Better Than The Movies

_______________

Nebraska

Can’t get you out of my mind

‘Cause you’re still home, you’re still home

- Nebraska, Oh Wonder

_________

Liz

“Okay.” Wes looked over at me with an intense expression on his face and he held one finger in the air. He was standing outside of his car on the driver’s side, and I was his twin on the passenger side. We were both in runner-ready stances. He yelled, “On your mark, get set, GO!” 

It was lazy on my part, but I Just Wanna Run by The Downtown Fiction began playing in my head. If I had time, I would definitely conjure up some amazing athletic anthem, but if I didn’t focus, Wes would totally bolt without me. 

We both took off, sprinting as fast as we could toward the bathrooms of the roadside rest area. We’d been bickering for ten minutes in the car about who was the faster runner – I was – and when I’d seen the exit for the interstate stop, we’d decided to race and use the facilities. 

Win-win. 

“You look winded, Buxbaum,” he yelled as we ran side-by-side, grinning his smartass smirk.  

“You look annoying, Bennett,” I yelled back, adding an apology to the tiny man with the tiny dog who leapt out of our way. 

We reached the restrooms at the exact same moment, both of us slamming our hands into the huge poster of a roadmap that was mounted in-between the men’s and the women’s rooms. 

“I win!” I yelled, which made him slowly shake his head and smile.  

“In what world is that a win?” he asked, hooking his two index fingers through a couple of my jean’s belt loops and pulling me closer. “It was – at best – a tie, but we both know you got a head start so you’re a dirty cheater.” 

I rolled my eyes and wrapped my hands around the bottom of his T-shirt. “Whatever that fragile male ego needs to make itself feel better.” 

“My facts have nothing to do with sexism and everything to do with pretty girls who take off early.” 

“Calling me pretty isn’t going to win you this point.” 

“And cheating didn’t win you this race, did it?” 

Oh, how I loved that. My favorite thing. I could seriously talk to Wes 24/7 and never get sick of it. 

“I’m going to go in that door,” I said, letting go of his shirt to point at the women’s room while getting a little lost in the heat of his dark eyes. Sometimes when he looked at me I felt naked – body and soul. “And when I come out, I want you to say Liz is the winner.” 

His lips slid into a grin, and he dropped his hands. “You better hope I don’t drive off and leave your cheating ass behind.” 

I laughed and went into the restroom.  

After I used the facilities and washed my hands, I looked at my reflection as I stuck my palms into the hand dryer. My lipstick was long-gone, and my straightened hair had morphed into its default waves, waves which would surely be springy curls in the near future. We’d been on the road for six hours – six – yet we were still in Nebraska; how was that even possible?  

I’d been having so much fun road-tripping with Wes that it hadn’t occurred to me to care. I was in no rush to get to UCLA because riding around and laughing with Wes was more fun than almost anything else in the world. 

I grabbed a squirt of hand sanitizer before exiting the building. 

It was a sunny afternoon, warmish but with a hint of impending fall, and being outside felt good. I glanced toward the men’s room, but apparently I’d beaten Wes outside.  

Or he’d left me somewhere just outside of Ogallala.  

I wandered toward the grassy area in front of his car – whew, still there - stretching my back and letting the fresh air breathe over me. It always seemed like long car rides made the outdoors just a little sweeter, and I wanted to drink it in for a few more minutes. 

But then I heard it. 

It wasn’t a meow, exactly, but more like a growl, mixed with a meow, mixed with a hiss - and tied together with a cat scream. I knew Mr. Fitzpervert was sound asleep in his carrier so it wasn’t him (not like he’d ever expended the amount of energy necessary to make such a sound). 

I glanced at the cornfield to my left. (Yes, it was cliché, but the I-80 rest area backed right up to an enormous cornfield. That’s just so Nebraska, amirite?) The sound had definitely come from somewhere inside the tall rows of feed corn.  

I squinted but didn’t see anything. Maybe it’d been a wild animal, like a bobcat or a mountain lion. I didn’t want to be mauled or attacked before I’d even left the state, so the smart thing to do would be to get in the car and maybe lock the door. 

But then I heard it again. 

And I saw its face, peeking out at me from where it was hunched behind a stalk. 

