by Tash Skilton
Maybe I haven’t given Heather a chance to understand, though. It’s worth a shot.
“The thing about fandom is that it’s a shared language, a shorthand where everyone gets the same references and touchstones.” I take a risk with the next admission: “A way to belong.”
“That makes sense.” Heather looks me dead in the eyes before her gaze drops and her voice grows thick with emotion. “I’m really homesick. I miss Chicago more than I expected, and don’t know if I’ll ever belong in this city.”
I set my drink down, and gently tilt her chin with my fingertips so we’re looking at each other again. “As long as I’m here, you belong.”
We lean toward each other, inexorably drawn together in a kiss.
CHAPTER 26
NINA
“What do you mean, I’m Belle? I’m . . . Nina,” I add stupidly.
“It was his codename for you,” Millie replies. “Something to do with Belle and Sebastian . . . get it?”
I just stare at her. “That can’t be.”
“Why?” Millie asks.
I try to think of the exact conversation that I overheard between Matty and Sebastian so long ago.
“Just go for it. You’re clearly crazy about her. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Uh. It ends poorly and she’s out of my life forever?”
“Okay, fine. But that doesn’t mean you and Belle can’t have a spectacular time in the meantime.”
“Not worth it . . . I think . . .”
I sit down on the couch, suddenly feeling lightheaded. “I almost told him.”
“Almost told him what?” Millie asks breathlessly.
I tug on my ponytail. “That I maybe had feelings for him. Senior year . . .”
Millie lets out such an enormous squeal, I’m surprised one of the hanging wineglasses doesn’t shatter. “I knew it!!” She starts clapping her hands and I instantly regret sharing this bit of information.
“Okay, but hold on. He got together with Heather. He’s together with Heather now. . . .”
Millie rolls her eyes. “Heather is an incidental character, Nina. Don’t you see? You’re the love interest. You’ve always been the love interest.”
“Millie. This isn’t fanfic. There isn’t a stock ‘love interest’ character in real life.”
“Who said anything about stock?” Millie says. “I’m talking about true love. OTP.”
“OTP? Millie . . .”
“Look, just because I’m talking in fictional shorthand doesn’t mean real love doesn’t exist. And you two have it. Real love.”
I hear footsteps in the hallway and my heart drops. I’m so not ready to see Sebastian right now. But then, luckily, they fade away past our door.
“I need a minute to take this in,” I say. “When Sebastian returns, please don’t tell him you said anything. Can you do that for me?”
She crosses her arms in front of her body and, for the first time, I see the kind of antagonizing little sister I’m used to. “Why? So you guys can drag this out for another five years? Haven’t you both already wasted enough time?”
“It just . . . if this is going to happen, I need to make sure it’s right. Because if it’s not . . .” I look at her.
She sighs. “‘When you kiss a friend, the friendship dies,’” she replies tonelessly.
“Exactly.” I say.
“Okay, but please don’t keep stringing him along. Now that you know . . . please figure it out. And please, please, please figure it out the right way. You know, the kissy way.” She grins at me and suddenly she’s back to the bubbly, love-obsessed Millie I know.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise with a weak smile.
CHAPTER 27
SEBASTIAN
Heather breaks the kiss, but keeps her hand on my forearm for another moment of connection.
“Thanks, Sebastian. It’s nice to know someone’s got my back.”
“It was brave of you to leave Chicago and everything that’s safe and familiar to chase your dream.”
“Brave or stupid, the jury’s still out.”
“If it were easy, everyone would do it, right?”
“Maybe.” She bites her lip. “I want to be honest, though, and say I’m not sure I’m in the right headspace to date anyone. What I said the other night, about not knowing if I’m going to stay in LA, was true, and . . .”
“I get it,” I assure her. “No worries.”
A twinge of disappointment, born of nostalgia and the fear of loneliness rather than a specific pining for Heather, pulls at my heart.
I hadn’t wanted to re-create the past—but I’m glad we reconnected too.
“We’ll always have the slaughter-brothel,” I say.
She laughs. “I’d rather have Paris.”
“While we’re being honest . . . you were my first girlfriend. Did I ever tell you that? I’ll always be grateful it was a good relationship, that you were . . . you know, kind to me.”
Heather tilts her head, studying me. “You deserve for someone to be kind to you. You know that, right?”
“Oh, yeah. No, definitely.” I clear my throat. “Tell me about your life in Chicago.”
She shows me photos on her phone from a workshop she did at the Piven Theatre in Evanston, and then lays out her fears, particularly her worry that TV and film can’t provide the type of camaraderie she craves, that theater gave her. I’m happy to lend an ear. It’s the least I can do.
I pay the bill for our drinks and while we’re waiting for the waitress to return with my card, Heather says, “Little piece of advice. If you’re looking for a girlfriend, you might want to ask yourself whether living with Nina is getting in the way of that.”
* * *
On the drive home, I’m so lost in thought I miss my turn. Gliding up Highland Avenue, in no hurry to backtrack, I watch rows of mismatched, majestic houses pass by, all of them constructed in different styles of architecture, each of them clashing with their neighbors, none of them affordable.
