Forty
FORTY
RIGHT HERE. THE WHOLE TIME.
Once Cass leaves, Kick follows me into the kitchen as I put my empty plate into the sink.
“Is it bad to admit I’m really excited to be in one of Cass’s videos?” he says, giddy.
“You should consider it a high privilege. She’s never had a dude in one of her videos before.”
“Wait, you think I’m a dude?”
“Okay,” I say, rolling my eyes, “she’s never had a guy in one of her videos. If she thinks you’re worthy, that means you’ve reached a whole new level of guy-ness.”
“You know, I’ve been trying to level-up my guy-ness for some time. Been stuck at bro since high school.”
I blanch at that. “Never, ever be a bro.”
“Not now, at least. Now I’m gonna be a guy in a Sapphic Sammies video.”
I get us both a glass of water and hand him one. He leans back against the island all long limbs and casual confidence. He’s looking at me over the top of his glass, the same way he looked at me over his cup of ice in Jackson’s outdoor kitchen. I’m just as spellbound now as I was then. Only this time, I know more than his face. I know his heart. I know his pain. I know what makes him laugh, know what it feels like to be in his arms. I wasted too much time lying to myself that he didn’t matter, wasted too much time pretending I didn’t care.
“I’m sorry I was so horrible to you in Dallas.”
“When you walked off stage in the middle of my song, I almost threw the guitar down and ran after you. I was so confused about what was happening.”
“I am truly, truly sorry I did that to you. I know I explained my reason but that’s doesn’t make it okay. I’m sorry. I’ll apologize forever if I need to.”
The mention of forever pings between us. It’s the closest I’ve come to conveying how I really feel.
“You’ve been so patient with me,” I say. “Most guys wouldn’t do that.”
“It helps I’ve had a lot of therapy. Turns out, learning to be patient with yourself spills over onto other people.”
I keep thinking about what he said in Dallas, how I was so busy running from something that might be bad, I was missing what was right in front of me. But I’m done running, done denying myself something that has only ever proven to be good. He is good.
“I really want to kiss you right now.”
He takes a long drink of water, his eyes never leaving mine. “Why?”
It’s a challenge, but I’m ready.
“I don’t know if you know this, but you have ridiculously beautiful eyelashes.” He chuckles at that. “But you’re also kind. You’re generous. You’re not afraid of your feelings. You’ve been telling me how you felt about me since we met even though I refused to hear it. But you kept telling me anyway. And you’re funny and fun and so, so special. And your voice makes me weak in the knees. And you have incredible hands.” I pause. “You want me to keep going?”
He stares at me long enough to make things uncomfortable in the best way .
“Be honest, Goldie. Are you saying you want to climb me like a tree?”
“Oh, I wanted to climb you like a tree that first night. The overwhelming desire to put my body against your body has never been the problem.”
His eyes darken. “Then come over here and do it.”
I set my glass down and take two big steps to jump into his waiting arms. I wrap my legs around him, my hands on his neck, and kiss him with my whole heart. It’s a promise, a declaration, me telling him with my lips and hands how deeply into him I am. More than that. How much I love him.
“I think it might be obvious at this point, but I need to say it.” I frame his face with my hands. “I am so in love with you, Kick Raines.”
He spins us around and sits me on the island. His smile is so big, so bright, it makes my eyes water.
“I am crazy in love with you, Mari Gold.”
My heart explodes. Never did I imagine finding someone like him, someone who loves me for me.
“Tell me this is real,” I say. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“You’re awake” he says, his hands on me, his voice deep and rumbling, his smile so wide. “You’re in love with me. And you still owe me one more confession.”
I tilt my chin up at him, confused.
“All the other confessions were pretty big, sure—you’re a Lovejoy, we didn’t win, you might be Don Sparrow’s daughter, you’re obsessed with my eyelashes?—”
I kiss him. Then I kiss him some more.
He smiles against my lips. “—but the biggest confession is still out there. It’s time for you to come clean.”
