by Emma Scott
“I know, I know.” He laughed shortly and ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. “I never want to be with anyone else but I didn’t think I needed—or wanted—some ceremony or piece of paper to make it official. But seeing you with Kacey these last weeks…” Oscar’s smile froze on his face, his eyes unblinking as if he could lock his emotion down before it could be revealed. “If you love someone as much as I love Dena, then you hold on to her, right? As long as you can, as hard as you can.”
“Yeah, man,” I said softly. “Sounds exactly right.”
Oscar nodded and we took a moment; he sipped his beer and I waited until he was ready to speak again.
“So when’s the big day?” I asked.
“She has to say yes first,” Oscar said, and cleared his throat. “But that’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. The date. I want you to be there. My best man. Vegas is the capital of quickie weddings.” He stopped at my shaking head and waving hands. “What?”
“You can’t have a quickie wedding with Dena Bukhari,” I said. “Can you picture our girl in a traditional Iranian dress, in a gaudy chapel officiated by Elvis? No, no. She needs the works.”
Oscar shifted in his seat. “I know it. But her parents are in London and grandparents in Iran. The visa situation alone is going to take six months.”
I leaned forward and clapped my friend on his shoulder. “It’s enough that I know it will happen. I’m happy for you, man. For both of you. Give her the wedding you both deserve. I’ll be there in spirit.” I chucked his arm. “Literally.”
Oscar barked a laugh and looked away. “I’m going to miss you, man,” he told his beer bottle.
“Thanks for saying that,” I said, because I knew how hard it was for him to do so. “I’m going to miss you too. Both of you. And I’m really fucking happy to know you’ll take care of each other.”
“She’ll take care of me,” Oscar said. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying not to screw up.”
I laughed and he laughed, and we got over the emotional hump like a wagon wheel finally lurching over a rock. I didn’t need Oscar’s tears to know he cared about me, or expect a bunch of sentimental words. I just needed to be around him and that was enough.
After dessert, my father tapped his knife on the side of his wine glass, and took a piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket.
“This arrived in the mail this afternoon,” he said. “From Carnegie Mellon. I presumed it was junk mail or a form letter. Good thing I opened it.” He cleared his throat and began to read. “Dear sir. This letter is to inform you, Jonah Miles Fletcher, that you have achieved the degree of Master of fine arts from Carnegie Mellon University and all honors, benefits and rights conferred hereto…”
There was more but the table erupted in cheers and applause, drowning out my father. Kacey’s arms went around my neck, then she pushed her chair back and crawled right in my lap. I held her face, gazed into the blue depths of her eyes. She was so much. I could spend a thousand full lifetimes and never reach the end of her.
She is a universe…
I realized in that moment my glass legacy was woefully incomplete. The evening drew to a close, a slow migration began for the door, with hugs and hand-shakes, and drawing on of coats. I pulled Tania aside.
“Yes, Master of Fine Arts?” she said. “How may I serve you?”
“Knock it off,” I said. “I wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for you.”
She waved a hand. “It was nothing.”
“It was everything. I owe you so much, Tania. And I…”
She leaned forward. “Yes…?”
I grinned. “I figured I might as well ask you for one more thing.”
Tania snorted a laugh and swatted my arm. “I’m very expensive, you know.”
I took her hands in mine. “Meet me at the hot shop tomorrow?”
Her face brightened. “A new piece?”
“One last piece,” I said. “The most important piece of my life.”
I drove us back to Jonah’s place with butterflies in my stomach.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
I glanced at him. “I keep thinking about your degree confirmation.” Which was only partially true. I had plans for the evening, and once inside the apartment, I led him to the couch.
“I have a surprise for you,” I said.
“Does it involve you being naked?”
“Maybe,” I said over my shoulder on the way to the bedroom. “Give me a minute.”
