16. Bryce
SIXTEEN
brYCE
I wake to the soft hum of the city outside.
The blend of traffic, an occasional honk, and a distant siren—sharp and quick—intertwine in a steady, almost comforting rhythm.
It’s the city’s heartbeat, and a smile tugs at my lips.
And then my grin widens at the warmth beside me, pulling me back from the edge of sleep.
Emerson. His thick bicep draped around me, our limbs tangled under the sheets, his chest pressed against my back along with …
Hello, morning wood! He’s grinding softly into me, but his breathing informs me he’s still asleep.
I ought to stay put and cherish this time with him, yet something feels off.
This moment is perfect. Except … aren’t these moments always perfect? In the early morning light, I start to think back on all the morning-afters I’ve had in my adult life, all the times the guy held me in his arms and kissed my neck and made me feel safe. And how eventually, they always leave.
It feels different with Emerson, but didn’t it feel different with Anthony and all the others? Everything goes fuzzy in my head.
I shift slowly, doing my best not to disturb him.
His body relaxes a little more as I ease myself out of his embrace, careful not to jostle him awake.
He shifts again and makes the cutest little grunt, yet doesn’t wake.
I guess all the activities last night really wore him out.
Studying his handsome face, his peacefulness tightens my chest. I don’t want to go, but I can’t stay.
I’m on an Emerson tightrope, trying not to fall flat on my face.
Bobo lies curled up in the corner of the room.
He must’ve opened the door in the middle of the night.
Or maybe Emerson got up and let him in. It’s past his breakfast time, so he’s awake.
I catch his eye, and he stares at me with a judgmental look.
I shrug and mouth, “What?” while I reach for my underwear on the floor next to the bed.
His gaze doesn’t move, but he releases a giant Bobo sigh.
When I exit the bedroom, he follows, and I quietly shut the door.
“Let’s get you some breakfast and go on a nice walk.”
While he eats, I use the bathroom and get dressed. As soon as Bobo begins licking his empty bowl, I put on his harness, and we head out.
The Bigby’s door clicks shut behind me, and the cool morning air hits my face. The streets of New York City are already buzzing, people rushing to places. But not me. I’m … avoiding. Again.
I text Portia from the stoop, and Bobo and I head off, hoping to get lost in the city.
The remarkable thing about New York is that you can be surrounded by millions of people yet feel completely alone.
On the streets, nobody knows me. If anyone’s paying attention, it’s only because of my giant adorable dog, and right now, I’m happy for him to steal the spotlight.
Bobo trots beside me as we make our way down the street.
He’s practically a walking reminder of my poor life choices.
In what universe did I think I was ready to own a dog?
Let alone one the size of a pony. I can barely take care of myself.
He may have been an impulse purchase, but he’s the best one I’ve ever made.
Bobo is the only thing that calms me down when the world spins too fast.
When we approach the French bakery a few blocks away, Portia’s already seated outside.
She’s wearing a large floppy hat and giant sunglasses as she sips her latte.
Another coffee sits on the round table across from her, along with a plate of pastries.
A smile crosses my lips as I near her, pleased that my friend was willing to get out of bed so early to meet me without any explanation.
She takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow. “You look like you just snuck out of a lover’s bed.”
“And you look like … a million bucks.” I’m impressed at how glamorous Portia looks at all times. It’s a power of the super-rich.
“Thank you.” She raises her cup. “Now, why are you slithering away from Emerson?”
I open my mouth to object, but she’s already shaking her head. “Don’t even try it. I know that look. You hooked up last night, and now you’ve ditched him.”
“What? How do you know that?” I look over my shoulder, then under the table. “Are you a witch? Do you possess some kind of British clairvoyance?”
“The power of Maggie Smith compels you.” She cocks an eyebrow at me.
“You said you were going to the opera with Hot Prof last night. I had a feeling you two would shag after something as romantic as that. Yet you asked me to meet you for a last-minute brunch, which tells me you’ve gone and ditched him. ”
Portia’s powers of deduction would leave Sherlock Holmes shaken. I rub my temples. A headache is creeping in. “I didn’t ditch him.”
