Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RUSTY
A sh is wearing my clothes and showered in my shower. We went out tonight and came back home to my house. The storm has progressed enough that it's not safe for me to take her home, and part of me wonders if she suspected this would happen all along.
After dinner, I went upstairs to change the sheets for her to sleep in, and she followed me, dropped to my couch, and propped her feet up on my table. So now we're both sitting there, our sides glued together, and watching fail videos on my laptop.
It's everything I ever wanted.
She is everything I ever wanted.
Loving her is as natural as breathing, except I'm always sucking in air through a straw. All I want is to drop the straw and inhale deeply, but I’ll take every breath I can get.
In my months of pining, I never imagined I'd get to have a week like this one. I hope Philip decides to move to Sugar Maple so we can keep up the ruse indefinitely, but even if he goes back tomorrow, I'll look back at this week as a gift. Knowing the feel of her skin and the taste of her lips is a privilege I never expected. Every day after we return to normal will be harder for it, but it doesn't make this experience any less poignant.
You can't know sweet without the bitter.
Sure, the opposite is also true, but I can't waste another second with her worrying about when this will be gone.
I won't.
In between videos, Ash flips over to social media to check on the status of our first reel. She checks a different platform each time. They're all doing well, with a few hundred thousand views combined so far. But then she switches to another platform and sits upright. "RUSTY!"
She points to the views number at the bottom of the reel.
"Two point two million!" I say. She throws her arms around me, squealing and squeezing tightly. I'm sore from the ice football, but her embrace is a balm, even if she's pressing on bruises. "And look at the comments!"
There are thousands of comments, ranging from "Um where is this?? So cute!" to comments like "OMgosh, do you think Lucy Jane is there right now?? Going tomorrow!" Some people are commenting on the shops themselves, and a quick glance at our town commerce account shows thousands of new followers.
"You did it!" I say.
" We did it! I never could have done this without you. We’re a team! Best team ever."
She sits back, but she stays nestled under my arm. By choice. No one is watching us. There's no point to this other than that she wants it.
Does she really want it?
Does her pulse spike thinking of me the way mine does thinking of her? Do her thoughts race and her hands get clammy? Does her monochrome world suddenly come to life in a kaleidoscope of color like mine does when I see her?
"We didn't need Lucy Jane, we needed your perspective on how to use someone like Lucy Jane. Her star power is a lot less important than your brain power."
"Oh, stop."
"I'm serious," I say as she watches the reel with the sound off. "Stars endorse products everyday and they don't take off like this."
"You're getting ahead of yourself, Hotcakes," she says.
"I'm not. I knew it would be big the second you told me your idea."
"It was your idea. You searched 'what to do in Charleston in four hours,' and that's what made me realize I was going about it all wrong."
"I was looking for inspiration."
"Well, you struck it in me."
"Only because you're a genius."
She fidgets with her fingernail. “You’re too nice to me,” she says, and there's that note in her voice I've heard before, somewhere between self-deprecating and self-doubt.
"No, I’m not. Ash, you don't see yourself accurately. You're creating masterpieces with Old Holland oil paints while everyone else is doing color-by-numbers with a Crayola 12-pack, yet somehow, you believe their opinions? Philip and your dad are too blinded by their own egos to see how much brighter the world is with you in it. You can't listen to them. You can't spare them another thought. You can't believe anyone who makes you think you're anything less than extraordinary."
Her cornflower blue eyes are watering when she looks up at me. "You know the same is true of you, right?”
“No—”
“Yes.” Her hand on my jaw stops my protests. "You take care of people. You treat every person like they matter?— ”
“Not every person.”
“Stop doing that! Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re a bad guy. You’re not. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying … including you . And I don’t let anyone tell lies about my Farm Boy.”
Do not look at her lips. Do NOT look at her lips.
It doesn't matter if she's looking at yours!
She's looking at my lips.
I'm looking at her eyes, because a single glance down will be the end of me. I'll go in for a kiss, she'll reject me, and I will expire quicker than a mushy avocado.
She tips her head up and kisses my cheek, and my eyes close. The feel of her lips against my skin is like a brand, searing me. Marking me permanently hers.
This is different than any kiss we've shared this week.
No one is watching.
It's more than I ever thought I'd get, and it doesn't matter that it's not nearly enough.
It's everything.
The storm rages on, but I've never felt more peaceful. Ash catches me yawning, and she gasps. "Rusty, it's past midnight! You're gonna turn into a pumpkin!"
