[𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍]

"𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘, '𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐘' 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃

not be associated with the word 'weak.' Women push babies out of their pussies. Do men do that? No, they just get hit in their dicks and act like it's the end of the world when it only hurts for a few minutes — if not minutes then seconds. And so, that makes their penis' weak. Since women push babies out of their vaginas, that makes their or our vaginas' strong. My vagina is a strong, bad bitch."

How I loved when Paris was so comfortable sharing her nighttime thoughts with me. We were both in her room, lying on the bed, her head lay on my chest as my arms held her.

"Don't you agree?" Paris laid up.

"Agree with what?" I questioned.

"My vagina's strong, right, she's a bad bitch?"

"Oh," I realized. "Yes."

She smiled and laid back down.

"I love talking to you, Paris," I expressed randomly.

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm."

She wriggled her way out of my arms to sit up.

I was surprised by the look of concern on her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"What's wrong?"

"I want to ask you something but I don't want to make you mad or upset."

The only thing that upset me was that she was hesitant to ask me what she wanted.

"Ask me anything."

"But—"

"I won't get upset, I promise."

Paris nodded, understanding that.

"You never talk about your parents . . .

why is that?"

I emitted a sigh and leaned back on the headboard.

"What do you want to know about them?" I inquired.

Her eyebrows rose. "Anything, like where they are, what they do. I just would like to get to know the people who made the best person to ever live." Paris smiled with innocent grace as she said that last sentence. I smiled, too.

"Well, my dad's in jail and my mom's in heaven."

"W— when did she die?"

"A year or two ago."

"How?"

"I don't know and I really don't want to know. But what I do know is that she was murdered. My dad's in jail because he went after the guy who did it."

"That's awful, I mean someone just going after your mom."

"What else did you want to know?"

"Oh, um, what's they did for a living."

"Mom was a fifth grade teacher. Dad was an assassin. He's retired now."

"What? For real?"

"Yeah, have you ever heard of the Lannister family?"

"No."

"Well, they're this non-biological family of assassins my dad was adopted in to. He retired when he and my mom got together. Anyways, being an assassin, of course he had enemies so one of those enemies went after my mom."

"How did the police know your dad got revenge?"

"Because he turned himself in." I could no longer look Paris in the eye. I turned away as I felt tears build up in my eyes.

"I'm sorry, London, you don't have to talk about," Paris told me, wrapping her arms around my body.

"But I want— I . . . I need to."

"No, you don't need to do anything, my love. I'm sorry for bringing up the subject."

"Let me open up to you."

"You can open up to me without telling me things you're not comfortable sharing or ready to share."

"No, I'm ready."

"London—"

"I'm ready, Paris, I promise . . . . I promise." I closed my eyes and mentally gathered my words. "My dad didn't tell me that he was an assassin until after my mom died. When he did, I said so many awful things to him, I told him that he was responsible for his own wife dying. He didn't even get mad at me, he just kept apologizing. After that, I couldn't live in the same house as him so I ran away and lived with my aunt for a year. To my dad, I was missing, I didn't return any of his calls or messages. And my mom's family already hated my dad so it wasn't a problem for them keeping things from him. So then, he turned himself into the police. He confessed to all the assassinations he committed. When I asked him why, he told me that he was hoping they'd sentence him to the death—"

I felt Paris's hand stroking the back of my head, and her head laying on top of mine. My face was buried her chest, her shirt was dampening from my tears.

"Relax, sweetheart," she cooed. "Shhh. Look, you don't have to tell me anything else. Okay."

I nodded, understanding that enough was enough. When I realized that I was upsetting Paris, I wiped my face and pulled away from her only for her to move closer to me.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Sorry for what?"

"For this, me, what I'm doing right now."

"London, it's okay to cry. Don't apologize for expressing your feelings to me. Don't ever apologize for expressing how you feel."

It was honestly a relief to share that with someone, and not just anyone — but Paris.

And though I was crying, it was good to know that I was doing it in my love's arms as she murmured assuring things in my ear.