pattern continues until we’re both yawning and it’s definitely time for me to go home.

“You don’t have to tell me whatever it is, you know?” he says.

“Oh, it was nothing anyway.”

I finally finish my drink, grab my jacket, and head out the door.

I'm not gonna tell him?

I spend the elevator ride home scolding myself for not telling him. I consider going back, knocking on the door, and blurting it out like a scene from a romcom. But instead, I head home feeling defeated.

Later that night, I lie in bed tossing and turning. You have to tell him.

I grab my phone.

I know texting “I love you” isn’t the most romantic thing in the world, but neither is meeting on a dating app.

Text:

“Sorry for being the world’s slowest warm milk drinker tonight. If I’m being totally honest, I was procrastinating because I was trying to work up the courage to tell you I love you. (I hope that doesn’t make you too uncomfortable, we’ve already established that I feel everything very deeply, so it’s not surprising I’d have strong feelings for you after a year of knowing you.)

Just so you know, I’m not telling you I love you because I expect you to say it back or even feel it back. I just think when you love someone, you should tell them. And you deserve to know there’s another person on this planet who cares about you in that way.

And for the record, I meant what I said about what love is: I want you, but I want you to be happy more. Even if this doesn't work out. Goodnight.

Send.

I told you I was gonna tell him

I stare at my phone for thirty seconds, thirty seconds that feel like an eternity, until I see the little speech bubbles pop up.

“You’re the sweetest girl ever. I was wondering what took so long, to be honest.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief.

Some people might be upset if the man they said “I love you” to didn’t say it back, but I wasn’t. I didn’t expect him to. I just wanted him to know.

I curl up in a blanket and smile.

“Hey, Amber. You fell in love again.”

Define Love

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel that way again after my divorce. But there it was, soft and unexpected.

Book Boyfriend was the person who taught me I was capable of falling in love again, and I’ll forever be grateful to him for that.

Months later, Book Boyfriend tells me he believes love is something that’s earned and can be easily lost.

I shake my head and laugh.

Poor thing. He doesn' t understand. You either love someone or you don’t.

Book Boyfriend didn’t have to earn my love. He had it. I loved him: the person he was. His being. The good and the bad. No actions could take that away.

And being in love again felt magical.

I did it. I told him.

...I wonder if he’ll ever say it back.