I'm bleary-eyed beyond any ability to express, but I'm too happy to move. "It's fine. I wanted to stay up. And besides, I haven't woken early all week."
"I bet you still woke up at seven every day."
Actually, it was six, but I won't tell her that. I haven't slept past then in so long, I don't remember how. "It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. Just because I'm a night owl, doesn't mean you should stay up. Get in bed."
"I'm not getting in bed. "
"Yes, you are! Get in bed," she orders.
"No way. The storm is forcing you to sleep over, and I don't have the guest room set up or furniture downstairs. You're taking the bed."
"It's your house. I'm not taking the bed. I'll take the couch."
"No, I'll take the couch."
"Rusty — "
"Buttercup, Tag Carville would roll over in his grave if he found out I let you sleep on the couch. Let me be a gentleman."
Her eyes narrow behind her glasses. "We can share the bed. Put up a fortress of pillows between us."
"I repeat: let me be a gentleman."
"Don't think you can control yourself sharing a bed with me, Hotcakes?" she pokes my side playfully, and then keeps poking. And feeling. Her thumb rubs over my abs, and I sit there looking down at her hand on my torso. "Or maybe I'm the one who can't control herself."
I grab her hand before I lose it altogether. "I'm taking the couch."
"Let me think about it. Uh, no." She slumps down onto the couch, presses her feet into my butt, and pushes so fast, I almost drop to the floor.
Almost.
"Not gonna happen," I say, grabbing her legs. She giggles and tries to squirm out of my grip, but I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She stops fighting, and I catch an image of her in the reflection of the bathroom mirror smiling from ear to ear. "You're every romcom readers' hockey dream man right now. You know that, right?"
"I know nothing of the kind." I toss her gently on the bed.
"I'm not even remotely tired," she says, even as she curls into the plush pillows .
"You can stay awake all night if you want. But you're taking the bed."
"I still need to brush my teeth."
I pause. "Me too. But I'm only letting you off this bed if you promise to get back on it."
She smiles so wide, I shake my head. "I don't mean it like that."
"You're a real Don Juan up in here."
I laugh. "Stop. You know what I mean."
"I sure do, Casanova."
"Don't make me go downstairs to sleep."
"I can tease you as easily downstairs as up."
This woman.
I grab a pillow from underneath her, pull a blanket from the ottoman at the foot of my bed, and toss both on the couch. Then I meet Ash in the bathroom. She has her purse out, which is big enough that she pulls some wipes out and washes her face.
"Uh, any chance you have a spare toothbrush? I can swap you for some lotion, a swimsuit, a charging cord, hand sanitizer, six different shades of lipstick, or a pack of gum."
“A swimsuit?”
“Yup. That was one of the first lessons Greg ever taught me. When you live in Colorado, there are always so many rivers and lakes around that you always keep a spare swimsuit with you. Don’t you?”
“No, I do not.”
“Rookie,” she chuckles.
“I have a spare head for my electric toothbrush,” I tell her. “Will that work?"
She nods. "This feels like a preview of us at 80. If we were an old married couple, I mean."
Her face is going red and she puts a hand over her mouth and fakes a yawn. I know it's fake because, well, it's so obviously fake .
What's going on here?
I put on the spare head and let her brush first. She starts doing squats as she brushes. I stare at her, and she laughs, then covers her mouth. She spits and returns to her squats. "Stacking habits. Millie told me about it."
"Smart," I say.
"Lazy," she says, her mouth filling again with toothpaste. She's able to get 45 squats in before she finishes, and they're deep enough that I imagine she's felt at least a little burn. She rinses and removes the head and gives me the rest of the toothbrush.
And now she watches me brush.
This is a problem, because I always close my eyes when I brush. I don't dare close them now, though. Knowing her, she'll be fast asleep on the couch by the time I get back.
Although, that would give me an excuse to pick her up again …
I let my eyes close, and sure enough, when I've finished, Ash is nowhere to be seen. I turn off the light and find her on the couch, with Pookie curled up on the floor.
"Nice try," I say. I scoop her up and deposit her on the bed, and she feigns sleep the entire time. "I can see you trying not to smile."
"I smile in my sleep," she whispers. "Shh."
I put her on the bed, kiss her temple, and then return to the couch.
"Good night, Hotcakes," she says with a yawn from the bed.
I yawn, too. "Night, Gorgeous."