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When Simon finally gets out of jail and off probation— stupid goddamn fucking probation— he and Patty decide to take a little trip.
It’s something they’ve been planning a good long while, now, since about six months into his sentence, a fantasy laid out in his cramped, messy script on yellow lined paper and Patty’s tilted lettering on the college-ruled sheets she likes so well. Honest to God, Simon didn’t really think they’d ever end up making it happen. Even after three whole years together the pessimist in him is still always waiting for shit to go south. He’s got a hard time believing anything good is gonna stick around, something he’s sure his court-assigned psych would have a field day with if he actually ever told her jack, but Patty walked into his life and keeps staying even when he’s afraid she won’t.
They’re pulling out of the driveway in this stupid beat-up van he got secondhand from a guy who used to buy coke from him sometimes and Patty turns and gives him this heartbreaker smile, absolutely brilliant perfection, and Simon has to stop himself from throwing the van back in park just so he can kiss her breathless, and—
And god, he fucking loves her.
It’s funny, he thinks, putting the car in drive and taking off down the street, squealing tires and giggling girlfriend, ‘cause he hasn’t said it yet even though he’s known it since that day in his fuckshit-stupid parents’ basement, or maybe even a little before then, but he thinks she knows and he thinks she loves him, too. He’s so head-over-heels for her he’s been daydreaming about rings and courthouse weddings and shit, honeymoons in sleazy motels with shared cigarettes and gas station dinners. He’s got it so bad he wants to get a place with her, get a fuckin’ dog or cat or, fuck it, a guinea pig if that’s what she wants. Five years ago if you’d’ve told him he’d be dying to get hitched and adopt a rescue rodent he’d have spat in your goddamn face and called you a liar but now he thinks it’s maybe one of the most punk-rock ideas he’s ever had, actually.
Her fingers curl around his free hand on the middle seat, and Simon thinks: fuck it.
“You know I love you,” he says as they pull up to a red light. “Like— a crazy fuckin’ amount.”
He looks over at her aglow in the traffic-lit night. She smiles again, softly this time.
“Yeah,” she says. “I know that.” A pause, and then: “I love you, too, obviously.”
Simon looks down, laughs. He’s stupid with elation. He would marry her tomorrow. Hell, maybe he fuckin’ will.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning as the light turns to green. “Obviously.”