It was a cat.  

I looked over my shoulder, trying to see who its owner might be, but there was no one around. The rest stop was deserted except for a few semi-trucks parked way on the other end of the lot, and there were no houses nearby. 

Just miles and miles of cornfield and interstate highway. 

I walked a little closer. The cat didn’t run away like I thought it would, but it growled more loudly and hissed as I approached.  

“Hey, little guy,” I murmured, and once I was close enough to get a good look at it, I slowly lowered to a squat. “It’s okay, buddy.” 

It was an orange and white tabby with fluffy fur, fluffy fur that was matted down and knotted up in a few spots. He was scrawny and pathetic, and I assumed he was injured since he was staying put instead of running away from me. 

“Hey - what’re you doing, Tablecloth?” 

I heard Wes’ yell from behind me – referring to my red gingham Draper James top - but I didn’t want to respond and spook the cat. I put out my hand for it to smell and said, “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere, sweet boy?” 

Wes’ footsteps were heavy on the dry grass as he approached. “Is there a reason you’re squatting in a cornf—gah! What in the hell is that thing?” 

The cat growled at Wes and crouched deeper into itself, obviously petrified of my towering sidekick, and I looked at Wes over my shoulder and cooed, “It’s a sweet little kitty who is very scared and I think hungry.” 

Wes lowered to his haunches beside me. “I wonder if someone dumped him here.” 

I looked at the cat; could someone have been that cruel? Had this fluffy little guy woken up one morning in his house, comfy and secure, only to be left behind at a rest area? Abandoned? How long had he been there? How was he surviving?  

“Relax.” Wes’s voice was deep in my ear as he said, “I was kidding. I’m sure he’s fine and probably one of those outdoor cats who loves his freedom. I bet he lives nearby.” 

I turned my head, and his face was close. He was trying to make me feel better, and his dark eyes actually did; one look from Wes made warmth drizzle through me every time. But his words didn’t work when the cat was obviously hurt, dirty and hungry.  

“We both know he doesn’t.” I tried for a smile and said, “Do you think there’s a shelter we can call?” 

He glanced at his Apple watch. “You do know we have to get back on the road if we’re going to make it to Colorado tonight without your dad worrying and freaking out, right?” 

We were stopping in Vail for the night, meeting up with Helena and my dad for dinner and sleep. They already had a generous head start, and Wes was right; this wouldn’t help. 

I rolled in my lips. “I mean, yes. Let me just call someone really quick; we have to try, don’t we?” 

He sighed. “Who are you going to call – The Humane Society of the Middle of Nowhere Rest Stop?” 

“Yes, that’s right.” I gave him a fake smile and obnoxiously enthusiastic head bob. “You don’t happen to know their number, do you?” 

He put his hand on my knee and gave it a little squeeze. “1-800-it’s-just-a-cat?” 

I rolled my eyes. “1-800-one-call-could-save-his-life, more like.” 

He stood and walked over to a picnic table that sat at the edge of the rest area’s grassy knoll. Climbed over the bench seat and sat down on the table. “I’ll look it up – was that Ogallala that we just passed?” 

“Yep.” The cat was watching me closely, but he’d stopped growling and was letting me lightly scratch his chin.  

“Okay,” Wes said, looking at his phone, “I found a number. Dozler Pet Rescue, the panhandle’s only no-kill shelter.” 

I was about to grab my phone out of my pocket to call when Wes said, still looking at his phone, “Don’t scare Mr. Ugly – I’ll call.” 

I said around a laugh, “Thank you. And that isn’t his name.” 

“Oh yeah – my bad. Don’t scare Nasty Ace.” 

I looked at the cat, whose face was actually sweet under the scowl, and I said, “I think he looks more like a Roo.” 

“You’re right. I rue the day you laid eyes on him.” He said into the phone, “Hi, um, I have a question.” 

He got up and paced as he talked to the person at the shelter, and when he got off the phone and came back, he didn’t look happy. 

“What’d they say?” I asked. 

He sighed. “They don’t do pick-ups.” 

“What? How does the dog catcher not catch dogs?” 