I pulled a box I’d stowed under the bed. It held a dozen pillar candles and I set them up around the room: on his dresser and nightstand, two on the windowsill. Once I flipped the lamp off, the room glowed with orbs of soft yellow light.
Task done, I called for Jonah to join me.
At the door he stopped and took in the candles, then me. He leaned his forearm high on the doorframe, his eyebrow arched. “You’re not even remotely naked.”
“Not yet,” I said, moving to him and running my hands over his t-shirt. “I know we have to take it easy, so I’ve been doing some research.”
“Research,” Jonah said, ringing his arms around my waist. “There’s an erotic word. What have you been researching?”
“Tantric sex,” I whispered. Then a laugh erupted out of me. “Oh my God, it sounds cheesy as hell. But I read up on it and I think it’ll be good for us. Safe.”
Dr. Morrison didn’t exactly forbid sex, but gone were the days of Jonah taking me up against a wall in a fit of unrestrained passion. We’d only slept together twice since he was released from the hospital, and despite our efforts to take it easy, both times he’d been scarily out of breath. It was as if the CAV had sped up, like a boulder that had slowly tipped over the side of a steep hill and was now rolling, and gaining speed with every passing moment.
“Want to give it a go?” I asked.
“As if I’d say no to you.” He reached for me and we kissed, undressing.
“Come sit on the bed,” I told him. “Lotus position.”
“I don’t speak Tantra.”
“Cross-legged.”
He sat in the middle of the bed as instructed. His candlelit eyes went wide and heavy with desire as I crawled onto him. I sat in his lap, wrapped my legs around his waist, but I didn’t take him inside me, which somehow felt more intimate than if I had.
“I like this,” he said against my neck. His mouth moved over my chin. “Kiss me.”
“Not yet,” I said. “We have to go through all the steps first.”
“Steps? Is there a manual I could consult?”
“Stop laughing.”
“Right. Sorry. Tantric sex is serious business. Step one is…?”
“Step one: hold me comfortably and look into my eyes. Nowhere else.”
Jonah rested his hands on my thighs, and I held his arms that held me. I stared into the rich brown velvet of his eyes.
For all of three seconds.
We both broke down laughing, our bodies restless with nerves. We tried again, laughed again, and kept trying. Gradually the giggles retreated. I relaxed and felt myself falling into his gaze. With every blink, my memory flipped up a moment we’d shared—thousands upon thousands—from the first time I woke up on his couch, to now, with the candlelight flickering around our bodies.
“Now what?” he said softly.
“Now we share each other’s breath,” I said, moving closer so my lips brushed his. “Find the rhythm.”
It happened quickly. Within moments, we were breathing for one another, breathing as one. He inhaled what I exhaled. I breathed in what he let go, filling my lungs with him. The world and its needs drifted away. Time ceased to exist. Only now. This moment. And I didn’t need anything but what he gave me.
With every breath, my thoughts fell away. As I drifted deeper in the beauty of his eyes, I felt my self cease to exist. No me. No him. Only us. Our skin melted together, creating a third presence, sharing the air, sharing our bod
ies.
His grip on my hips tightened and he lifted me onto him. A break in our breath’s rhythm as he slid inside me.
“Yes.” His mouth shaped the word without a sound.
Yes, this…
I pushed forward, my breasts pressed against his scarred chest. My arms wrapped around his back, my legs around his hips, taking him in as deeply as I could,
Jonah slipped one arm around my waist. His other hand slid against my face, his thumb brushing over my lips. Our breathing fell in sync again. We didn’t move but to breathe.
“You,” he whispered.
“You…” All I knew or felt or saw. You. The whole world in my arms. The unfolding depths of his eyes. The hard, heavy warmth of him inside me. A soft, pulsing pleasure that grew with each moment, until it began to move us.
Our lips met in a gentle, deep kiss. Inhale, I rolled my hips back. Exhale, I pushed them forward. Jonah mirrored, rocking his pelvis against mine. A tide, ebbing and flowing. Ocean waves falling gently on the shore as we kissed and shared breath. Eyes open, never breaking contact, the heavy ache of pleasure took on more weight, grew more intense.
