Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
Some encounters slip in quietly, like a pickpocket stealing away your carefully constructed narrative before you even realize what's happening.
When Will first appeared, or rather, when I first noticed him, I was certain I knew exactly who he was. Confident, arrogant, with a polished veneer that suggests he'd never truly been challenged. But Will Sterling is decidedly not that man. He's blooming into something more complicated, suddenly a Russian nesting doll of contradictions wrapped in tailored clothing and unexpected vulnerability.
His brother just left, dropping verbal breadcrumbs that hinted at some of it. And here we are, tucked into a booth that feels like our own private universe, playing a game of conversational chess where each move reveals something deeper. The booth creaks each time shift as I peel my skin off the material of the seat and the worn wood table between us bears the scars of countless nights like this one. Rings of glasses, initials carved into its surface like evidence of all the people who sat here before us. Eventually fading into the mere suggestions of past nights, past conversations, and past possibilities, just like this one will. Beyond our alcove, the bar thrums with movement. Clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter, the steady pulse of bodies moving through spaces too small to contain them.
"Well, I definitely didn't anticipate a family reunion tonight," I say, swirling my drink. "Is this how you normally spend your evenings? Ambushing unsuspecting women with impromptu family drama?"
He leans back, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "I think it would do you well to remember, you started this whole thing."
"Impressive time management skills," I deadpan. "Balancing museum tours, family confrontations, and whatever elaborate game of flirting we're currently engaged in."
"Bold of you to assume," he says, "that this is either a game or flirting, you said you weren't available."
"Isn't it?" I match his raised eyebrow. "Because I've been on the receiving end of enough of it to recognize the signs. You are definitely flirting."
He leans in, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes that might otherwise be lost to the deepest blues of them. The same eyes that have tracked my every movement since I walked onto his tour.
"I thought asking you out would have made that clear."
His brother's earlier comments haven't evaporated from the space, and certainly not my interest in wanting to understand the root of them. The fragments of the conversation suggest Will is running from something, hiding behind museum walls and witty deflections. But right now, in this moment, he is more present than anyone I've been with in months, years even. Including any tortuous conversation I have with myself. Even though I also know from past experience, that present doesn't mean permanent.
I sat here and played along to the bit that I first introduced, having no clue it would land us both in this situation. But when it did, it felt like the least I could do. Although, I'm not actually sure if I made it worse.
"Well, I definitely didn’t think we were going to jump right into meeting the family." I say where maybe I owe him an apology.
"Wasn't the plan, but now I'm thinking we can just plan a January wedding," he quips. I shake my head, this man is quick. Catching the tail of whatever I say. I saw it earlier also, the unbridled interest in me mid-argument. He laughs and inches closer to me in the booth. His back is towards the rest of the bar, shielding me from all the Gerrys and Alfies of the world, or at least in this space. Maybe because he knows them better than I do.
Yet, he's so deeply invested in this moment, in me. I've seen men look at me before. They have for years. But this time feels different, because for the first time in a long time, I feel invested back.
Maybe it's nothing more than the alignment of the stars or the recent loss of the dead weight I've been carrying around in the form of Gabriel-the-convenience-boyfriend. But investment in this moment will not make any of it enough.
"Speaking of college…" I begin to position the question.
“We weren’t speaking of college…” Will says without his eyes breaking the connection with mine.
"Oh, that's right, well , now that we are…" I trail off deliberately, and he laughs a rich, warm sound that sinks into my stomach as I lay the foundation of the question I wanted to ask earlier. "That's it, isn't it? How we know each other?" I wonder if I sound more vulnerable than I intend to, but I'm looking for confirmation over what I'm fairly certain of. But I'm afraid speaking the connection into existence might make it disappear.
The way he's looking at me now, half-smiling like he's been waiting for me to piece it together, and pleased with me that I have.
"Yeah, though I'm pretty sure back then you were too busy calling the professor an 'pedantic drone,'" he says through a smile, maybe with more memory of a previous interaction than I have. "Had I known that today I would have ended up on the receiving end of that same style of public flogging, I would have stayed home."
His fingers move against mine, mindlessly, like our hands are locked in a conversation of their own.
“No, you wouldn't," I say with certainty.
"No," he pauses and the air between us is thick and warm, "I wouldn't." His smile engulfs us both. Reaching for his beer to sip slowly, an act of restraint for the electricity flowing between us.
I think back to the class we would have shared, and I have guilt for not noticing him then.
This city has more than half a million people in it. More than 150,000 of them are students. It's not surprising that I would have crossed paths with a few of them. Though, this feels more than a coincidence of census. I put that thought to the side. Knowing that even if I had known him then as I do now, with the indisputable sense of lust and interest that I have in this moment, in this man, what would ultimately have changed? It always ended the same, with me bolting before it could really take root. Well, except that one time . And rather than spending time conducting another full post-mortem on college romances, I tuck myself in closer to him now.
Our bodies shift in small ways to touch each other. Not in the way that I do to gain a man's attention, a small touch on the arm, or a graze of the leg, but like a thrumming of electricity that would have made Franklin reach for a key.
"How about you, besides hiding out in museums, what do you usually do with your time?"
"I wasn't hiding, I don't actually even have a lot of time." I say with some incredulity at the albeit accurate accusation.
"Ah, that's right, you're not available. I had you pegged as much more of a runner than a hider anyway." I cross my legs beneath the table as he stretches his out to tangle further with mine.
"And what makes you such an expert?"
"Because I do the same thing."
There's silence between us, he doesn't force it with chatter, and while we have cocooned in this back booth, I am anything but trapped. I watched him as he walked up to the bar to order a couple drinks, watched as he leaned against the same spot he rescued me from not long ago. I know there are people around, but it's like everyone else moves to the outskirts of my mind, my peripheral sight, as he stands there, surprisingly commanding. The combination of tailored and free. His arms crossed, as he nodded along to the conversation being made next to him, possibly to him. Grabbing the drinks from the bar, and parting the red sea of people crossing to return to this booth where I remain shrouded in darkness of the wood partitions.