Heather’s right, of course; it’s not fair to me, or Nina, or anyone else, to continue the roommate facade. We can’t go on hosting dinners and acting like a couple.
My feelings for her will only intensify the more time we spend together. All we’re doing is prolonging the pain; for ourselves and anyone else who enters our orbit.
She needs to move out.
CHAPTER 28
NINA
Like a Jane Austen heroine, I retire to my room for the rest of the night, and ask Millie to tell Sebastian that I’m not feeling well. I can’t face him tonight.
What if I had confessed my feelings for him just an hour before the costume party? We would have dated. We’d have gone out on real dates. Would we still be together? Would we be living together? Engaged? Married, even?
I sit up in my bed, taking deep breaths. I know how to date. I don’t know how to date Sebastian. I know exactly how to keep it light and fun and leave just when the shiny parts are about to wear off. Which usually happens right around the four-month mark. I’ve practically got it down to a science.
Through my closed door, I hear the front one open and then I hear his voice. I can’t make out exactly what he’s saying, but the timbre of his murmur is low and inviting, like a warm fire. Like home.
It’s too much. To think about that fire getting doused again, dying, leaving soot and ashes all over my heart.
But can I pretend I just don’t know? That Millie never told me? Even if I could (doubtful), I promised her I wouldn’t.
I hear Sebastian laugh and it hurts. I wish I could play music to drown it out but that might be awfully suspicious if I’m supposed to be sleeping. Eventually, I resort to taking a Unisom because I know it’s the only way I’ll get any rest tonight.
I still don’t. My sleep is fitful, punctuated by dreams of bloody wedding dresses and Sebastian kissing other people: Heather, the real Queen Lucinda, even our RA, Stanley.
I’m out of bed by five a.m.,
but wait until six forty-five to leave the room, dressed and ready to go. Millie is leaving this morning to start her six-week tour of America and I need to say goodbye.
Sebastian is in the kitchen cooking up breakfast. “Good morning,” he says. “Feeling better?”
“Hi, yes,” I respond.
“Good enough for French toast?” he replies, tilting his pan to show me thick slices of challah bread.
I shake my head. “I wish, but I have to head into work early.”
“No problem,” Sebastian says. “If you give me five minutes, I’ll get it ready to go.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t. Really big conference call with Stu Stu’s team in Australia again and it starts at seven thirty on the dot.” I turn away from Sebastian to see Millie looking over at me skeptically. But I ignore that, too, instead walking over to give her a big hug. “I hope you have the best time.”
“Thanks,” she replies, and then breaks the embrace to give me a questioning look.
I smile back. It’s easier to pretend to have an answer when you don’t have to speak. She seems satisfied, giving me another hug. “See you in six weeks.”
It sounds like a countdown, the ticking, ensuing explosion kind. “See you.”
* * *
After work, I surprise myself and call Ennis, asking if he’s free to give me a ride home.
“Righty-o, babe.”
Up until twenty minutes ago, I was sure I was taking the bus, like most nights. But suddenly the thought of returning to Sebastian seems so much more daunting than anything, even being forced to flush Roberto Ricci’s toilet.
As Ennis’s car approaches, I look at him through the windshield, his handsome face bathed in moonlight. When I get in the passenger seat, he leans over to give me a kiss.
It’s a perfectly good kiss. It’s a kiss that goes where I want it to: a box in my brain labeled “sex and romance.” It’s a small box, hardly bigger than the box that says “chores” or “elementary school memories.” There are other, more substantial boxes in there. Complicated ones like “family.” Big, unwieldy ones that say “dreams” or “story ideas.”
And then there’s the one that is terrifying the hell out of me right now, the one that’s threatening to spill over everything and ruin the neat, stacked version of my life that I know and cherish. That box is breathing—fuming, even—like an animal about to charge. And there’s nowhere for me to run this time.
So I can let it overcome me, cowering and concealed. Or I can face it.
“Ennis,” I say, a few minutes into our drive. “I want you to know that I think you’re a great guy.”
Ennis glances at me quickly before turning his eyes back to the road. “Uh-huh. Do I need to pull over for this?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“That depends. Is this a breakup?”
I pause. “Yes.”
He sighs but doesn’t make a move to pull over. “I care about you, Nina. But I always got the sense . . . you didn’t really want me to care about you. Not really.”
“That’s . . . true,” I admit.
“But sometimes you care about someone whether they want you to or not. Whether you want to or not.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to be hurt. Honestly. You’ve been great. You are great.”
He shrugs. “I guess it’s not like you weren’t always obvious about how much you wanted to keep this casual.”
“It’s still not okay to hurt you,” I say, realizing how true that is. And not just about Ennis. Because there’s always been someone else involved in that romance box. Just because I never let myself get close enough to get hurt doesn’t mean I haven’t caused others pain in the process.
“Well, I’ll get over it.” He gives a small smile, not an entirely happy one.
“I know you will,” I assure him.
* * *
I give Ennis a long hug before I get out of his car. After he’s driven off, I stand for a few minutes in front of the gray, yellow, and white apartment building. I look at the tall palm trees that stand in front of it. There’s something quintessentially LA about it. This place of big dreams and big heartbreaks, of sunshine and wildfires, it feels like everything shines or burns brighter here. Is it better though, to try to shine and burn, or to keep everything neatly stacked and forever dull?
