by Rose, Katia
And in love enough to believe:
We
Are
Miraculous.”
* * *
“Dylan, you were incredible!” My mom throws her arms around me. I have to bend down for her to latch on, and she refuses to let go once I do.
“Thanks, Mom. I think the hug is over now, though.”
“Nuh-uh,” she says cheerfully as she continues to strangle me. “I am never missing another one of these things again. I’ll drive to your college for every single one. They do have these in Ottawa, right?”
“Yep,” I assure her. “Now how about letting me breathe?”
I shake hands with my brother after that. Peter and I are still learning to find a sense of ease around each other, but we’ve been talking on the phone a few times a week, and I’m going to see much more of him after I move to the same city for school. I’m not missing any more of his life.
The handshakes and hugs just keep coming. Normally the crowd clears within twenty minutes after these things, but nobody seems to want to leave. I caught DeeDee passing out tequila shots to a bunch of staff in the kitchen, but I let it slide.
Now that the pressure is off, I’ve found it much easier to do my job as manager. It’s still not where my heart is, and I know I’m far from the world’s best, but I’m keeping the place together until Monroe and I figure out who’s going to take over.
Monroe herself finds me in the crowd, and after a few words of congratulations, she asks if I’ve seen Pat, one of our bussers.
“I can’t find him anywhere,” she explains, “and I’ve got a question for him. Could you check if he’s out smoking while I do another lap around the room?”
I don’t know what she could have to talk to Pat about that can’t wait until tomorrow, but since I’m standing right near the hall to the kitchen, I agree and make my way to the back door.
The motion sensor light is on in the alley. I don’t have time to notice more than that before I spot her. Every muscle in my body freezes at the sight.
“Hey.” She grins at me and pushes herself up off the milk crate she’s been sitting on. “I was starting to wonder if you’d actually come out here.”
My hand drops to my side to let the door swing shut behind me.
“What are...What?”
She’s here. Like some sort of wish granted by a genie in a bottle, she’s suddenly here.
“I didn’t want you to see me for the first time in there,” she explains, laughing softly at what I’m sure must be the totally ‘I’ve been mind fucked’ expression on my face. “I was waiting in the kitchen, and Monroe said she’d get you and send you out here. I take it she didn’t tell you you’d find me?”
“She said she needed to talk to Pat.”
It’s not really crucial information, but it’s all I can think to say. Renee laughs again.
“Well, I’m not Pat.” A flash of indecision crosses her features, and her next sentence is almost a whisper. “But I hope you’re not too disappointed to see me?”
“Renee, I...You...You’re the only person I wanted to see tonight.”
The sound of distant traffic and the rumble of the crowd inside fills the silence.
“Your poem...” she begins before trailing off.
“You heard my poem?” My jaw drops open in shock. “But everyone said you weren’t there. I was looking for you all night.”
“I showed up during the intermission,” she explains, “and then I sort of hid behind this tall guy for the rest of the show. I’m sorry I didn’t text you back. I just...Before I talked to you, I needed to be sure...”
She stares at her feet.
“Be sure of what?”
A few strands of hair break free of her ponytail as she looks back up at me. “I don’t know exactly, but after what you said, after that poem, I...I’m sure.”
“You are?”
She steps closer, close enough that I can see the darker flecks in her warm brown eyes. It’s been way too fucking long since I looked into those eyes.
“I’m sure my life is better with you in it, Dylan.”
Something clicks into place. Somewhere inside me, a key turns in the ignition, and I roar to life with a power stronger than anything I’ve felt before.
“I know maybe that’s not what you want,” Renee continues, “and maybe this isn’t—”
I don’t give her a chance to finish. I cut off all the questions. I cut off all the doubts. We’re done with those.
Her life is better with me, and mine’s sure as hell better with her. That’s all we need. That’s all we’ve ever needed.
And now we’re sure.
I kiss her. I tangle my hands in her hair and tilt her head back, breathing her in, giving her everything I have to give. She’s shocked for a second, and then she’s kissing me back, throwing her arms around me and pressing her body against my chest until I grab hold of her waist and lift her up in the air.
This is the moment for a lift-the-girl-in-the-air kiss.
“Dylan!” she gasps and laughs against my lips before giving in and kissing me again.
Forget half full or half empty. She’s the whole damn bottle and then some, and I will never get enough of her in my glass.
Twenty-Three
Renee
COUPLET: Two lines of verse joined by meter or rhyme that complete a thought or idea together
I stand inside the Montreal bus station clutching my sign. Nobody ever holds signs up here, and pretty much everyone who walks by stares at me in confusion or amusement, but I don’t lower the paper. Dylan told me he didn’t believe I would do it, and his bus just pulled into the arrivals lane.
I push onto my tiptoes to see if I can spot him. People from his bus are already filing inside, but he must have been sitting near the back. When his football player shoulders and wide smile finally clear the doors, I can’t help it. I start calling his name.
That smile gets even wider when his eyes land on me, and he bursts out laughing when they drop to the sign in my hands.