“You totally ditched him.”
“Did not.”
“Ditch, please.” She giggles, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. “If you were a character in Wicked , you’d be the Wicked Ditch of the West. ”
Her comment makes me think of how Emerson resembles a stockier Jonathan Bailey, and I get a little funny in the tummy.
“If you were an animated film, you’d be Lilo and Ditch.”
“Are you finished?”
“One more.” She glances toward the sky for a beat. “If you were a scrappy movie about an all-girls acapella group, you’d be Ditch Perfect.” She nods. “Okay, now I’m done. What do you think, Bobo?”
Bobo barks. Tattle tale.
I rest my head on the table and groan. “Can they serve me a bottomless mimosa in a trough?”
Her smirk of victory subsides into one of concern. “What happened, darling? Was he bad in the sack?”
“No. Last night was incredible.” I think of being tangled in his arms, and a flood of warmth spreads across my chest.
“Then where is he? Or better yet, why aren’t you back in bed canoodling, basking in the afterglow?”
“He’s still sleeping. I didn’t want to wake him.”
Portia draws down her sunglasses and glances at me, her eyes widening as her brows lift. I’m surprised her face remains so agile with all the preventive Botox.
“I’m assuming you left him a note explaining where you are? Or you’re planning to go right back and be there when he wakes up?” She lifts the plate of cardamom buns between us. “Maybe he’d enjoy one of these buns … after feasting on yours last night?”
I pull my lips in as my stomach churns. I’m too upset to even eat a cardamom bun. And that’s saying something—because if there’s one thing that can heal my soul, it’s carbs. “I … I just?—”
“Went full drama mode?”
I shake my head no.
“Did you two discover that you’re actually related?”
“I didn’t ditch him. I got out of bed early. He was still sleeping. Bobo needed a walk. I decided to meet you for brunch. ”
“Bryce.” She puts her hand over mine, stopping me from fiddling with my fork.
“Love, it’s too early for brunch.” She lowers her sunglasses for a moment.
“This is clearly breakfast. Now tell me, what’s going on?
You have this great guy sleeping in your bed mere hours after having incredible sex, and yet you’re here not eating cardamom buns with me.
Now, I love hanging out with you, and I’m content to spend breakfast people-watching and talking shit about Whitney as we’re wont to do, but surely you’d rather be back in your bed getting spooned by the Hot Prof, who by all accounts is a pretty fantastic guy. ”
I sigh, then nod, slumping in my chair while Bobo hopes for crumbs. “It’s just … Emerson is … different. He’s not Anthony. Or Logan. Bruce. Derek. Fernando. Something feels …”
“Special.”
“But maybe it isn’t. Maybe the pattern will repeat.”
“Oh please,” Portia interrupts, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you hear yourself? From what you’ve told me, this guy is sweet, smart, and—most importantly—employed.
You’re running away from the one person who might actually not break your heart, because you’re scared of it happening again.
You’re like Bridget Jones without the cleavage. ”
I scowl at her. “Yeah, well, my parents were a walking romance novel cliché. Until they flipped the script to War of the Roses .”
Portia’s eyes soften for a second before her usual smirk takes over.
“Bryce, sweetie. You’re an adult. At some point, you have to take responsibility for your life.
Stop using your parents’ dumpster fire of a relationship as an excuse to screw up your own happiness.
” She pauses, then adds, “Unless you’re really just in it for the drama. In that case, carry on.”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out. Instead, I stare down at Bobo, who’s now sitting next to Portia, wagging his tail in her direction as if he’s joined her in judging me .
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter at him. “You’re not helping.”
Portia lets out a sharp laugh. “Look, you need to stop sabotaging yourself before you lose someone worth having. From what you’ve told me, Emerson’s a good guy. And you know it.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “I know. But what if he changes his mind? Decides I’m not worth it? Finds someone better. Moves on. Like Anthony. And everyone else.”
She gives me a pointed look, but I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t do it. I can’t walk back into that apartment and face him like nothing happened.”