“If you’re insinuating I have another tattoo in a secret place you haven’t seen yet…”
He grips my hips and runs his hands slowly up my waist, over my ribs, thumbs grazing the sides of my breasts. “You have something of mine. I need it back. ”
Oh, right. His Bryan Adams t-shirt.
He pushes his hands under the shirt like he’s going to take it off.
“I’m not wearing a bra,” I say, my voice a teasing warning.
“I can tell.” He cocks an eyebrow. “But would you mind if I check for myself?”
I cock my own eyebrow in response. He bites his bottom lip and slides his hands higher to cup my breasts under my shirt. He lets out a slow breath as his thumbs graze my nipples. “I knew you’d be more than a handful.”
His lips find mine, hot and urgent. We’re close to getting carried away when I pull back.
“As much as I like where this is going, and I really like where this is going, Granny G could come in here at any moment.” What Kick doesn’t know is, if Granny G walked in on a topless make-out situation, she’d probably cheer us on. “But I’d be happy to give you your shirt back. Later. After we make Cass’s video.”
He growls low in his throat and nuzzles into my neck as his hands move down to squeeze my ass. “When I get you alone, Goldie.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
He pulls back to pin me with a look. “I’ve been dreaming of getting you naked for months.”
“Obviously,” I say with a laugh. “You weren’t exactly subtle. But I meant giving in to this.” I motion between us. “Aren’t you scared we’ll lose our magic on stage?”
His hands sweep up to my neck, his touch feather lite. “If loving each other makes us lose the magic, then it’s not really love and it was never really magic.”
My heart jolts before finally clicking into place.
Because he’s right. We can love each other and still be who we are, be what we’ve created together. Because it’s him. It’s this.
We can be us and be magic.
When Cass gets back, Kick and I are still wrapped up in each other against the countertop.
“Do I need to disinfect the kitchen of hetero hormones?” she says, shoving us aside and setting her grocery bags on the counter.
Kick and I pull apart, laughing. “What sandwich are we making?” I ask.
“I had an idea while I was at the store. You both want to do this your own way, right?”
We nod, interested.
“Then let’s do it your own way. Your next show is the Nashville show. Let’s invite label people out to see you play. You don’t need Emily and Cheddar. We can make it happen ourselves.”
I look at Kick, a question in my eyes.
“Hell yes,” he says.
“You really think we can get label people to come to the show?”
Cass shrugs. “Why not? You two are white hot right now. Yes, it’s partly thanks to Emily and Cheddar’s scheming, but let’s use that to our advantage. They may have manufactured the initial hype, but you kept it going with your real talent. People are screaming for you every night, not some Instagram post Cheddar made up.” Cass pauses unloading her bags and spreads her arms out wide. “We want to exude power, right? Show that you’re in charge? Show that you know what you want and you have the talent to back it up? ”
“While also sticking it to Emily and Cheddar?” I say. “Yes, absolutely.”
“That’s why we’re making the Rachel Maddow Power Sandwich. Roast beef on rye with onions and Dijon mustard.”
“Killer,” Kick says and I elbow him in the ribs.
“Only bros say killer. Remember, you’re a guy now.”
“What do guys say? Righteous? Rad? Amazing?”
Cass sighs. “Are you two going to be gross or are you going to shut-up and slice the onions.”
“We’ll slice,” I say right as Kick says, “Rad.”
I find a knife and cutting board for Kick and start arranging the roast beef slices on a platter.
“You know, Mari,” Cass says, “if we want to reach out to label people, there’s one person we know who could really help us out. He’s got the contacts. Or can at least get them for us. It’d be better than cold-emailing everyone and getting buried in an in-box.”
“Who’re we talking about,” Kick asks, his eyes teary from the onion. “Not that douchey Jackson guy I hope.”
Cass and I nervously laugh and Kick waves his knife in the air. “No. No way.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, bumping my hip into his, “he’ll only hold it over our heads for the next five years or so.”