He sat down next to me on the bench, and took me into his arms.
"You're an asshole," I said, quietly and precisely, fighting his embrace half-heartedly, but allowing him to gather me in and put my head on his chest, my cheek against the wool of his pea-coat (it must have been December?).
"I know," he replied. "I called my Dad and said he should be ashamed of himself for giving us oil stock."
"Ohmygodfuckyou," I said, and burst into tears again. "I love you so much." . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.