Portia sighs, clearly frustrated. “You need to get over yourself. You’re not a lost cause, honey. But you’ll become one if you keep sprinting away from anything that makes you feel something real.”
I give her a dry smile. “Is that your expert therapy advice? Go back and kiss him?”
She shrugs, not backing down. “Kiss. Puckerball. Donkey Kong. The Flying Dutchman. Whatever you boys do.” She waves her hand in the air then wipes a bit of sugar from her lips.
“I’m just saying, Bobo looks like he’s ready to go home to his new hunky roommate.
” She leans down to pet his head in her usual cool, mechanical manner.
Two pats. No petting. “What does Emerson think about the beast?”
“I think he’s falling for him.”
“Wait, Emerson for the dog, or the other way around?”
“Both.”
“So, the kind, handsome, nerdy professor who’s built like a tank—your words, not mine—who didn’t kick you out even though he had every right to, also loves your enormous slobbery dog?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
She throws her hands up. “Well, if you can’t figure this out, you clearly don’t know your head from your arse.” She folds her napkin and places it on the empty plate. “I’ve got to get to Pilates. This body isn’t going to remain banging on its own.”
I stand when she does, and she pulls the brim of her hat back and gives my cheek a soft kiss.
“Walk your dog and then go home, Bryce.” She pulls her glasses down again. “Take it from me. A hard man is good to find.”
“Don’t you mean …”
“You heard me.”
Bobo tugs at his leash, eager to get moving. I glance back at Portia, my mind racing. Even with all her absurdity, she’s right. I’ve been avoiding all the hard stuff, and now it’s all piling up like a Tetris game on steroids.
“I love you, Portia.” I give her another kiss for good measure.
“Of course you do, darling.” She adjusts her hat, making sure the angle is just right. “I’m the peaches to your cream.”
I snort as she sashays away.
Turning my attention to Bobo, I say, “Okay, boy, let’s take a stroll.”
Before I turn to head toward the park, without stopping, Portia spins around and gives me a wave. She’s so effortlessly glamorous. Tension builds in my shoulders as Bobo and I walk away. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I need to stop running.
But for now, I’ll let Bobo take the lead—because, honestly, he’s way better at this whole “not overthinking everything” thing than I am.
We spend the rest of the morning wandering the city. The streets feel lonelier than usual, but the weight of it all still hangs in the back of my mind.
As a boy, I never witnessed a healthy relationship.
Mom worked long shifts at the bakery and dreamed of being a dental hygienist, but her dreams faded along with her energy after they divorced.
At seven, I faced instability, bouncing between two homes where my parents struggled to co-parent.
My father was never warm or affectionate and seemed to know I was different before I did, yet he never accepted it.
I clung to my mother, a woman whose hard work crushed her dreams. Lacking a healthy model of love, I fell for the wrong men over and over.
Men who never really valued me beyond what I could offer on the surface.
I never connected my childhood to my poor life choices—how could I without knowing love, care, or acceptance? What is it about Emerson that has me putting the picture together? I’m lost in a concrete jungle, searching for a sanctuary I’ve never had the chance to call home.
I do that strange thing where I’m moving, paying attention to the traffic, crossing signals, and watching Bobo, but I’m unaware of where we’re going.
When I spot the Bigby, my stomach does a back handspring.
Bobo pulls toward our front door, but I keep walking.
“Come on, boy. Let’s see if Luigi has made the meatballs yet. ”
By early afternoon, I’m sitting on a bench in Central Park with Bobo’s head on my feet. His belly is full from the two meatballs Luigi brought out to us, and all I have is an ache in my chest—a gnawing feeling I can’t shake. I know I’ll have to face Emerson sooner or later.
I’m just not ready yet.
“Come on, Bobo.” He stares at me with his tongue hanging out. “We deserve a little treat. How about ice cream?”
He tugs on the leash, and I pick up my pace to keep up with him. I may not have the answers to life’s most difficult questions, but I can buy us a big scoop of ice cream, which is almost as good.