Chapter Twelve
Day Eleven and Twelve
Zio
The second the loft door shut behind us, something locked into place in my chest. A deep, solid click. Like a bone finally setting right after being broke for years.
She was in my space.
Four years of waiting at her threshold, of being a guest at her house, of leaving my scent on her sheets. She stood in my foyer, looking scared—she was funny—clutching her laptop bag like a shield. Her eyes did a frantic lap of the room, taking in the concrete, the steel.
“It’s very gray,” she said.
“It’s concrete,” I corrected, kicking off my shoes. “Your shoes come off.”
She obeyed, kicking out of my oversized Nike slides, then peeling off her socks. The sight of her bare feet on my floor did something to me. A primitive, satisfying click in the back of my skull. Mine. Here.
I took her bag in my hand and led her to the desk by the window. I’d set it up a year ago, after she’d drunkenly complained about writing in her living room with a window that faced a brick wall. I need to see a horizon, she’d slurred. How else do I write about them...?
“You put a flower here for me and remembered orchids are my favorite?” she said, staring at it.
I’d bought the orchid this morning, after I left her sleeping in my childhood bed.
“Yes. You said you need something alive near you when you write, but not a human.”
She ducked her head, hiding a smile, and wandered deeper into the loft.
I went to the kitchen and started coffee. Watched her from across the counter.
She was doing a slow, silent prowl. Learning. She touched everything. It was kind of annoying—especially when her fingertips trailed over the stainless steel of the fridge.
She came quietly and sat at the counter. I placed the mug in front of her—black, one sugar, steaming. She blinked, then wrapped her hands around it.
“You’re a neat freak. It makes sense why you’re always cleaning up my place when you think I don’t notice,” she laughed.
I just shrugged, leaning against the counter, watching her watch me. She was in my world now. She could learn all my secrets. I had nothing to hide from her.
When she didn’t speak, I gave her space. I put on music—the playlist I’d built for her. D’Angelo’s voice poured out of the speakers hidden in the ceiling. I saw her shoulders drop an inch.
I held out my hand. “Come here.”
She stared at my palm for a beat, then her gaze lifted to mine.
She came without a word. I pulled her around the counter, into the open space between the kitchen and the living room, and drew her against me.
We swayed. No talking. Her cheek was warm against my chest. I could feel her breathing sync with mine.
This was the moment I’d yearned for. Not the sex, not the confession—this.
This quiet belonging. Her in the center of my world, not trying to escape it.
When the song ended, I pulled away and stared down at her.
“You okay now?”
She grinned. “I’m fine. This is different.”
“Being with you… outside of my place. Somewhere I don’t control. You could be anyone here. This whole other person I don’t know.” Her eyes came back to me, searching.
“But I’m not.”
“But you could be. Can I look in your drawers? Bathroom cabinets?”
I stared at her. “Why?”
“Because,” she said, her voice soft but serious, “that’s where people keep the real stuff.”
I thought she was kidding, but the excited look she had in her eyes told me she wasn’t.
I shook my head. “Go ahead, Sky. But I want my things back exactly how they were when you finish.”
I wasn’t even done talking before she skipped off down the hallway.
I cooked for her while she searched. She came back disappointed.
“You’re lame.”
“Because you didn’t find bodies?”
“I didn’t find anything at all.”
“Exactly.”
“You probably threw all your other women’s stuff away before I came,” she half-joked.
“If you say so.”
I made seared scallops, lemon risotto and garlic butter asparagus. I watched her eyes close on the first bite. A hum of pleasure vibrated in her throat. That sound was worth more than any Michelin star.
After dinner, she curled in my chair with a pen and a pad and stared out the window.
I knew this was her process. She said her stories played out like a movie and she wrote what she saw.
She wrote some, then she stood at my windows, staring at the river, and I stared at her.
I stared at her when she wasn’t watching.
Every time I passed her, I touched her. A hip.
A shoulder. The back of her neck. My dick stayed hard, but I was sticking with my no-sex rule until after Valentine’s.
Eventually, we ended up on the sofa, scrolling our phones, her back against my chest.
It wasn’t much different from what we did at her place when she wasn’t paying attention.
I broke the spell. I had to. But I waited until after midnight.
“Valentine’s Day is two days away.”
I felt her stiffen against me.
She stood up.
I sat up.
She started to pace.
“Oh, God. Why do you have to be one of those Valentine’s Day people?”
“Valentine’s people?”
“You know,” she gestured at the air, “the commercialized people who believe in a capitalist performance of affection. It’s for people who don't know how to love each other the other 364 days of the year. It’s performative.
It’s for high schoolers and people who need Instagram content.
We don't need that, Zio. We're beyond that. I’m not partaking.” She said all haughty like.
I ignored her.
“I have a reservation,” I said. “At The Rowan. Eight o’clock. You’re going. I brought you a dress and shoes. They were expensive.”
She froze.
“You did what?”
“I brought you a dress. And shoes.”
She stared at me. “Did you hear a word I just said? I said I’m not going.”
I didn't blink. “I heard you. I just chose to ignore you.” I stood.
“Zio!” She followed me into the kitchen, her voice rising. “Why don’t you ever listen to me? I’m telling you my boundaries.”
I turned, lifted her onto the counter, hands on her waist. Looked at her fully.
“I don't listen to you because you’re nuts, Sky,” I said, an amused smile tugging at my lips.
She gasped, her eyes going wide. “I am not nuts! I am a creative…!”
“You’re a brat who’s scared of a day,” I countered. “We’ve spent three Christmases together. Three New Year’s. Every other holiday in between. But Valentine’s Day is where you draw the line? Something’s wrong with you.”
She grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at me. I caught it, laughing.
“You’re mean.”
“I’m not the mean one.”
She narrowed her eyes, then tilted her head.
“How expensive are the dress and shoes you mentioned?”