Free Crazy Love You by Lisa Unger

beach before dinner. It’s kind of a thing.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “Sounds good.”
    I cringed, imagining what Priss might say if she’d heard Megan say those words, and how easily, how eagerly I acquiesced. I already loved Megan truly, madly; maybe I had from that first day in the park. I thought of little else. I would have done anything for her even in those early days. (Except put her in a room with Priss.)
    â€œMeg,” I said. My heart was thumping with nerves. “I love you. I mean it. I crazy love you.”
    We hadn’t said it before, though I’d come close a couple of times. I’d always chickened out. She put her hands to her mouth and her eyes filled.
    â€œI love you, too,” she said. She laughed a little. “I crazy love you, too.”
    We made out in the kitchen for a while, and then I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. And we made love the way we did—sweetly, tenderly, respectfully. There was no pain, nothing rough, no grunting or deep, involuntary moaning. There was no moment where it seemed like a struggle for dominance. There was no nail digging; I didn’t try to hold her down while she fought against me. It was normal-people sex. It was the way real, not-deeply-fucked-up people expressed physical love. I could get used to it.
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    Anyway, her parents turned out to be a bit of a surprise. Daddy picked us up at the train station the following weekend in a brand-new champagne-colored Range Rover that I knew cost about $100K. I knew because I wanted it and couldn’t afford it. (I did all right, but there’s money and then there’s money .) I had an old Scout that I kept up in The Hollows, parked in the garage of a house I couldn’t stand to visit. I went up and got it on the very rare instances that I was inspired to leave the city.
    Daddy leaped out of the vehicle as we approached, looking fit and youthful, and gave his daughter a big bear hug, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Then he turned to me.
    â€œAw, man, Ian Paine,” her dad said. He pumped my hand, and wore a bright, goofy smile. “I’m a big fan of Fatboy and Priss . I’ve always wanted to do a comic book.”
    I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped open. Even though “comic book” wasn’t quite right (these days we called them graphic novels), I was still flattered.
    â€œWow, thanks,” I said. “I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
    Maybe he was just blowing smoke up my ass, trying to be cordial. But it was nice. And I felt like a jerk for not reading even one of his books before we made the trip out to his home. That would have been the respectful thing, the grown-up thing to do.
    But you’re not a grown-up , Priss had said once. You’re a man-baby. Your self-involvement is so total, you don’t even know that you’re supposed to think of something other than your own appetites and neuroses.
    I didn’t know if she was right about me or not. Sometimes she was, sometimes she wasn’t. But I suppose I was as self-involved as any jerk-off my age. If Megan’s dad— Call me Binky, everyone does! —was offended by my not mentioning his work or even pretending that I had any familiarity with it, it didn’t show.
    That afternoon passed in a happy blur—starting with a blustery blue-gray walk along the white shelly beach. Megan held hands with her dad and I trailed behind a little, but okay. I already knew she was a daddy’s girl. Her mom whipped up a lovely meal of homemade gnocchi and butternut squash and salad, which I helped to serve, putting down plates on a table set with flowers and fresh-baked bread in a basket while Megan poured water into crystal glasses.
    Her father broke out the perfect wine—a 1997 sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. (Anyway, Binky said it was the perfect wine. What did I know? It tasted good enough to me.) There