“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“I’ll teach you everything you need to know about your finances. We’ll go through it together. And about Rich . . .” I inhale a breath. On this, I don’t want to budge. But when she was out there, being pissed, I promised myself I would try harder to be more understanding. “Tell your dad when you’re ready. As long as you and I and Rich know the arrangement, I can live with it a little longer.”
She smiles. “You’re so good at taking care of me.”
Fuck fuck fuck. My chest aches. Nobody ever said that to me, not my mom, definitely not Kendra. I’m not even sure Marissa will think of me as a good dad once Kendra’s through with her. Halston’s hands are nice and warm in mine now. I kiss the place where her palms meet. “We’ll do the photo shoot. I need to have final say, though.”
“You will.”
“There’s a right way to do this, I knew there was, I just didn’t even want to entertain the idea. I’ve tried so hard to separate money and art. I don’t like them to overlap, because it feels cheap. And the thought of putting you out there like that for other men to look at worries me, but that goes without saying.”
“I promise, Finn, nobody gets me but you. I’m yours to share with the world, not the other way around.”
“I’m not sharing you. You’re mine, and that won’t change.” I unwrap her scarf from her neck, and her hair frizzes with static. I smooth it down. “I would’ve gone to look for you, but I didn’t know where to start. I don’t even know exactly which block your apartment’s on.”
“I wasn’t there long. It doesn’t feel like home. I got the journals, then walked around until I ended up here.”
“You should give up that apartment.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s right. I want our lives merged for real. This will be the first step toward showing everyone—exes, parents, children—this is real. “If we fight, if we piss each other off, I want you to come back here. Always. No matter how bad it is. Even if it means I’m banned to the couch.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “My lease is up in March.”
“Do you think it’s too soon for us to move in together?”
She answers with a small, goading smile. “Totally.”
“March it is, then?”
She stands and floats onto my lap, into my arms, her laugh soft and angelic. “I got your message.”
“Which one? I sent like eight.”
She kisses my cheek. “You know which one.”
I whisper her own words into her ear. “When you’re gone, there is no light.”
25
I can admit when I’m wrong.
At my desk in the studio, I browse the twenty images I’ve just edited, chosen from more than a hundred taken yesterday. I may be biased, but my girlfriend wears lingerie like no fucking other.
In one of my favorites, Halston stretches in a doorway, her arms over her head, fingers resting on the doorframe. Her head is turned to the side. A curtain of white-blonde curls covers her face, stopping right above her breasts. The sheer, black leotard—or bodysuit, as I was told—has a faint lace design that conceals her nipples and a neckline that dips to her belly button.
I was nothing but professional. I spent the entire session with a hard-on and didn’t even touch her.
Halston comes into the studio in head-to-toe sweats, the same pink color of the Mont Blanc I bought her, spooning yogurt into her mouth. She sits on my knee. “They’re beautiful, Finn.”
I have no better word to describe her. “Yeah.”
The black lace is stark against her white skin and colorless hair. The pieces curve smoothly with her hips and breasts. Her nipples point through a nude silk negligee. Her tummy is flat in a baby pink bustier with black garters that connect to matching thigh-highs.
“I’ll be honest, some of the stuff they sent looked pretty unattractive in the box, but fuck. Who knew bodysuits could be sexy?”
“I did. That’s why I wanted to do this.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. Did you also know Butter was sending thongs? They would’ve shown your entire ass.”
She holds out her spoon. “Have some yogurt.”
I loop an arm around her waist and pull her deeper into my lap. “Will they let you keep them, even though we didn’t shoot them?”
“You can’t have it both ways,” she says.
I slip a finger into the waistband of her sweats and slide it down her crack. “Can’t I?”
She freezes. I don’t blame her. We’ve discussed each journal she laid out on the table last week except the “dark” one. I’m in no rush to get through them, but I’m only human. I’ve had my nose stuck in one any time she’s not around. She probably thinks I have a problem, since my erection’s going strong each night she gets home from work.
I give her ass cheek a squeeze and change the subject. “I need to share one of these today. Valentine’s is ten days away and we promised ten posts.”
“Bodysuit,” she says. “Men looking for gifts will need a few days to get used to it.”
I slide a pen and notepad in front of her. “Write the caption while I upload the photo to my phone.”
“You think I can just snap my fingers and come up with something?” she asks.
“Kind of. You’re a pro like that.”
“No, I’m not.” She pushes the notepad away and tries to get up. “Actually, I’m really not, like not at all.”
I keep her in my lap. The tautness of her muscles tells me something’s wrong, and I can take a pretty good guess what it is. She must’ve read a comment or message she shouldn’t have, which means she’s checking our posts faster than I’m able to catch the bad stuff. There’s rarely anything negative, but I never know when it’ll come. I have to be more vigilant. “What happened?” I ask.
She sets her yogurt on the desk and looks out the window with a sigh. “I don’t know. It’s not coming as easily as it did.”
I tilt my head, trying to see her expression. Maybe this isn’t about our photos. “What isn’t?
“The words. I used to be able to sit down and let it flow. Even when it was a couple words or lines, writing something down cut the tension in my body like scissors to string.”
“And now?”
“Nothing. The blank page stares at me. I can practically hear it laughing.”
“But . . .” I put my hand on her shoulder. “We’ve been doing this for months and you haven’t mentioned this.”
She shifts toward me. “Because you’ve gotten almost everything from my journal. What happens when we’ve used all the passages?”
Now that I think about it, she’s right. I almost always turn to her journal, and the few times I’ve asked her for a caption, it’s taken her days to get something to me. “We won’t run out,” I assure her. “There are hundreds. Plus,” I slide my hand inside her sweatshirt, “now I’ve got even more to work with. I know I haven’t mentioned it yet, but I’ve been reading the other journal.”
She shudders but pushes my hand out of her top. “I’m serious, Finn. What if I’m all dried up?”
“You’re not, believe me. It’s probably just . . .”
She rubs the inside of her elbow. There’s a dry patch of skin she absentmindedly scratches when she gets nervous. “What?”
I cover her hand with mine, lacing our fingers together. She got self-conscious about the itching when I brought it up, so I’ve figured out other ways to help. “Well, things are good between us. You’re happy, so maybe it’s a little harder to create.”
She considers this a few seconds before nodding at the images on the screen. “But you can create. Does that mean you aren’t happy?”
“No. It just means I work differently than you. Look, don’t worry about the caption. I’ll go find one.”
“Aren’t you getting tired of having to look through my stuff for each photo?”
If I could only put into words how not tired I am. How I could page through her thoughts for hou
rs on end, envisioning how she was before me, then us together, then our future. When I think of her words, I feel as though I could photograph her for weeks and not run out of ideas. Briefly, I wonder if the opposite is true for her. Does my work not inspire her? Not even a little? I kiss the side of her head. “I’ll never grow tired of it.”
I get up, and she takes my place at the computer. I find her journals in the kitchen next to yesterday’s mail. On the top of the pile is a check from Butter Boudoir. Five grand. Everything I told Halston is true—I don’t have to worry about money just yet, but half this payment will cover almost a month of rent, and I earned it doing something I love.
I glance over my shoulder and open the journal she described as explicit. From what I’ve read, it’s mostly what I suspected. There are entries about the sting of a hand on her ass, being bound and helpless to her lover’s whims, and even some that walk the line of force. I hadn’t expected the anal, though.