Chapter 22 Felicity
Felicity
When I reach the sidewalk, where the song is no longer muffled by the building, I finally recognize what it is. That first love song he played for me—the one about fools rushing in.
I approach him slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of my oversized hoodie, shoulders tensed up to my earlobes.
There’s no easy way for me to predict how this will go, and I hate that.
There’s a reason I chose a career that means I spend more time talking with computers than with people.
With code, I know where I stand. I pretty much control my destiny.
With people, I don’t get the same luxury.
There’s always the chance they’ll say or do something that defies logic.
Even from afar, Cupid looks sad. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I take a moment to observe him, this man who showed up in my life just days ago and upended everything I thought I believed in.
His brows are knitted together, eyes half-lidded, fists shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket.
And then there’s the song, hanging over him like a dense fog.
Slow and almost mournful, although he insisted that it’s a love song. Not just a love song, but the love song.
Despite my anger at him, I can’t shake how lovely he is. My flashbacks didn’t do him justice. It’s not just that he’s handsome—and he is devastatingly handsome—it’s that I realize for the first time how vulnerable he is. That he doesn’t hide himself away, pretending to be something he’s not.
When I look at Cupid, I see someone exposed, who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who’s a little odd, yes, but doesn’t try to hide it.
Cupid told me that the anachronistic style choices are his armor.
I didn’t think anything of it at the time.
We all wear some kind of armor when we step out the door each day.
But while Cupid’s armor might offer him protection, make him more capable of facing bad situations, he doesn’t use it to tuck himself away from the world.
I realize with sudden clarity that my armor isn’t armor—not like his is. Mine is a mask, or a shield. Something I wield indiscriminately to keep people at arm’s length, to keep them from seeing me. The real me. If they can’t see me, they can’t hurt me. If they can’t hurt me, I must be safe.
When I think about it that way, it’s ridiculous, really. I’m not brave because I actively abstain from looking for love. It doesn’t make me special. It makes me a coward—too scared to open up to anyone new since the last guy broke my heart.
How many other beautiful people did I miss out on because I refused to drop my disguise and let someone know the real me? How many more times will I miss out?
In every moment I’ve known Cupid, he has shown me the real him and accepted the real me. Not the surface-level Felicity, but the Felicity hidden underneath. I never had reason to question him, until…
I squeeze my eyelids together. Shake my head to clear my thoughts. When I open my eyes, Cupid’s are boring into me—I’ve been caught in the open. No more hiding.
For several seconds, we just look at each other. He flashes a tight, unsure smile. The street is uncharacteristically silent except for the music coming from the car, acting as a disembodied DJ for our awkward block party of two.
Cupid doesn’t leave his post. I can tell he’s waiting for me to make the first move, and I know that this is the right thing to do—that he’s letting me have control in this situation. However, a cowardly part of me wishes he would relieve me of the burden.
I could turn around. I could ignore him and forget about this, about him. I could put up my shield and go back to the Felicity I was before I stepped into that bar the other night. Nothing would have to change.
That’s the problem, though. Nothing would have to change.
I haven’t felt as happy or as seen and understood by someone in years as I have by Cupid these past few days. Probably not since I met Janae, when we immediately fit together like two puzzle pieces. And she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.
It really comes down to this: I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering what if?
I can’t enter every day knowing that an answerable question was left unanswered.
So I take a deep breath and make the last few steps toward Cupid.
“I thought I told you not to contact me,” I say, shooting him an unsure smile.
Cupid shrugs. “You also told me to cut my hair.” He ruffles a hand through his mop of hair. “That was never going to happen either.”
I grimace and direct my attention to the ground between us. “I never should have said that. I happen to like your hair.”
“I think we both said things we never should have said.” Cupid nudges my shoe with his boot. “Hey,” he says, urging me to look at him. “I’m really sorry. For what I said. For not telling you the truth.”
My lips tighten as I swallow. I’m trying not to let the lump in my throat turn into tears in my eyes. I don’t know what to say. I want to move past this, but it’s not as simple as a one-time apology. I need to know if I can trust him before I hand over something as fragile and precious as my heart.
Suddenly, my mind goes back to something he told me on our drive.
“What you told me about repairing broken things—the kintsugi…” I hesitate, chewing on my next words. “Does it make that broken thing stronger, afterwards?”
“It can,” he says. “When done right.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice an open cardboard box in the back seat of his car, absolutely overflowing with stuff.
“What’s all this?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Oh!” Cupid perks up and pushes off the side of the car. “Thanks for reminding me. I brought you some things,” he looks at me shyly, “to say I’m sorry.”
I’m about to tell him that wasn’t necessary, that he shouldn’t have. But he’s already craning the top half of his body to grab the box, and his ass still looks so good in those jeans. I’m only human.
“Here.” He whips out a bouquet and hands it back to me.
“I wasn’t sure if you liked flowers,” he says, still digging, “so I got you these chocolates, too.” I snatch those from him right away, immediately tearing into the box.
Oh my god, this chocolate is delicious. My eyes roll to the back of my head as I savor the bite.
When Cupid turns around holding a framed photo of my ex, I almost choke.
“Why do you have a picture of Bryan?” I ask, eyebrows arched so high you could summit them.
“It goes with this.” He presents me with a baseball bat. “Some things are better off broken,” he says with a wink.
Maybe I’m weak—or maybe I’m just stupid for Cupid—but in that moment, I let the flowers and chocolates fall to the ground, and I kiss him.
Cupid drops what he’s holding and pulls me closer. I wrap my arms around his neck and deepen the kiss, pressing my body to him and using my tongue to nudge his lips open.
We’re so caught up in each other that we jump when we hear a deep voice yell from across the street, “CAN YOU TURN THAT FUCKING RACKET OFF?” This, followed by: “Yeah! And get a room!” I look toward my building and see Janae leaning out of my apartment window with a huge grin.
My face heats in embarrassment. Cupid, of course, takes it in stride by flipping the radio off and taking my hand in his.
“What do you think, Love?” he asks, cupping my jaw and stroking my lips with his thumb.
I don’t say a word—just squeeze his hand and lead him toward my apartment.