“Well, apparently their one truck has a blown head gasket so they cannot get animals today. And Ugly Roo is a cat. So…?” 

“So, what do we do?” I knew he was going to say that we had to leave, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the cat behind. 

“Billy said we can drop off the cat, if we don’t mind driving thirty miles out of the way.” 

“Billy?” I asked. 

“The vet.” Wes looked down at me and rubbed the back of his neck. “How in God’s name are we going to get that mangy thing in the car without he and Fitz tearing each other to shreds?” 

“Wes.” I couldn’t believe it. “You’d be willing to do that?” 

His eyes were so on me when he said, “Of course I would.” 

The moment hung there, the unspoken fact that he was doing it for me, and I said, “Do you know how hot you are right now?” 

He shifted his weight to one foot. “Only right now?” 

“When the light hits you just right,” I said, grinning up at that smartass smirk, “And you’re being all selfless and sweet – that’s when your hot really pops.” 

He grinned and raised his arms, flexing his biceps. His voice sounded like Kronk from The Emperor’s New Groove when he said, “It’s pathetic how much you want me.” 

“Isn’t it, though?” My cheeks got warm as he gave me a hot look, but then we both focused on the task at hand. 

First, he went to the car and took Fitz out of his carrier. But of course the cat wouldn’t come out, so Wes had to curse through the scratches as he pulled my bow-tied baby out of the box. He set Mr. Fitzpervert on the seat, wherein the cat climbed under the driver’s spot and wouldn’t come out. 

Next, Wes slammed the door and walked over with the carrier. His dark hair was tousled, his cheeks a little red, and his EDUCATED FEMINIST BRO shirt had a big dirt smudge on the shoulder. He looked like everything I could ever want, with his surly mouth and flashing eyes, and I tried not to laugh as he approached. 

His eyebrows went up. “Something funny?” 

“Not many guys would get their ass kicked by a cat for their girlfriend.” I glanced down at the stray, who actually seemed a little chill at the moment, before I said, “You’re a mess, Wessy, and I love it so much.” 

“That’s because you’re the devil.” He pretended to be grumpy, but his eyes were smizing when he said, “Now what’s your plan to get that little hellbeast in this cage?” 

“I am going to pick him up, and then put him down.” I shrugged. “Inside the cage.” 

“Like it’s that easy. And what about rabies?” 

“What about it?” 

“That’s not a pampered kitty, Buxbaum. If he fights you and uses his teeth, do you really want to have to get rabies shots?” 

I tilted my head and said, “I don’t think you can get rabies from a cat.” 

His eyebrows went down. “Pretty sure you can get rabies from any animal.” 

I sighed. “So how do you suggest I move him, then? Telekinesis?” 

That made him smile. “Isn’t telekinesis reading someone else’s thoughts?” 

I chewed on my lip. “I thought it was moving things with your mind.” 

“I think that’s psychokinesis.” 

I was pretty sure he was wrong. “Are you sure?” 

“Not at all.” 

That made us both laugh, and then Wes said, “I’ll grab him.” 

“Well, what about rabies?” 

He shrugged, “I’ll be careful.” 

“Why do you think you will be less inclined to catch rabies than me?” 

“Because you’re a disaster magnet.” 

“True.” I said, “Well, put your socks on your hands at least.” 

His eyebrows slammed together. “Pardon?” 

“I don’t want you to get rabies, either so put your socks over your hands.” 

He rolled his eyes but did what I asked, which made me smile even more as he removed his shoes and put his socks over his hands, creating a cotton rabies forcefield. Wes muttered the word batshit crazy while jamming his feet back into his sneakers. Then he crouched down, and in spite of the horrific noises the cat made, he managed to pick it up and get it into his arms. 

But the cat was growling and coiled and ready to bolt if Wes even thought of loosening his hold; no way was he going in the cage. Wes asked, “Can you drive if I give you directions to Billy’s?” 

“Of course.” I looked at disheveled Wes and the cat, who was doing a deep-throated, never-ending growl as Wes pressed it to his body, and I asked, “So you’re going to just hold him?” 

“Yup.” 