“Kace,” he whispered.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, adding new points of contact, new connections. I felt him in every pore, every breath and beat of our hearts. I’d never experienced anything like this in my life. He was a universe. My love for him was just as boundless.
Tears filled our eyes as our bodies rolled and slid, driving toward a bittersweet crescendo of pleasure. Tears for love. For loss. For the weeks he had, and the years he didn’t. For the joy and laughter, the heartache and grief. For this lonely man and the lost woman he’d rescued. For us, and the rapidly approaching time in which there would be only me.
I closed my eyes, sank into his kiss, and gave in to the climax. It rose up and rolled through us, gentle slow-motion swells instead of a crashing wave.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”
I opened my eyes.
“I love you, Kacey.”
“Jonah.” My eyes saw only him. My breath was for his lungs, my tears dampened his skin. My hands were made to run through his hair. I was born to feel him all over me forever.
“Jonah…My Jonah…”
I spun the blowpipe back and forth. The glass on the end was the size of a child-size bowling ball but felt a hundred times heavier. My breath was a shallow wheeze in and out of my chest—I couldn’t take deep breaths anymore unless I was sitting down.
“Tania…”
She took the pipe from my hand as I sat heavily on the bench and set it on the rails. I resumed rolling and shaping. My arms felt like lead as I took up the jacks and sawed at the neck. Tania was there, her hands covered in the thick mitts, cupped beneath the sphere.
“Stop if you have to,” she told me.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the breath and I wouldn’t have stopped anyway. The glass globe cut loose from the pipe and Tania caught it deftly in her hands. She carried it to the kiln, but it was too big for her to hold while opening the door.
Using the blowpipe as a cane, I pushed myself to stand and moved as fast as I could across the ten feet. I opened the kiln door and Tania carefully laid the glass inside, while I slumped against the wall, gasping for breath.
She tore off the mitts to set the cooling timer, then took me by the arms.
“Tell me…”
We had a standing agreement, me and my circle. They didn’t ask if I needed help so long as I promised to tell them if I did.
“I’m okay,” I said, and it was true. My heart Jack-rabbited in my chest, irregular and fast, but it was calming down. My lungs sucked in more and more air, and finally I was able to push myself off the wall.
Tania hooked her arm under mine and helped. Together, we looked through the kiln glass door.
“It’s done,” I said. It had taken two hours per day for four days, but it was done.
“It’s the best thing you’ve ever made,” Tania murmured.
“Because loving her is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
We shut everything down, cleaned up the worktable and headed for the sliding front doors. I stopped and turned, taking in the space that had felt like a second home to me.
“Did you forget something?” she asked.
“No. I’m just…”
Saying goodbye.
“…remembering.” I looked over at my assistant. Tears were in her eyes. “You’ll take care of the last piece?”
She nodded. “It’s been an honor and a privilege working with you.”
“Likewise, Tania. I only wish I could stick around to see your brilliant career.”
“So do I, dammit,” she said fiercely, and threw her arms around my neck. “Though I don’t know about brilliant…”
I did. She had applied to the Chihuly Studio in Seattle. I knew Dale’s rep had received my letter of recommendation, and I knew they were “extremely enthusiastic” about Tania’s work. I knew they’d be notifying her shortly to schedule a round of interviews and studio time.
I could’ve told her what to expect, but some moments—like her opening that letter from the Studio—were meant to be lived in as they happened.
I knew that too.
One morning, Jonah was slow to get out of bed, and then only made it to the kitchen before stopping to rest his hands on the counter, catching his breath. He spent most of the day in the chair in the living room.
The speed of his decline terrified me. Seconds were slipping by, taking our moments with them. I fought to hold onto them. To make something of them that was more than fear and grief and agony. Losing Jonah was agony, and if I slowed down to think about it, even for a moment, it would drown me.