“‘My beefcake boyfriend,’” he reads, striding over to me. “Now who could that be?”
I lean to the side and pretend to peer past him. “I think I saw a beefcake over there. Maybe he’ll be my boyfriend.”
“Not a chance.”
He drops his bags and sweeps me into his arms, kissing me deep and getting me turned on way too fast considering we’re in a bus station. The Montreal terminus is many things, but sexy is not one of them.
“We need to get out of here,” I urge. “Now.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I squeal and slap his hand away when he tries to squeeze my ass, but it’s only because I know I’ll just keep kissing him if he gets his hands on me.
My apartment is only a twenty minute walk away, but even that’s a struggle for us. Every time I look at him, I just want to jump into his arms. The fact that it’s February and cold enough to cause frost bite in record time helps speed things along.
This is the first time Dylan will be visiting my apartment. I only moved in at the beginning of the month. After a lot of talks with my therapist and parents, I decided I was ready to take the next step and move out. I have a tiny studio all to myself in the Plateau. I’m working full time at the bar to pay for it, and once school starts in September—if I even get into McGill, that is—I’ll have to keep working part time during the semester if I want to keep the place. It’s a lot for someone who could barely handle taking the Metro not even a year ago, but I’m handling it well, and I’m ready to put my health first if things get overwhelming.
Right now I’m just ecstatic I don’t have roommates or my family to worry about. The things I want to do to Dylan require privacy.
“So, this is me,” I say slyly when we reach my door. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I’m not sure if he’ll get the reference to the words he said the first time he took me to his apartment. Everything about that night is branded o
n my brain like a permanent etching, but I don’t know if he’s clung to all the details like I have, hoarding them away to remind myself of where we started and how far we’ve come.
The way he goes totally still and fixes blazing eyes on me when I turn around in the middle of opening the lock doesn’t leave room for doubt. He remembers. He remembers that night as well as I do.
He wraps a hand around my wrist, tugging gently until I’m facing him, and then he brings my knuckles to his lips.
“I think I knew,” he breathes onto them. “Even then, I think I knew I loved you.”
“I love you too.”
I don’t hesitate. I never have when it comes to those words. We started saying them just a few days after he performed ‘Miracle’ at Taverne Toulouse, and they’ve always felt so effortless coming out of my mouth—not because their meaning is simple, but because it feels so right.
Dylan doesn’t waste any time exploring my apartment. I haven’t even got the door fully closed before he has my back up against it. I cry out when his mouth locks onto my neck, nipping and sucking, not bothering to go slow or be gentle. It’s been almost a month since the last time I saw him, and we both need so much more than slow and gentle.
He keeps torturing me with his lips on my neck. At some point we both slip out of our jackets without slowing the pace, and he trails his bites and kisses lower. The scrape of his teeth on my collarbones has me arching against the door, writhing in a heady mix of pleasure and stinging pain, moaning with the force of it.
Just when I can’t take it anymore and start reaching for the hem of Dylan’s shirt, he pulls back. Both of our chests are heaving as he gives me a sheepish grin.
“As much as I hate to put this on hold,” he announces, “I just spent two and a half hours on a Greyhound and feel the need to wash it off me before we continue.”
I want to tell him I don’t care—I doubt I’d care if he’d been on a bus for twelve and a half hours—but I understand the need. There’s really nothing less sexy than Greyhound.
“Fine,” I concede, making a big show of sighing and giving in, “but only if I get to join you.”
I push on his chest until he steps back, and then I lead the way to my bathroom. I pull my shirt over my head as I go and unhook my bra just as I step through the door.
“Fucking hell,” I hear Dylan mutter behind me.
I’ll never get tired of making him say those words.
My shower is tiny to begin with; Dylan’s bulky frame makes it look doll-sized. By the time we’re both naked and pressed up against each other under the streaming hot water, there isn’t an inch of extra space.
Which is just fine with us.
His hands roam my body, cupping my ass and skimming my waist before grazing the edges of my breasts. I tilt my face up, and he captures my mouth, his tongue stroking mine. I moan against his lips. One of his hands starts toying with my nipple while the other moves higher. He brushes my clavicle with his fingertips, fits his thumb into the hollow at the base of my throat.
He breaks the kiss and slides his grip even higher. I tilt my chin back as far as it will go, baring my throat to him. He knows exactly what this does to me, knows how I can’t help trembling under his touch whenever his hand is on my neck. I’ve felt it since the first time we spent the night together, but we’ve never taken it further than this.
“Can—Can I tell you something?” I stammer, as he drops his hand back to my breast and starts to flick his thumbs over both my nipples at once.
“Yeah,” he answers, clearly distracted by the rivulets of water tracing my curves.
I’m more than distracted by what he’s doing with his fingers, but I force the words out.
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
That gets his attention. He looks up from my chest and meets my eyes.
“What is it?”
“It’s just, uh...so back when I first started at Taverne Toulouse and we had our whole sexual tension thing going on...”
Dylan groans. “Those first few weeks were fucking torture.”