I wanted to remind him that Mr. Fitzpervert was no longer in a kennel, but Wes was working so hard that I couldn’t bear to give him another challenge. Besides, whenever Fitz got freaked out, he usually burrowed underneath stuff and you were lucky if you could find him two days later. 

Surely he’d stay hidden under the seat. 

I picked up the cat carrier and stood. “Let’s go then.” 

We loaded into the car and headed for Billy’s, and things were okay for a solid five minutes. Wes was talking quietly as he held the cat, and the thing actually stopped growling. Although to be fair, I couldn’t imagine any creature not responding to Wes’ deep, quiet cooing. 

It made me want to huddle in Wes’s lap like a stray cat. 

He murmured, “That’s a good boy, Mister Dickhead.” 

That made me laugh. “You cannot call the poor thing that. How about Fluffy?” 

“Too sweet.” Wes looked at me and said, “Assface works.” 

“That face is not the face of an assface.” 

“You mean the face of an ass.” I gestured to the cat as I turned onto County Road C and suggested, “So maybe, um, Cookie would be a good name.” 

Wes laughed, “I refuse to assign a delightful name to the animal who currently has every single claw dug into my skin and is growling again. How about Wanker?” 

“Cookie is not a wanker,” I said, smiling as I saw what looked to be a town coming into view.  

But then I saw the movement in my peripheral vision. I turned my head just in time to see Fitz, climbing on top of the seat behind Wes, his tail flipping in irritation.  

I yelled, “Hold on tight to that--” 

Mr. Fitzpervert let out a growl that morphed into a mrewow before he jumped on top of the cat. All hell broke loose. Both cats were growling and hissing, and Fitz delivered three smacking punches to the top of the cat’s head with his paw. Wes was arm-barring the stray, forcing it to stay where it was, while he lifted Fitz straight up – one-handed – before dropping him into the back seat.  Mr. Fitzpervert was still meowing and growling, but he didn’t seem interested in coming back over.  

I floored it as I saw the shelter sign at the top of the hill, and Wes was trying his hardest to calm down the stray as it wriggled against him and tried to get free. When I turned into the blacktop parking lot of the country animal shelter, I hightailed it for the parking spot that was right next to the door as Wes cursed under his breath. 

As soon as I put it in park and turned off the car, I opened the back door and put Fitz back in his kennel. He was still growling, and his bowtie was sideways, but as soon as he was safely contained, I came around to the passenger side. 

“Ready?” I asked through the closed window, not wanting to open the door before Wes had a good hold of the cat. 

He just gave me a smartass look as he held that mangy cat like it was a life preserver and if he were to let go, he would surely sink to the bottom of the ocean. 

He stepped out carefully, and as soon as I slammed the door behind him, Wes hissed because the noise made the cat dig in his claws again. I muttered a sorry, and he said through gritted teeth, “I hope you know that you owe me bigtime, Buxbaum.” 

“I know, I know,” I said, giggling a little because Wes was always funny, even in a crisis. 

I opened the door for him, and a woman who was apparently Billy rushed forward. 

“Are you Wes?” She asked, carefully extricating the cat from Wes’s hold. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and my chest felt all warm and buzzy as he smiled at her. Was it lame and weird that I was proud of him? He was such a good, solid human that I was proud of him and felt like showing him off. Like, hey, girl, he rescued this cat from a cornfield just because I asked. Can you believe that? 

He was too good to be true, only he wasn’t. 

He was the real thing.  

Billy took the cat from Wes and launched into vet mode, carrying it over to an exam table where she quickly diagnosed a broken back leg. She was sweet and ultra-cuddly with the dirty feline, making me totally comfortable leaving him in her care. 

“What song is playing right now, Buxbaum,” Wes asked when we finally walked out the doors and into the sunshine. He asked me that all the time, because I know that brain of yours is always pairing music and I want to be able to veto any shitty music you might assign to me. “And it better not be Cat Scratch Fever. That’s lazy. You’re better than that.” 

I tilted my head and surveyed the middle of nowhere parking lot in front of us. I could be happy anywhere with Wes, literally, so I said, “Street Lightning.” 

I wanna be where you are. 

His eyes narrowed and he pulled out his phone. “Hey, Siri. Remind me in one hour to google Street Lightning.” 

