Gorgeous Misery (Creeping Beautiful)

I love him. Like so much. After Chek, Nick has always been my number one. He’s my guy. He’s my go-to. He’s my best friend, and my only boyfriend—like ever. And my rock.

But sometimes I just want to kill him.

And that’s not like… a metaphor. I get urges when I’m with Nick and I don’t know what to do about them, so I start a fight to create the separation we seem to thrive on.

We have spent more time apart than we ever did together. And even though I lived with him on and off for almost six years back when I was a kid and he was raising Lauren, there is still so much empty space between us. Nineteen years. That’s how long we’ve been friends. And there are more angry phone calls, pissed-off voicemails, and fuck-you handwritten letters over that period of time than there will ever be soft, casual, intimate conversations.

And I hate that.

So I just want this one moment. Before we have that fight, I just want to appreciate how beautiful he is. How perfect he is. How… mine he is.

“What are ya waiting for?” he calls, loud enough so I can hear him through the closed truck windows. Like I need to hear him to hear him. “Get your ass in here. It’s fucking cold out.”

I open the truck door. It creaks a little, breaking the almost surreal stillness surrounding the cabin. Then I grab the bag of mail from the passenger side and turn to him as I close the door.

“Uh.” He’s eyeing my bag of mail. “What do ya got there?”

I hold up the bag. “Mount Pleasant mail.”

His eyes narrow for a moment. “How long has it been since you picked up the mail?”

I cannot stop the smile. “Why? Did you write me fuck-you letters?”

He chuckles, but it’s a nervous chuckle.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He walks forward and jumps down the porch steps with his hand out. “Give me the bag.”

“No.” I turn when he reaches me, laughing. “I want to read them all. I want to hear all the silent fuck-yous you sent over the past two years.”

“You haven’t picked up Mount Pleasant mail in two years? Wendy. Give me the bag.” He’s using his serious voice.

“How many fights is that? Ten? Twenty?”

“Give it.”

“No!” I’m doubled over, protecting the bag like it’s an infant, laughing harder as he comes up behind me, wraps his arms all the way around me, and hugs me. He doesn’t even pretend to reach for the bag. I drop it anyway. I turn in his embrace until we’re face to face. Well, he’s a lot taller than me, so I’m looking up and he’s looking down, when this happens.

Those brown eyes.

I have always wished for brown eyes.

Because if I had brown eyes, instead of these evil blue ones, I would not be the girl I am.

I would be more like him.

I would be sane, and rational, and maybe even normal.

He places both hands on my cheeks and smiles again. “I’ve fucking missed you.”

“Me too.”

“Why were we fighting again?”

“I have no idea.”

He laughs as he kisses me. And that laugh fills me up so much that all the bad shit hiding inside is pushed out to the furthest edges of my limits. I love the way we kiss. It’s like… paradise. That’s what our kisses are.

He pulls back just enough so our lips separate. “Come on. Let’s go inside. I’m making cookies.”

“You are not.”

“I swear to fucking God.” He casually reaches for my mail bag on the ground and I don’t move to stop him. He’s not going to burn them or throw them away. We keep every letter like we’re archiving some historical moment or something. We don’t even erase voicemails. Each one of these things is a precious record of us and our weird, unorthodox relationship.

He pulls away for real, then walks over to my truck and opens the back cab door. My truck is full of bags and most of them are not presents. My truck is my home. I mean, I don’t sleep in it. We don’t sleep in our trucks, Nick and I. But this is just how we live, I guess.

Wanderers.

For as long as I can remember, Nick and I have been wanderers.

He’s the only person on this earth who gets me anymore. Chek died before I truly turned into a drifter. And Chek never did the wandering like Nick and me. When I lived with Chek, we had this place, of course, which we came home to when we weren’t working. But we worked a lot when I was a kid so we spent most of our time living in Company safehouses with other assassins.

Nick slings a duffle bag over his shoulder and then grabs the bag of presents.

“Here,” I say. “Let me help you.”