Page 58 of Malaise

“Twenty-four.”

I sigh, looking down to my fingers laced over my ankles, my chin atop my knees. “Seven years difference.”

“That’s worth jack shit when you find the one who’s meant for you.”

I look up and give him a weak smile. “People won’t understand, will they?”

He shakes his head, reaching out to loop an arm behind my calves. “Nope.” He jerks his arm toward him, straightening my legs out. “But if you’re happy”—he pushes my shoulder so I lie down—“and I’m happy”—and crawls over top of me—“then what does it fucking matter?”

I lift my head off the bed, eager to connect again. His lips find mine, and the truth of his words hits home. He’s happy. I’m happy. When we’re together, nothing else matters. He gets me, understands me, and wants me for who I am—nothing more. A lifetime of that acceptance is worth more than a day of adoration from the people who doubt me.

People like my parents.

“You and me, right?” I ask when he pulls back to catch his breath.

“Always.”