I swallow as I unlock the front door, go to the elevator, and enter our apartment.
He’s there. In the kitchen, of course, delicious scents wafting around him, enveloped in gossamer wisps of steam. Shine or burn, Nina?
“Hey,” he says, looking, for some reason, a little sad and subdued. “I made dinner. I figured you’d be okay trying my Baby Backstab Ribs prototype.”
If he’s sad about something, I want to know what it is. If he’s cooking me dinner, I want to savor every bite those hands touched. And in that moment, I know I love him so much that I can’t say anything or it will all come spilling out. So I nod and slowly start walking over to him.
“I . . . um, need to talk to you about something,” he says into his sauce.
“I need to talk to you about something too,” I reply and by this time, I’m standing right beside him.
Except I don’t need to talk. We’ve talked enough. We’ve discussed, and dissected, and discoursed. It’s time to burn.
I place one hand on his cheek, cupping it, sweeping one thumb slowly across his jawline and over his lips in a way I won’t be able to take back.
He stares at me, blinking, his lips falling slightly open.
And then I lean in and do it. I kiss Sebastian Worthington.
CHAPTER 29
SEBASTIAN
We call in sick the next day. Lovesick.
I don’t remember the words we use to tell our respective bosses, just that we have to stifle our amused reactions while the other person affects a cough and raspy voice. We lie sideways across Nina’s bed, covers tangled and half twisted off the mattress, last night’s clothes decorating the floor. Dangling off Nina’s lamp. Draped over her bedframe.
I curl around her like a hand around a mug of hot spiced rum, drunk off each other in the morning after. She nestles against me, all warm satiny skin, and shoots me a grin over her shoulder before she calls in to WatchGoNowPlus. When she’s finished, I tell her that actually, her fake raspy voice is kinda sexy.
“Is it now?” she purrs.
“Oh, yes.” I nibble on her ear and she leans into my touch.
“One of us is overdressed,” she says, and tugs my boxer shorts off.
“I think I know why they call it dope-amine,” I sigh between kisses, my body responding instantly to her nakedness and warmth. Her lips are soft and welcoming, and I’m soaring from the realization that this might be our new normal, that when I want to caress her hair or kiss her senseless or twine my fingers through hers or stretch her out on top of me, I can. I will never tire of her, never.
I lift her as I stand, and she wraps her legs around my hips. She’s lighter than air and smells delicious, familiar yet thrillingly new, her usual scent tangled with sex, and me, and us.
We kiss for ages, passion building. Last night we made the bed shake and I can still hear the sounds she made, on a loop in my head. If my mission in life before was to make her laugh, my new mission is to hear those sounds from her as often as possible. Coming up for air, Nina drags her mouth along my cheek and gives me a gentle bite. I take the hint and set her feet on the floor. Then I turn her so we’re both facing the full-length mirror.
It has handprints on it from the night before. I grin as sense memories wash over me, urging me on. Standing behind her, I cup her perfect breasts and whisper in her ear, “Want to watch?”
She nods. I caress her nipples with my thumbs until they stand at attention.
She bites her lip and rubs her ass against my aching cock. Nerve endings on fire, I coast my hands up her spine, pushing down lightly, and she bends forward so I can palm her hips and po
sition her right.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and we look at each other as I sink into her warm, wet heat. We both moan, and I move slowly at first, eager to make her writhe and beg for me again. We’re so in tune with each other’s rhythms and wants and needs, it’s both extraordinary and utterly natural; the continuation of a dance, proof of our bond, an expansion of everything we’ve ever been to each other. I should’ve known we’d be good at this, that of course our bodies would parry and thrust in perfect harmony.
She lets her eyes fall shut, her face soaked in pleasure, and I’m mad for her, for this—this fairy tale playing out in real time. We’re the hero and heroine of each other’s stories. Maybe we always were, regardless of whether we took this next step.
I quicken my pace and slip my hand between her thighs, teasing and circling until we reach the crest together, one after the other, in a brilliant crescendo.
We lie on our backs afterward, chests rising and falling in union. I reach for her hand and she brings our entwined fingers to her mouth, peppering each of my knuckles with kisses around a smile that’s sweeter than any confection.
She dozes and I gently extract my arm from under her neck so I can get a glass of water. My entire body is sore as I wander into the kitchen. The apartment looks like a bunch of rock stars blew in last night for a competition over who could accrue the most lawsuits. We gained considerable knowledge about which surfaces were best at taking our weight and movements. The kitchen table, for example, has a wobbly leg, but the kitchen island is . . . Oh. The kitchen island is covered in last night’s uneaten dinner. Whoops. I dub them the best ribs ever, in absentia, and set about collecting various items that got knocked over in sacrifice to our bodies’ demands.
In the mirror next to the front door, I’m a cheerfully depraved sight: hair askew, fingernail streaks along my chest, hickeys on my neck. The smug, lucky bastard who stares back at me looks like he teleported in from an alternate universe. How is it possible that the smug lucky bastard is me?