The Pairing(109)

“That’s perfect,” I say, taking them by the waist, voice shaking. “God, I fucking adore you.”

The ease of the first push shocks a gasp from us both, as if their body has kept a place for me. One roll of my hips and I sink to the hilt, and we’re there together, fluid and engulfing and known.

“Fuck me,” Theo begs. So I do.

It’s furious and desperate and deep, the sounds of our bodies filling our little half-dark room. Theo takes it beautifully. They hold their head up to watch as long as they can, stomach muscles shaking with the effort, lip bitten between their teeth, hair bouncing across their brow. When they collapse onto the bed, they fall back in glorious surrender. I’m barely in control of my body, but I’m so absolutely inside of it, aware of every nerve, every rippling touch, the most of everything.

I always loved how similar our bodies were, that we were almost the exact same height and size, as if we were so entwined that we grew to mirror each other. I loved how easy it was to touch myself and pretend I was touching them, how we had the same insatiable appetites. And in this bed, in our bodies, I’m overwhelmed with the understanding that we never stopped reflecting each other. We’ve become a perfect match, two lovers with equal capacity and equal desire to fuck and be fucked.

I surge onto the bed, catching one of Theo’s legs to hold them open as I crush our mouths together.

“I love you,” I say, trembling all over, our faces close enough to share breath.

They wrap their arms around my neck and press their forehead to mine.

“I love you,” they answer. “I love you so fucking much.”

That’s all it takes to send me over. I hold back just long enough to watch their mouth drop open at the first crest, and then I’m swept out to sea with them, plunged deep and locked in Theo’s embrace, hot tears in my eyes. I’ve never come so hard. I’ve never been more thankful for anything. I’ve never loved Theo more than I do in this moment.

Love took root in me before I learned its name, and I’ve sat in its shade for so long now without eating its fruit. This feels as if I’ve finally taken a piece into my hands and split it open. It’s so sweet inside.

Sour too, slightly underripe—but so, so sweet.





When we arrived in Sicily, Fabrizio told us the myth of its creation. How three nymphs danced across the earth, gathering the best of everything, the most fertile soil and the most fragrant flora, the ripest fruit and the smoothest stones. They met at the bluest part of the Mediterranean, where the heavens overhead were brightest, and they danced there, casting their treasures into the sea, and so the island was formed.

As I walk with Theo to Palermo Centrale in the light of a warm Sicilian morning, sharing granita di caffè with one spoon, I think it must be true.

It’s the final day of the tour, and we’re finishing with a day trip to Favignana, one of the tiny islands off Sicily’s northwest coast. We meet the group outside the train station, clutching tickets to the port in Trapani, where we’ll catch a boat to the islet. Montana waves when she sees us, sunglasses flashing glamorously in the sun.

“Hey, we lost you guys last night!” she says. “Where’d you go?”

Theo and I glance at each other, failing to hide our laughter. Montana’s gaze skims down to our hands, fingers laced together.

“Oh my God, no way!” she gasps. “Oh, wow, I’m so happy for you!”

Theo arches a surprised brow. “You are?”

“Duh, everyone knows you’re, like, butt-crazy in love with each other.”

“They—they do?”

“Yeah, Calum and Calum are always talking about how they hope you figure it out,” she says, as if this is common knowledge. “Ko, come see!”

Dakota drifts over, looks at our hands, and says flatly, “Slay.”

By the time our train arrives at Trapani, it seems everyone else on the tour has heard that we’re back together. We stand outside a gelateria across from the pier, eating bubbles of fresh brioche stuffed with gelato and bemusedly watching people pretend they’re not watching us. The Swedes are gossiping in rapid Swedish. The honeymooners who gave Theo directions in Chianti are whispering. Even Stig seems invested in our saga.

“Are we . . . tour famous?” Theo asks me.

I shake my head, amazed. “I think we’re their Calums.”

“Let’s give ’em a show, then.”

I lean in and give Theo a solid, deep kiss. They taste of coffee and pistachio and sunscreen, like the love of my life.

Aboard the ferry, Theo and I find a spot at the stern of the boat and watch Trapani shrink in the distance as the blue waters grow vaster. We lean side to side, taking each other’s weight, the wind whipping our hair into one swirl of brown and rose gold. The sun kisses the tops of our shoulders.

I close my eyes and drink in the sea air, as if it could carry this moment into my body forever.

“You brought yours, right?” Theo says.

I unzip my bag and show them what I promised to bring to Favignana with us: the envelope containing my unsent letter from four years ago, the one I planned to bury at sea on the last day of my solo trip.

In return, Theo opens their hip pack to let me see their own promised cargo: the little anniversary bottle of whiskey.

“Amici!” Fabrizio’s voice is warm behind us. We turn to find him bursting through a thin crowd of passengers, arms held wide. “Is it true what I am hearing? You are together at last?”