Ella
Bernard slides onto the bench beside me, and his thigh presses against mine, and I feel my brother's eyes track the shift in Bernard’s body.
But Jason doesn't say anything. He eats a Mercy Ball and stares at the table, and I see him working through something, the gears turning behind his bloodshot eyes.
The party continues around us — Aarthi is deep in conversation with Essence about healthcare policy, Gianna keeps bringing food — but our corner of the table has gone quiet. The three of us in our own pocket of gravity.
"So," Jason says.
"So," I say.
Bernard says nothing.
Jason pushes a meatball around his plate. "How long has this been going on for real?”
I glance at Bernard. He gives me the smallest nod. My story to tell.
"Since a few weeks after I moved in." I don't offer details. Jason doesn't need a timeline of sexual milestones. "It started as something … casual. And then it wasn't."
Jason looks at Bernard. “You tried casual with my sister?”
Bernard holds my brother's gaze. "No," he says. “Not really.”
Jason eats another meatball. I watch him chew, and I think about all the meals I've eaten in the background of Jason's life: in arena parking lots, at team dinners where nobody asked my opinion, at family tables where the conversation revolved around his stats.
This meal is different. He's listening. And eating food named in my honor.
"I owe you an apology," Jason says, and he's looking at me. "Not just for yesterday. For … a lot of stuff."
"Jason—"
"Let me get this out." He sets down his fork. "I didn't know you were unhappy. Growing up, I mean. I didn't realize you felt like you were just … along for the ride. I thought we were having fun."
"You were having fun. You were the one playing."
He winces. "Yeah. I'm getting that now." He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so similar to Bernard's that I almost laugh. "I should have been better. I should have noticed."
"You're noticing now. That counts."
He nods. Picks his fork back up. Sets it down again. "I want to do something. And I need you to not argue with me about it."
"That's a big ask, bruh.”
He grins and gestures at me with his fork. “There are units for sale in our building." He pauses to chew and swallow. "I want to buy you your own place. So you have a home that's actually yours."
I stare at him, not comprehending that he wants to buy me a condo. "Jason, that's—"
"I said don't argue."
"It's too much."
"It's not enough." His voice is rough. “I’m a freaking millionaire, and you had to take out loans for college, and then I didn’t come through with my promise to help you land on your feet in a new city.” He pushes his plate around with one hand, fidgeting.
"Let me do this, Ella. I've got more money than I know what to do with, and my sister has been living out of a suitcase in my roommate's bedroom. Please let me buy you an apartment."
I look at Bernard, who is studying his plate with great intensity, clearly determined not to influence this conversation.
"Okay," I say. "Thank you."
Jason exhales. "Good. Okay." He picks up his fork and points it at Bernard. "And you."
Bernard raises his head.
"What I said in the parking lot. About your dad." Jason's jaw tightens. "That was a low blow. You're nothing like him, and I know that. I was pissed, and I went for the worst thing I could think of, and it wasn't fair."
Bernard nods slowly. "I appreciate that."
"I'm not saying I'm cool with all of this yet." Jason waves his fork between us. "But I'm trying."
"That's all I'm asking," Bernard says.
I reach under the table and take Bernard's hand. He threads his fingers through mine. Jason sees, and his face cycles through about four expressions before landing on resigned acceptance.
"Of course you fell for him," Jason mutters, stabbing a meatball. “It had to be a hockey guy.”
"You have awesome taste in friends," I say. "That's really all this is."
Jason chews. Considers. "I can live with that."
The tension at our end of the table eases, and Bernard's thumb traces circles on my palm under the table. I press my knee harder against his thigh.
We eat. We talk. The weight of our secrets falls away, and I feel light.
After a while, I catch Bernard's eye and hold it, craving warmth that has nothing to do with meatball sauce.
"I think we're going to head out," Bernard says, pushing back from the table.
Jason looks at us. At our linked hands. At the way I'm leaning into Bernard's shoulder. "Fine." He waves us off. "Just don't be gross and suck face where I can see."
Bernard grins. "Is that a fourth rule? I'm losing track."
"Get out of here, Howie."
"Yes, sir." Bernard stands, pulls me up beside him, and grabs my coat from the back of the bench.
Jason watches us head for the door and calls out, "I'm giving you a head start. I need to call my realtor and my money guy."
"Thank you, Jason," I say from the doorway.
"Yeah, yeah." He's already on his phone. "Love you or whatever."
The cold hits us as we push through the front door.
Bernard's arm settles around my shoulders, and I tuck against his side as we walk to the G-Wagon.
I think about Bernard's hands and Bernard's mouth and the fact that we have an empty apartment waiting for us with no danger, no threat of failure in sight.
He starts the engine, and I watch his hands on the steering wheel, and I feel a surge of want so sharp it surprises me. This feeling is bold, sharp, and urgent. "Bernard."
"Yeah?"
"There's a lesson we never covered."
He glances at me. "What?"
I trail my fingers along the center console. "Car sex."
The G-Wagon swerves. Bernard's knuckles go white on the wheel. "Ella."
"This car has a very spacious back seat."
"We are not—I'm not—this is a moving vehicle."
"I'm just saying. For future reference." I run my palm slowly across my chest, tracing the neckline of my sweater, and watch his eyes dart from the road to my hand and back. "The leather is very nice."
"Ella Rujkowski, I am operating heavy machinery."
"Noted." I reach across the console and rest my hand on his thigh. His quad tenses under my palm, and I hear his breath catch, and I feel powerful in a way that has become familiar and addictive. "I can wait until we get back to the condo."
"Thank you."
"But I’m very, very turned on right now.”
He drives faster. I leave my hand on his thigh and watch Pittsburgh blur past the window, and I think about the first time I sat in this passenger seat, freezing, annoyed, on my way from the airport to crash on a couch.
Bernard was a stranger then. A childhood annoyance with bloodshot eyes and a hat pulled low.
Now his leg is warm under my hand, and his jaw is tight with desire, and he's driving me to the place where we figured each other out over meatballs and medical quizzes and gentle, luxurious touches.
"Bernard?"
"If you say car sex again, I’ll wreck.”
"I was going to say I love you."
The car goes quiet. His hand leaves the wheel and covers mine on his thigh. He squeezes once. Twice.
"I love you too, Ella." His voice is rough and certain. "I've loved you for so long and been afraid of how I feel.”
He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles without taking his eyes off the road.
My own eyes fill with tears. I’m so happy right now, joyful in a way I never even imagined.
This man beside me helped me grab the career I’m good at, and I love him.
And he loves me back. It’s surreal, and yet … here he is. Real. Solid. Mine.
I lace my fingers through his and hold on for the rest of the drive.