I laughed, because he never trusted me and googled every song he didn’t know. 

When we finally got to the car, ready to re-embark upon our road trip, Wes went to the trunk to change into a clean shirt. There was a suspicious wet spot that he couldn’t be sure was the product of Fitz or the stray, and he’d rather not “stew in their juices all the way to the mountains.” 

I went to the backseat to reassure Fitz that everything was okay, and when I went around to the back of the car, Wes had just put his soiled shirt in a grocery bag. He was standing there, shirtless in baggy sweatpants, and I literally gasped. 

Because not only was his chest broad, tanned, and absolutely gasp-worthy, but it was covered in angry scratches. Cuts and welts. He hadn’t whined or put the cat down, he’d just held onto the thing and cooed reassurances while Cookie tore him to shreds. 

The first notes of Cuts and Bruises started playing in my head as I put my hands on his chest and pushed him up against the side of the car. His eyebrows crinkled together as I crowded him against the vehicle. 

“Do you know,” I started, going up on my tiptoes to bring my mouth closer to his. 

“How much I love it when you push me around?” His mouth turned up in a teasing grin and he put his big hands on my face. His eyes were bright as he looked down at me and said quietly, “I do, actually.” 

“No.” Not smiling was impossible when Wes looked at me like that, like he wanted to kiss me and tousle my hair, all at the same time. I don’t know what came over me, but I heard myself say the words, “Do you know how much I love you?” 

Wes’s smile disappeared and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as what I’d just confessed came screaming at me. 

I tried recovering. “I know it’s only been a few months so it’s probably too soon to say it, and I mean it in a super chill, non-clingy way, but I, um, —”  

“Have never said that before.” He finished my sentence for me, his voice was quiet and husky, and his hands dropped to my shoulders. He swallowed again and added, “To me.” 

“Yeah, but it’s just--” 

His mouth stopped my words. His big palms squeezed my shoulders – hard – as he lowered his head and kissed me like he was committing every fiber of his being to the task. His teeth nipped at my bottom lip and his mouth fed me wild kisses while I felt his fingers stroke up the sides of my neck, light as a feather. 

I was on fire, so full of raw emotion for Wes. It was like I wanted to consume every little bit of him because every little bit was so incredibly intoxicating. My hands moved all over his skin, traversing his chest and arms as I felt downright grabby.  

Wes Bennett was one potent drug.  

Insert Movement by Hozier, I thought as he made a growling noise in his throat that weakened my knees. 

We breathed hard – together – and his fingers hypnotized me with their barely-there sliding, up and down the column of my neck. When you move, I’m moved. He lifted his mouth from mine and looked down at me, his dark eyes unreadable, and he breathed the word, “Same.” 

__________

Wes

When she opened her eyes, I swear to God I could feel a current running from Liz’s green gaze to every nerve ending in my body. 

Liz Buxbaum loved me. 

It felt like my face was on fire, like my fingers were numb, as I struggled to find words.  

Liz Buxbaum loved me.  

I knew what she wanted me to say, what I was supposed to say, what I wanted to say more than fucking life, but my brain couldn’t stop its interrogation as it repeatedly shouted the question what in the hell do you know about love, Wes? 

Because Liz grew up bathed in it - from her mom, her dad, Helena - and she consumed it like it was necessary for her survival. She was the shiny, smiling, wide-eyed product of unconditional love. 

The spokesperson for love. 

A love mascot. 

But I didn’t know it in the same way. 

And I didn’t know if I knew how to be like that. 

At least not the way Lib deserved, the way her glass heart had always dreamed. 

In my life, I hadn’t witnessed the love she wanted. I mean, yes, my mom loved me, and my dad (I assumed) loved me, too, even though it seemed more like he just loved watching me pitch when I wasn’t getting lazy and throwing outside of the strike zone. 

But my parents had actively - angrily - despised each other for the whole of my life. They had their own rooms, their own lives, and seriously, the thought of them ever kissing or holding hands was no different than the thought of a unicorn taking up residence in the secret area. 

Inconceivable. 

Did I feel huge things for Lizzie, so all-encompassing that it scared the ever-loving shit out of me? God, yes. Was it love? A thousand percent yes. 

