My last coherent thought, as Lucas took his time kissing and touching every part of me he could reach and my body arched into his, was: oh... so this is what all the fuss is about.

His breath in my ear, he ran his tongue along the curved edge, sucking the fleshy lobe and my small diamond stud into his mouth, and my eyes drifted closed while I babbled a weak sound of longing.

I don't know why it's so hard for me to say those three words. Most guys throw it around like breath, like bait.

Alarmed, I realized what my visceral reaction implied: jealousy. Over a guy I barely knew, with whom I’d exchanged more saliva than sentences.

No matter what grief or loss takes place, most of life flows on all around us, as though nothing's changed. At some point in our sorrow, we each make a choice to sink or swim. There's no alternative.

The truth was, he now belonged only to my past, and it was time I begin to accept it, as much as it hurt to do so.

I suppose love is never a sure thing, no matter what words are spoken. Love requires a leap of faith into the abyss, every time.