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We shared mac and cheese and chicken broth and watched “The One with the Lottery” episode of Friends for the six-millionth time. Rosie mouthed all the punch lines, her eyes never leaving the TV, and eventually fell asleep in my arms, snoring softly, her lungs wheezing for air. I was confused. Tired. A little hungry. But above all, blessed.
“Name your price,” he growled, way too close to my ear. “World peace, the cure for lung disease, for the White Stripes to reunite,” I shot back.
I rolled a pen between my fingers—Help’s pen—the one I’d snagged from her at McCoy’s. She hadn’t noticed the pen was missing—she was too flustered to realize what was happening—and that was exactly how I liked her. The pen was chewed on at the top, and it was so fucking typical of Emilia. She used to leave chewed pencils on her desk every single day in calculus class. I may have picked them up. I may have saved them. They may still be in a drawer somewhere in my old room. Shit happens when you’re a horny teenage boy.
I got back to staring at my screen when Help knocked on my door. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. After ten seconds, I leaned back in my seat and knotted my fingers together. “Come in.”
And still, I knew Help well enough to recognize that she wasn’t being pretentious. She really was an artist. The best painter I knew.
They treated me like I was a ticking bomb and asked the dumbest, most boring questions. “So how do you like New York? I bet it’s very different from California.” No shit, Sherlock. “Have you done any of the holiday stuff? Ice-skating in Central Park? Rockefeller at Christmas?” Fuck yeah. I also took selfies of myself holding the Statue of Liberty in the palm of my hand and hung it over my fridge with an I heart New York magnet. “How big is the Los Angeles branch?” Big enough to avoid all the people who work there with me.
“I’ll call Rosie and see what I can do,” she muttered, her eyes shooting daggers at me. Blue with light purple hair. And that Harley Quinn courier bag. How could you not want to fuck this chick? Of course I was hard. She looked like a rainbow.
I didn’t want Vicious to get the wrong idea. Even though he was still cold and rude to me, I’d noticed the way he looked at me. It was the same way I’d looked at him when I would sneak into the football field in high school to watch him play all those years ago. We liked what we saw.
“Vicious, please. We can work this out between us. Think about the kids,” I mocked. Vicious didn’t appreciate my joke. He scowled and moved away, allowing me to squeeze past him and walk out the door. I felt his eyes heating my back when he muttered under his breath. “Fuck the kids. I’ll stay for the ass.”
“The fuck not?” “Well, I have about five hundred reasons that come to mind, but let’s start with the obvious ones—you’re my boss and you refer to me as Help.” “It’s a term of endearment,” I fired back.
So Help was still an artist. It didn’t surprise me. She was actually talented. Her shit wasn’t tacky or good in a generic, mainstream kind of way. Her art was thought provoking. But not enough to be borderline crazy. It represented her quite perfectly, actually.
“Why cherry blossoms?” I asked, ten years later than I should have.
“Holy cow, I’m a buzzkill.” She let out a breathless chuckle. “Sorry.” “Don’t be.” I swallowed, taking a wide step so we stood flush next to each other, still observing the painting. “Shit happens. My mom died when I was nine.” “I know.” Her tone was somber but not anxious. Normally, people didn’t like it when you brought up your dead mother. Grief was an uncomfortable emotion to deal with. “That must’ve been hard.” “Well, you said you were a buzzkill. My competitive side inspired me to bring my A game.” I shrugged, my voice even.
Then I felt my balls tighten and the familiar welling pressure through my shaft. No. I froze. This was not happening. Not with her, and not at all. After a few seconds of me failing to move, Emilia nudged me, still trapped between my arms. “Vic? Are you okay?” My jaw flexed. I was the opposite of okay, and fuck, that was a first too. She wasn’t kidding when she joked about taking my virginity. I’d pretty much experienced everything I had avoided during my youth all in one day and in one night—at twenty-eight years old. And I hated it. “If I move, I’ll come,” I said, and flex went my jaw again.
“Ask me what I want,” Vicious murmured into my face. The public display of affection from him—not sexual, not bullying, but pure, naked affection—filled my chest with warmth, but I tried to swallow down my hope. “What do you want?” I turned my gaze to meet his, and suddenly, we weren’t in New York, in a gallery full of people. We were in my old room. Ignoring the party and the world around us, a world that we constantly disregarded when we were together. “I want you,” he said simply. “Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,” he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Emilia. You.”
“Ask me what I want again,” I said softly, and she grinned, pressing her lips to my chest through my tee. “What do you want?” she murmured. Her hair smelled fantastic. Like flowers and how my fucking pillow was going to smell tonight. “Nothing. I’m done wanting things. I have everything I need now. Ask me how I feel.” “How do you feel?” “In love.” I breathed hard, burying my face in her hair. “I feel in love, and it’s you who I love. So fucking much.”
She was always nice to the chicks Dean and Trent dragged to whatever social events we all attended, even though she knew she’d never have to see them again. That was Emilia. The sweetest. The nicest. And…mine.
I got off the phone and strode back to where all my friends were gathered. Dean’s date sat next to Emilia and gushed about her drawing. I puffed my chest out in pride.
“Do you want me on my knees?” “Only if you suck a dick as good as your girlfriend.” He waggled his brows, and I punched him on the arm. Hard. “The fuck!” He winced. “I heard that,” Emilia said from the chairs beside us, reassuring me in her sweet voice. “He’s lying. And FYI, fiancée now.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand. Huge, fucking huge diamond. Pink for my Pink, of course.
“Vic.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes glistened with tears. Happy tears. Because now I made her happy. All the fucking time. “I love you so much, sometimes I feel like it’s not even real anymore,” she admitted.
“Brazilian, African American, and German,” Trent said, introducing his baby to us, and Emilia squeezed my hand. “That’s a pretty long name. How about we use the initials and call her Bag for short?” I quirked a brow, and Trent laughed.
