21. Slow Hands #2
“It’s just sex,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water. “We’re two friends having fun. Like you said. A distraction from Alex.”
Riley raises a brow. “Uh-huh. So, the whole ‘worship at your feet’ thing was just friendly banter?”
I take a long sip. “He was joking.”
“Was he?”
I sink into the armchair. “You’re reading into it.”
“Am I? Because you were giggling in there like a teenager with a crush.”
“I was not.”
She gives me a look. I throw a pillow at her.
“It’s not that deep,” I say. “We’re not defining anything. He travels. I tour. We connect when we can. It works.”
“Right, no feelings at all. Just banter and orgasms.”
I try not to smile. I fail. “Exactly.”
She shakes her head. “You’re gonna break his heart.”
I shrug. “Or he’ll break mine. Either way, it’ll be great material for the next album.”
Riley pops another chip, crunch echoing in the quiet. “Cold.”
I open my mouth to fire back—but the buzzer cuts me off.
She glances toward the door. “If that’s another reporter, I swear to God—”
I pad over to the intercom and press the button. “Hello?”
“Delivery,” a voice calls back.
I press the button, not long after there’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other before I crack it open.
My eyes widen at the sight. The hallway is a floral crime scene.
A guy in a navy cap wheels in three massive arrangements—red roses, pink peonies, something purple and dramatic I can’t name. Behind him: a man in a full gorilla costume holding a green balloon.
Riley blinks. “What in the Planet of the Apes?”
The delivery guy clears his throat, unfazed, and hands me a clipboard. “Sign here.”
Then he leaves.
The gorilla steps forward, arms long and awkward, and holds out a green helium balloon: CONGRATS GRAMMY GODDESS.
Around his neck, a sign in black marker: Can’t wait to see you Friday, sweetheart —B.
I cover my mouth.
Riley wheezes. “Oh my God. He sent you a man in a monkey suit. That’s love.”
The gorilla gives an elaborate bow, does a half-hearted twirl, then shuffles back into the hallway like this isn’t even his weirdest job today.
We burst into laughter.
Only Broderick would send a whole-ass gorilla to deliver one little balloon.
Riley ties the balloon on my wrist.
“Who are they from?” I ask, closing the door and flicking the lock.
Riley rummages through the first arrangement and plucks out the card. She glances at it before handing it to me. “From your label.”
The card reads: Congratulations Elena, We’re all so proud of you! This is just the beginning.
I grab the card off the second one. “Philippa and Andrew.”
It’s sweet of them to send something while on their honeymoon, probably sipping overpriced rum on a beach.
I smile at the card: Couldn’t be prouder. Love you to pieces. PS: Andrew picked the orange ones.
The third arrangement is...something else.
Blood-red roses, stacked so tight they look sculpted—too flawless to be real, if not for the scent. Petals curled like lacquered velvet. I know exactly who they’re from. Red roses. Alex.
No card. Just a discreet sticker on the vase: AW.
I stare at it too long, like it might open its mouth and explain itself.
Riley hovers behind me now, chip bag forgotten. “That one’s from him, right?”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to.
Riley swats the balloon as it bobs around. “This was unexpected,” she says, then nods toward the blood-red roses. “But that? Wow, what a head fuck.”
I glare at them again.
Alex only ever sent me flowers. Remembering all the times Broderick showed up to my door, tulips in hand. I can’t help but notice the contrast. All the times Broderick made time for me, even if all I could offer him was…physical.
“You gonna tell Broderick that Alex sent flowers?”
“I don’t know, I mean does it matter?”
My mind winds in circles. First, he breaks up with me over the phone—no explanation, just silence and the cold click of the line. Then that late-night call after Madison Square Garden—I miss you, those songs were ours—and now this.
An arrangement of decadent roses where words should’ve been.
No apology. No reason. Just opulence. The kind meant to stun you into silence.
The whole room smells like roses now.
From the couch, Riley watches me like she already knows where this is going. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. Just tug at the silly gorilla’s balloon and let it hover in front of me like a shield.