But then there's this pull. This maddening, tethering, pull. Is it curiosity, is it the vulnerability that showed through with his brother, or is this just my old M.O. slipping through the cracks I've kept sealed since college.
Time in space shared with him becomes ignorant of the surrounding world. We just sit here and nurse a couple of drinks. They serve as the added props to this conversation right next to the stale pretzels he also snagged from the bar.
"What was all that about?" I ask with the gentle nod back towards the location of his brother and all that went along with it.
"All that," he breathes with an exhaustion that tells me more than I have any right knowing, "is just the same fight I've had since I graduated."
In my lack of reply, he continues.
"My family is less than enthusiastic about the choices I make, and because of that, I don't see them often. They think they know what's best, and maybe they do, but I've yet to be convinced."
I remember being in a place once, where I struggled with the idea of expectation, only to realize they were my expectations and no one else's. Though, based on the encounter, and what he's saying now, it doesn't feel like he has the same blank check of emotional support that I have from my parents.
I look at him and the way I can see his mind running. Even though the core of his body is so still next to mine. The hint of gold in his eyes counter to the silver of his name, but the flecks like that of the gilded frames surrounding the great works he dedicates his days to.
His eyes narrow perhaps, like I am, deciding how dangerous this is.
"Why did you turn me down earlier?"
"I told you, I'm busy, I just…"
"Are you? Or are you sabotaging yourself for the chance to be anything other than busy. Because being busy is a hell of a lot easier than being happy."
"There's nothing wrong with 'busy.' I'm not unhappy, as much as I don't think of happiness the same way I did when I was a kid. It's just the disillusionment of adulthood. I'm fine."
This conversation escalated, and I know I’m the reason. Opening the door to more than light banter. But it’s dripping with an intense sincerity that’s indescribable.
"You don't strike me as the type of person to settle for anything, let alone fine."
"I’m using it exactly as the word was meant to be used. As in, ‘Will, you gave a fine tour today.’ "
"I thought we'd been over this, I'm better than fine… and from what I see, so are you. That's what I don't get. You came in today in a daze, with a bag of food, you're really not supposed to eat in there by the way , and you just strolled around, picking up steam, eventually clearing the fog of whatever it was keeping you cloudy the moment you thought you had a viable challenger." He smirks slightly. He clears the gruffness in his voice, "And I'll take that challenge, any day, anywhere."
He's coated with passion in more ways than one and it's collecting like dew across skin.
"So no, I don't think fine is something you'd settle for in your life. Fine dining, maybe. Fine jewelry, sure. Fine people, fine career? Fine, happiness ? I don't believe you. And I saw you there waiting for me, gearing up to double down on the fight for no reason other than the principle of it, or maybe the thrill of winning. Why would you do that if you weren't looking for more? Why are you still here, right now… looking at me like that, if you're not available."
"I really wanted a free t-shirt."
"And yet here you are."
"Here I am," I agree. "Though I recall you also said you were meeting someone, what would you have done if I said yes earlier?"
"Cancelled." And he looks at me like it was an obvious answer, as if there wouldn't have been a plan he wouldn't have me wreck.
"You caught me on a weird day. Work just, it feels like I'm constantly trying to learn the rules of a game while everyone else is changing them. And I finally have a chance to actually show everyone there that I'm just as good, actually that I'm better, but that means that no matter how easily I used to fall into the arms of a devastatingly handsome distraction, I can't afford any right now." While part of what I said came across as a taunt, there's truth in my avoidance, and I can see the moment he recognizes it for what it is. And I watch as his Adam's apple moves slowly to swallow it down
“You think I'm handsome?" His hand is spread across my thigh.
"I think you're devastating." My legs intertwine with his.
"I think you're avoiding the question." His fingers knead into my skin.
"And I think you're missing the point." My eyes narrow on him as I say it.
The way everything between us escalates quickly, it makes sense why I would consider it a distraction.
"What are you afraid of being distracted from, or is it what you're afraid of being distracted by?" He asks, perhaps the most terrifying question yet.
"I thought I would know what I wanted to do, and I don't. At eighteen I knew everything, and now, despite the degrees, I feel like just a child with a bank account. And every decision causes an emotional overdraft fee. It just feels like I'm watching everyone else get to where they want to go while I'm sitting at the bus stop waiting patiently, terrified I'm going to board the wrong bus. I thought I would love my job, I want to solve problems, I want to grow something someday. But I can't even keep Pricktor alive."
“ Pricktor? ” he asks.
“My succulent boss.”
He nods in understanding as an indication for me to continue now that I’ve clarified my aptly named boss inspired desk-plant mid-fucking-ramble.
"I know, things take time. I know, 'Rome wasn't built in a day.' Trust me, I know how the story goes when you try to sprint before you've learned to walk. I've heard it all... but I'm so bored waiting."
There's something freeing about confessing all this to a stranger, someone who exists outside the carefully constructed narrative of my life. And he just takes it in, our earlier banter transforming into something weightier, more real.
"What if you're wrong?”
“I’m never wrong.”
“What if you're meant to run, and all these careful steps are just ways of talking yourself out of your own strength? I'm just looking at you, and I can't understand why you would deny yourself anything."
"Says the man running away."
"Guess that makes me the expert then."
The tension between us pulses like a living thing, expanding and contracting with each breath. His proximity is a gravitational pull, not the performative lean-in of desperate courtship, but something more geological.
Tectonic.
Our bodies are land masses slowly, inexorably converging, carrying millennia of unspoken history.