Page 133 of Business Casual
Nova’s right. I’m nothing like him at all.
I push past him toward the door.
“I’ll expect an apology,” my dad calls.
I don’t bother looking over my shoulder. “You won’t get one.”
A breath gusts out of him. His laugh is disbelieving. “You walk out of this room without one and that’s the end of it. I won’t lift a finger to help you.”
Thank fucking god for that.
I adjust my cufflinks and keep walking toward the door.
“I look forward to it.”
?I reward myselfwith a soft pretzel from a street cart outside the venue, then two slices of pizza from the bodega on the corner of my street. I toss in a bag of gummy bears too, because I feel like celebrating.
I’m not disillusioned enough to think that one conversation will effectively change a lifetime of poor decision-making and narcissistic behavior, but I’m hopeful that what I said will have my father second-guessing the next time he attempts to yank on my strings. I’m tired of chasing after his acknowledgment. It’s no longer something I care to have.
I’ve taught myself how to be content with scraps. I’ve portioned out the things that make me happy in manageable pieces so that I can savor them for longer. I’ve treated my trips to Inglewild as a rewardfor good behavior, a hit of dopamine to get me through the rest of an otherwise lonely existence. I’ve allowed myself doses of happiness while I cling to it with two hands, terrified if I indulge too much, if I give too much of myself, I’ll be left standing without anything at all.
I’ve been doing that with Nova. I’ve allowed myself the sex and the teasing and the jokes while telling myself I can do without holding her hand in public. Kissing her on the cheek in the Inglewild grocery store checkout line. Telling her, out loud, how fucking proud I am of her and everything she’s accomplished. I’ve held myself in check and settled for less because I didn’t think I was worth more.
But now I’m cracked wide open, standing in the middle of my kitchen with my bow tie hanging loose around my neck, my hands on my hips, and all the things I’ve wanted to say but haven’t thundering around in my chest. I stare hard at the still-black screen of my phone on the wireless charger, a half-crumpled napkin from Matty’s right next to it, a delicate flower hand drawn at the edge. I’ve been carrying that stupid, slightly grease-stained napkin around with me everywhere like a goddamn talisman.
My phone blinks to life. Notifications cascade down the screen.
I ignore them.
I can be in Inglewild in four hours. Three if I’m liberal with traffic laws. I can sleep in Nova’s bed tonight. Press my mouth to hers and watch the way her eyes dance when I tell her I love her. That I might fuck it up and I might make mistakes, but I’ll always try my best to be exactly what she needs.
My hand is on my doorknob before I’ve thought about it, my keys in my fist and my bag of gummy bears shoved in the front pocket of my jacket. I’m buzzing with adrenaline, high on the confidence of a half-baked plan, powered by a street cart soft pretzel. I throw open my door and almost plow into the slim body on the other side of it.
I reach out and grab around the stranger’s middle, fingers spread wide against the flare of her hips and the silky, soft material of her dress. I know these hips. I know this dress. I know her smell, likeleaves beneath my boots and apple cider. Fresh-spilled ink and the pot of lavender she won’t stop hiding her key under on her front porch.
Affection and disbelief tug at me from opposite ends as I stare down at Nova standing in my doorway, the same silver dress she wore to my sister’s wedding poured over her curves and flaring around her ankles. The deep cut in the front. My favorite red rose.
Her cute fucking frown as she stares up at me. Her hands clench in the front of my jacket, gummy bears spilling all over the floor.
I blink three times. It’s entirely possible I am hallucinating.
She tips her chin up at me and glares. “Where in the hell have you been?”
29
NOVA
“Um.” His fingersflex at my waist before he pulls his hands back, touch lingering like he doesn’t want to let me go. His eyes keep flickering between my face and the dress I’m wearing, confusion twisting the curve of his mouth. “I’ve been here?”
“You were supposed to be at the library.”
It’s where I just was, elbowing my way through designer dresses and a string quartet doing their bestBridgertontribute. When Selene told me where he was, I thought I’d show up, find him, and confess my feelings while the violin reached a crescendo. I thought I could harness a lifetime of not caring about romantic moments into creating the kind of moment Charlie deserves. But he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and a woman wearing enough Chanel N°5 to take out a small army spilled her cocktail down the front of my dress. I’m annoyed and sort of hungry and—it feels like too much. Standing in front of him in a dress he probably doesn’t remember while I yell at him.
So much for my movie moment.
But Charlie looks…well, he looks fucking delicious. He has one arm braced against the door, the other curled around my hip, the metal of his keys biting at me through the thin material of my dress. He takes two steps backward into his apartment, and I follow, watching him, backlit by the city lights, a million and one stars pluckedfrom the sky and placed carefully along the towering buildings. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. His shirt stretches across his chest, the top two buttons undone. His tie hangs loose around his neck, and all I want to do is wrap my hands in it and tug him close. Press my mouth to his until I don’t remember what it feels like to be apart.
“I was at the library, but I left,” he explains, still looking at me like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. He tilts his head to the side and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m either unconscious on the street or having a very lucid dream. You’re here?”