Broderick makes me laugh. Makes me feel steady. Like I can breathe.
Alex makes me feel like I’m on fire and underwater at the same time.
I don’t know which one scares me more.
I’ve been dodging his calls for days. Turning my phone over when it lights up. Telling myself I’ll call him back after this demo, after this verse, after I finish the next impossible lyric.
Now it’s three days later, and the song still isn’t finished.
The music room is a mess. Empty coffee mugs, scribbled pages, my Telecaster leaning against the couch like it’s given up on me.
I hit stop on the loop I’ve been playing and sit back, head buzzing with too many ideas and none of them sticking quite right.
The high of the nominations has worn off; now the pressure to create something better clings to me—sticky and suffocating.
My phone lights up again.
I groan.
Mortimer.
After his oddly warm behavior at the wedding left me uneasy, I’ve been avoiding him—saving my tolerance for the upcoming holidays, when I’ll be spending time with him out of polite obligation.
I hesitate before answering, wondering how much longer I can keep dodging his calls before he turns up on my doorstep.
I glare at my guitar hoping it will come to life and give me answers to everything.
“Hi,” I say, voice tight.
“Elena.” His tone is bright, like he’s been practicing cheerful. “Did you get the flowers Carole and I sent?”
I roll my eyes, picturing the pink and white arrangement—soft, delicate, like something from a bridal catalog. Pretty.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re lovely.”
“We thought they were elegant. Carole said peonies are timeless.”
That’s me—timeless and elegant. I roll my eyes.
I press my thumb to my temple. “Tell her thank you.”
My mood’s already short and being creatively blocked isn’t helping. Stuck in my own skull.
“We’re so proud of you,” he says. “Two Grammy nominations.”
I shift the phone to my other ear, eyes flicking to the piano. “Thanks.”
“I was thinking,” he continues, “when we get back to the city—we should celebrate. Dinner, just the three of us.”
“That’s sweet, but...I’ll see you guys at Thanksgiving, right?”
“Of course. Yes.”
He sounds disappointed. What else is new?
He clears his throat. “Again, well done on the nominations.”
“Thanks.”
He’s being unusually nice and I don’t know what to do with it.
Before I can come up with a polite way to end the call, the door buzzes again.
Saved by the bell.
“Someone’s at the door. I’ve gotta go.”
“All right. Congratulations again, Elena.”
I hang up and cross the apartment, half-expecting another round of flowers. Maybe a marching band this time. I hit the intercom.
“Hey, it’s me.” His voice crackles through the static, sending a wave of excitement through me.
“Come on up.” I press the button, granting him entry.
I open the door before he even gets there.
Broderick walks down the hall—hair windblown, jacket slung over one shoulder, suitcase at his feet.
“Miss me?” he says.
I don’t answer, just launch myself into his arms. Broderick catches me. I grip the collar of his coat, my breath catching at the curve of his neck. He smells like wind and cologne and something so familiar it aches.
He kisses me before either of us speaks—hard and hungry, like he’s been thinking about this since the minute we hung up a few days ago. I kiss him back with everything I haven’t been able to say over the phone.
My back hits the door. His hand cup my face like he doesn’t trust I’m real.
“You’re a day early,” I whisper against his mouth.
“What can I say? I missed you.” He smirks. “Also, I got bored jerking off to your photos.”
I laugh, breathless. “You’re such an idiot.”
“You love it.” He kisses me again. “Tell me you don’t.”
“You just want me for my body.”
He chuckles—the irony not lost on me.
Broderick steps inside, pulling his suitcase in with one hand, the other still on me. I shut the door behind us.
Broderick glances around the apartment, slow and familiar. The gorilla balloon floats above the couch.
“See you got my surprise,” he says, grinning.
“I did—thank you.”
But then his smile fades, and I don’t need to ask why.
He sees the roses. On the dining table. Still front and center. Brazen. Beautiful. Impossible to miss. I didn’t have the heart to throw them out. Now, with the look on his face, I regret that I didn’t.