I had to keep moving. Stay ahead of it, for Jonah’s sake and for mine. I made phone calls, I prepped his medications and made our meals. I took his showers with him, helped him wash and shampoo, then helped him out. I made a flirtatious game of it, but aside from a few warm kisses, Jonah’s body was shutting down.
I’d quit my job at Caesar’s weeks ago, and was living off the last of the Rapid Confession money. Those funds were dwindling too, but there was zero chance of me leaving Jonah now. If I lost my apartment, so be it. For now, I was living at Jonah’s place and later—the nebulous later—I had plenty of friends in Las Vegas I could crash with until I got back on my feet.
As if the universe were testing me, Jimmy Ray called one afternoon and offered me everything I could possibly want: a new contract with RC, an additional solo contract to write and produce my own album, and an advance that would’ve left me set for years.
“The label is desperate for you,” he said. His voice was hearty but I could practically smell his desperation through the phone. “Elle is a good girl, but she’s not you. Have you been reading the press? The fans want you back. We want you back.”
I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness. Jimmy schmoozing like a used car dealer or a carny at a fair. What he offered was so shallow and plastic compared to what I had with Jonah. For all the pain that was coming—and God help me, it was going to be an avalanche—it was worth it. Jonah was worth everything.
“No thanks, Jimmy.”
I heard a gasp and a stutter. “No thanks? You’re going to turn it all down for what? The limo driver?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, kitten, this is my Hail Mary pass. I don’t want to rub salt in a wound but Lola says he’s dying. And you’re going to choose him over everything we’re offering?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not choosing anything. There is no choice. There never was.”
Silence never sounded so good.
I hung up.
The next morning, I checked my bank balance on my laptop with one eye squinched shut, mentally preparing to see a bunch of zeroes, or red digits with a big fat negative sign in front of them. Instead my balance read an almost even $5000. A deposit had been made from a Wynn Galleria holding account.
I found Jonah resting on the couch, watching When Harry Met Sally—I’d fully converted him to the Church of Eighties Cinema. I stood in front of him, planted my hands on my hips and tried my best to raise one eyebrow without help from my finger.
He squinted at my feeble attempt. “You either have a really bad headache…or you’re trying to read something printed a mile away.”
“Five thousand dollars mysteriously appeared in my checking account.”
Jonah’s smile fell. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“More?” I sank down on the couch beside him. “What is it? Where’d it come from?”
“It’s what’s left from the gallery sale after I paid off my parents’ mortgage and gave Theo enough for a down payment on his own tattoo shop.”
“His own shop. Holy shit, you’re a rainmaker.”
“I believe in him,” Jonah said simply. “I believe in you. The five grand isn’t much, but it’s so you can keep living here, get a new job, and keep working on your album. Or whatever it is you want to do.”
“I don’t need it,” I said, my throat filling with tears. “I can figure something out…”
“I know you can,” he said. “You can stand on your own, but if I can make it easier for you, I’m going to do that.”
I shook my head, blinking back the tears. I couldn’t cry too much these days. Once I started, I feared I might never stop.
Jonah drew me down and I lay curled up with him, my back against his chest. On the TV, the ball had dropped on New Year’s and Harry rushed to the party, to Sally, to declare his love for her. Because he wanted the rest of his life to start as soon as possible.
“My life started on this couch,” I whispered. “The moment I woke up that morning.”
He nodded against my head. “Mine too, Kace. Mine too.”
That night, we lay in bed together, kissing softly. My hands roamed his skin, trying to memorize his every line and contour. Hoping, wanting the low flame of desire to spark and catch fire.
“Honey, I’m so tired,” he said.
“That’s no trouble,” I said, smiling wide, endeavoring to make my shaky voice seductive and playful. I ran my hands down his chest, toward the waistband of his sleep pants. “Perhaps, a little oral stimulation?”