Dirty Wedding

It doesn't help.

I cry like a baby.

Then I embarrass her with stories at lunch—just the three of us—and let her go off with her friends. To a party.

Ty walks me home. "We have a few hours of the apartment to ourselves."

We do.

"And you have the robe I sent to your place."

"Yes," I say.

"I didn't ask a question." He laughs.

"Yes, you did." My cheeks flush. It's hot today, but I don't mind the extra fire. "Can we do it like before?"

"Later." He pulls me into a tight kiss. "Your walls are too thin."

Even though it's a fair point, I pout.

"Would you rather I say never?"

"That's a bluff."

He smiles. "Then call it."

I don't. "Give me ten minutes to shower. Then surprise me."

He nods. Kisses me one more time.

He waits as I shower, forget the complications surrounding us, don my robe.

Then he comes through the open door, pins me to the wall, fucks me.

Exactly like my fantasy.

Exactly what I want.

Exactly what I want and I still want more.

No matter how satisfied I am, I want more.

No matter how much I want, I trust him to give me more.

He stays all evening. Makes dinner. Watches Casablanca with me. Agrees to sleep over.

When we go to my room, he stares with wide eyes. Studies the posters (all female solo musicians) and magazine tear outs on my walls. The messy lyrics I scribbled on notebook paper.

The guitar in the corner.

"You've been playing?" he asks.

"How can you tell?"

"A sense." He wraps his arms around my waist. Presses his lips to my neck. "A lot?"

"A lot."

"Will you play for me?"

"Right now?"

He nods into my shoulder.

My stomach flutters. Playing by myself is one thing. For Ty?

That's terrifying.

"Please," he says. "I want to hear you play."

Please.

It's so unfamiliar on his lips.

It makes me buzz in an entirely different way.

It's not just that I want to satisfy him, though I do.

It's knowing he craves this enough he'll say please.

"Say it again." I turn to him. Run my fingers over his jaw.

His smile is soft. Nervous. "Please. I want to hear you play."

"Okay." I can do this. I'm terrified, but I'm not letting that fear win. "Give me a minute. I have to tune my guitar."

He nods. Moves into the living room.

I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Call all my confidence.

My hands are shaking.

My heart is pounding.

But I can do this.

I will do this.

Somehow, I pick up my guitar. Somehow, I press my fingers to the frets.

Play a scale.

A few chords.

An easy song my dad taught me.

Bit by bit, I slip into the music. Into that perfect place where I'm an extension of the instrument. Where I'm not thinking.

I just am.

I finish the song.

Start one of mine.

The first line.

The first note.

The chorus.

The verse.

A song about losing my father.

Then another. One about Ty. Not that I admitted it.

I always told myself it was about loneliness. How hard it was juggling school and work. How impossible it was to find someone who understood me.

But it was about him.

About the need he'd found in me. The need he'd filled. The hole he left when he returned to London.

It was about how I was in love with him.

I've been in love with him for the last three years.

But I haven't admitted it to myself until right now.

When I finish, I blink my eyes open.

He's there. In the doorframe, staring at me with rapt attention.

Is that love? I don't know.

Maybe not.

But it's something. It's a lot.

And I want it. All of it. Everything he's willing to give.

He waits until I set my guitar down. Then he moves across the room. Wraps his arms around me.

I kiss him like I'm saying I love you.

He kisses back like he's claiming me.

It's not I love you too, but it's close.

It's really fucking close.

Chapter Forty-Five

Ty

Even with the window open and the fan on high, the flat is stuffy.

I wake sweaty, sticky, desperate to stay in bed.

I want to be here, in this place that's hers, in this world that's hers.

But it's a weekday. And I can't afford to skip work again.

So I slip to the bathroom. Shower. Dress.

Find Sienna in the living room.

She taps her fingers against her arm. "You spent the night?"

"Am I in trouble?"

She yawns as she stretches her arms over her head. "Did you make her come?"

"What do you think?"

"I think that's a lame non-answer."

I chuckle. "I don't think she'd want me to tell you."

"Ding, ding, ding. Lame non-answer two."

"It's not that easy to bait me."

"Or you're actually a selfish lover and you don't want to admit it."

I can't help but chuckle. She's so much Indie, but she's so different too. "Maybe."

She presses on. "How many times did you make her come?"

"Do you really think I'm going to tell you?"

She nods yeah, probably not. "You making breakfast or…" She motions to the kitchen. "Indie is a terrible cook."