Did I know what to do with that? 

Hell, no. 

Everything with us was mind-blowingly perfect, but what if I didn’t know how to give her what she’d spent her entire life expecting? What if it was one of those traits passed down to children from their parents - like fucking blue eyes and taco tongue - that I was going to be incapable of, no matter how badly I wanted to love her to perfection? 

But as she looked up at me, the whirring thoughts all came to a stop. 

I’d just have to find a way not to screw it up. 

Because Liz Buxbaum fucking loved me. 

I put my mouth next to her ear and said, “We’re gonna get arrested if you keep pawing me in public, Buxbaum.” 

She gave my chest a little push and stepped back, her eyes squinting as she grinned up at me. “I was tending to your wounds.” 

“You were rounding second base,” I said, messing with her hair, knowing it’d make her smack my hand. 

She rolled her eyes and slapped at me - my God, I loved her so fucking much - before muttering, “Your pecs aren’t second base, dispshit.” 

"I think I'd miss you even if we'd never met."

Nick, The Wedding Date

_______________

Colorado

But I’ll always have those moments

In the mountains, oh

All the wonders that I saw

All the stories that were told

- Moments in the Mountains, Madison Olds

________

Liz

“I’m going to go borrow Wes’s headphones.” 

“Okay,” my dad said, not looking away from the TV. “Keep the door open.” 

I rolled my eyes and got off the couch. Like we weren’t going to be living on our own and away from adult supervision in mere days. 

Helena was already in bed, exhausted from the drive, and Wes had “turned in” a few minutes before, after his shower. We were spending the night at an Air B&B in Vail, because it was apparently cheaper than hotel rooms. The condo felt like a mini-ski lodge, with a huge stone fireplace, big windows and a woodsy kitchen, but I felt like the accommodations were both good and bad. 

Good in that we’d had a delightful dinner in the charming mountain town and the condo was like a really nice house, but bad in that I’d had zero opportunity to be alone with Wes. And after being in a car with him all day, I just wanted a few minutes where we weren’t going 80mph and bound by seat belts. 

Also, he’d held my hand after dinner in a way – that way – that set me on fire.  

Side note: Why did the whole fingers-sliding-around-your-fingers thing weaken the knees? It didn’t make sense, but I’d needed my smelling salts on the walk back to the condo after dinner. 

I went past the kitchen and jogged up the stairs that led to Wes’s room. I knocked quietly, not because he was asleep but because I didn’t want Helena to wake across the hall. 

Wes pulled the door open.  

He was wearing basketball shorts and no shirt, his hair was wet and messy from the shower, and the smell of man soap filled my nose.  

“Buxbaum,” he said, smiling. 

“Bennett,” I said as I stepped into the room, my stomach flipping as I approached half naked Wes in his bedroom. “Can I borrow your headphones?” 

That made him squint at me. “Sure, but don’t you have, like, ten very expensive pairs at the ready at any given moment?” 

My dad had missed the flimsy excuse, but not Wes.  

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” I said, snapping my fingers and stepping closer to him. “Guess we’ll just have to make-out instead, since I’m already here.” 

His voice was quiet and deep as he did a little laugh thing and said, “I knew my hand seduction did the trick.” 

“How does it work every single time?” I laughed and rested my forehead on his pecs, jokingly ashamed of the thing he knew got to me every single time. “Do I have a weird hand holding fetish? Is that my kryptonite – linked fingers?” 

He laughed, too, and I felt his hands move to my lower back. “I mean, I do have a tight hand-holding game-” 

“Spare me.” 

“But I’m gonna get the door so we can-” 

I lifted my head. “My dad said to leave it open.” 

“What?” 

“I told him I was borrowing your headphones,” I said, rolling my eyes, “And he said to leave the door open.” 

Wes’s teasing grin disappeared. “So he knows you’re up here and is worried about us having, uh… relations?” 

“Relations.” I snorted and said, “Apparently so?” 

His eyebrows went down. “Well, then, I’m going to have to respectfully ask you to leave.” 

“Bennett.” I tilted my head. “You’re not serious right now…?” 

He narrowed his eyes a little, like he was considering my words, and then he said, “Yes. I’m afraid I am.” 