“Yeah, they were,” I agree, “so much so that I, uh, well the first time I ever thought about you—”
“Thought about me?” He wags his eyebrows.
“Yeah, thought about you,” I admit. “I was in the shower, and I pictured you being in there with me...”
He curses again, the words a low hiss that blends with the pounding of the water around us.
“What did you think about?” he orders. Even if I didn’t have his hard cock pressing against my thigh, I could tell just by the look in his eyes that he wants answers and is going to get them. “What was it like?”
“Pretty good,” I try to joke, but the dark need in his eyes stops me from playing around. “I, um, I thought about you pinning me against the wall.”
“Like this?” He pushes on my shoulders until I hit the back of the shower.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Like that.”
“And then?”
“Then you...You put your thigh between my legs. You told me how wet I was.”
His thick thigh presses between mine, parts them, and leans into the part of me that’s aching for him. I moan and start grinding against him. I’m too turned on to hold back from going after the pressure I need.
“Mmmm.” Dylan lowers his mouth to my ear. “I can feel you. You’re so wet for me, Renee.”
I mumble something in response to that, but I’m past the point of using actual words.
“And then?” he prompts. “What happened next?”
“I...You...”
I drop my eyes from his, staring at his soaked chest instead. I’ve never asked for this before. I’m not sure it’s something he’ll like, if he’ll think differently of me knowing I want it. A part of me knows that’s bullshit, but I can’t hide the vulnerability, even from myself. I feel even more naked than I already am.
“Renee,” Dylan says gently, waiting for me to look at him again. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”
I do know that. He’s seen some of the darkest parts of me, the weakest parts, the things other people would tell me to be ashamed of, and he’s only ever viewed them as strengths.
“You...You put your hand around my throat.”
He falls forward, leaning far enough that he can rest his forehead against the tiles behind me. His chest caves with the force of his heavy exhale.
“Dylan?” I ask when he doesn’t show signs of moving. “Is that, uh, okay? I know it’s not—”
“If I’d known you were thinking that back then,” he interrupts, “I...Fuck, do you have any idea what you do to me?”
I almost want to laugh with relief. Instead I shift against his hard-on.
“I have an idea,” I tease.
“You little shit.”
He pushes back off the wall and captures my mouth in another kiss. It’s sweet and tender but tinged with the remnants of the fire between us, the one that’s stoking itself back up with every second. By the time he pulls away from my mouth, I’m grinding on his leg again and he’s gripping my waist hard enough to hurt, nails digging into my skin.
“Do you want it?” he asks. “Do you want me to do this?”
“Yes.” I nod, my vision almost blurry with desire. “Yes. Please. Please do it.”
He wraps his hand around my throat and rests it there, not applying any pressure yet. I shiver at just the weight of his touch. He swears.
“You can go harder,” I urge.
He blows out a breath. “Shake your head whenever you want me to stop, okay?”
I nod again. His fingers tighten their grip. He squeezes until my breath catches and a strangled sound escapes my throat. His eyes go wide with alarm, and he starts backing off, but I put my hand over his before he can pull it away.
“I’m okay,” I assure him. “I like it. I want to keep going, if you do.”
I want to be patient. I want to be understanding. This is his choice too. That doesn’
t stop my thighs from clenching around his as a spasm of desire wracks my core.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
The pressure of his grip returns. I keep rocking my hips, twitching with need and gasping out shallow spurts of breath as he continues squeezing my neck. His hand is big enough to wrap nearly all the way around it, and as our eyes lock, both our stares hazy and drunk on intensity and power, I realize how truly intimate this moment is. My life is literally in his hands. I’ve never trusted someone like this, offered someone this much. There’s almost a tenderness to it, like we’re standing in a tableau meant to represent a bond that can’t be broken.
I can hear the thump of my pulse in my ears, the very pulse he’s got his fingers wrapped around. My body contracts again, arching toward him, thrusting against him, begging for more pressure. I need the pressure. I need it everywhere.
My hands slap at the tiles behind me. Dylan tilts his head, checking in with me, and I nod to tell him I’m all right. His free hand has been braced against the wall, but now it trails down the side of my body, reaching lower until he crosses the bottom of my stomach and brushes his thumb over my clit.
I let out a moan. He keeps teasing me, flicking his thumb back and forth until he finally slips into the rhythm he’s learned by heart over the past few months. He knows my body better than anyone has before. He knows just how to push me over the edge.
“That’s it,” he urges, panting hard. “That’s it. Come for me, Renee. Come with my hand around your throat.”
That’s all it takes before I’m lost to the world. My brain begs for oxygen as my body begs for him, thrusting against him again and again and again, straining for every last ounce of pleasure. I see stars. I see fire. I see words. The most beautiful poem I’ve ever written burns itself into the backs of my eyelids before fading to embers and then dust.
There are some poems that aren’t meant to be spoken—just lived.
Dylan folds me in his arms when it’s over, and the water washes over us both. My bathroom fills with steam. My legs start to get tired. Still, we don’t move. It’s only when the temperature of the shower drops a few degrees that we finally force ourselves to get out.