“Wes.” 

He shook his head. “Your dad and Helena are awesome, and I would hate it if they thought I was up to no good. So, um, please remove your sexy-ass body from my room.” 

I pointed to my pajamas and said, “But I wore my special fuzzy socks and ripped hoodie with the sole purpose of being your in-person thirst trap.” 

“You could wear a clown costume,” he said, leaning down far enough to bury his face in the side of my hood and nip my neck. “And I’d still be turned on.” 

I closed my eyes as his mouth lingered on my skin. “But you’re afraid of clowns.” 

“This is what I’m saying.” He lifted his head and gave me a heavy-lidded look. “You need to go.” 

“But—” 

“Get. Out. Of. My. Room.” He grabbed my shoulders, turned me around so I was facing the door, smacked my behind and pushed me until I was in the hallway. “Good night, Miss Buxbaum.” 

And then he closed his door. 

Which made me giggle and mutter, “Good night to you, Mr. Bennett.” 

When I got to my room – thirty seconds later – I had a text from Wes.  

I have regrets. 

I tried to laugh quietly, since my dad was still watching TV just outside my door. Me: That’s what you get for kicking me out. 

Wes: Now I hate Colorado. 

Me: Oh, don’t blame it on Colorado; it’s beautiful and charming and doesn’t deserve your wrath. Blame yourself for being so ridiculously decent. 

Wes: I hate that about myself. 

Me: SAME. 

Wes: I seem to recall you professing your love and adoration while accosting me in Nowheretown, Nebraska. 

Me: I don’t remember that. 

My phone started ringing. I smiled and answered with, “You always do this.” 

“I know. When I get excited I can’t text. I fat-finger everything and it takes too long.” 

I was laughing again. “What do you want?” 

“So, what if we go for a walk?” 

“What?” 

He lowered his voice and sounded like he was eating his phone. “You tell your dad that you want to go for a walk to see the village all lit up, and you also say that I’m going to go with you to keep you safe from the baddies.” 

“I will not be saying those words.” 

“Fine – just the first part.” 

“And then what?” 

He said, “And then we’ll... go for a walk.” 

“For real, or is walk a euphemism for something?” 

“Well, we will start out walking…” 

“Yeah…? Am I still in my PJs?” 

He ignored that. “And then we might… stop walking… for quite some time… in the woods… if the feeling hits us.” 

“Ooh – okay.” 

“Then after we stop…” 

“Yes? On the edge of my seat here.” 

“We walk. Again.” 

“Diabolical. I’m only human so there’s no way I can resist this plan.” I got up and walked over to my suitcase. “I’m going to change, and then meet me in the living room in five minutes.” 

I was about to disconnect the call when Wes said, “Wait. Buxbaum.” 

“Yeah?” I asked, unzipping my bag and grabbing my jeans. 

“What song is playing right now?” 

I narrowed my eyes as I held the phone between my ear and shoulder so I could change out of my pajama pants. Hmmm… what song? It took me five seconds to come up with, “Golden by Harry Styles.” 

“Is that song about a girl obsessed with her neighbor?” 

“Look it up.” 

“Do you have any idea how many lyrics I’ve googled this summer?” 

“No.” 

“Just tell me, Buxbaum.” 

“You’re down to four minutes, Bennett,” I said, hanging up the phone and tossing it onto the bed. 

My dad was fine with the plan, and I grinned at Wes as he came downstairs and we both put on our jackets. It was chilly up in the mountains, but neither of us minded. We just wanted a few minutes alone, and alone in the great outdoors would totally work for us. 

“Y’know what?” My dad stood and turned the TV off with the remote, smiling like he had a great idea. “I’m wide awake and kind of want a Snickers. Care if I join you?” 

I said, “Um, well the thing is—” at the same time Wes said, “Of course not.” 

I rolled my eyes before the three of us took a nice, chilly walk into the village square. Now, to be fair, it was a lovely night. I had a great time strolling around with my dad and Wes, and the town was gorgeous all lit up, but it was a far-cry from the making-out-in-the-greatoutdoors walk I’d envisioned. 

At one point I leaned close enough to whisper into Wes’s ear, “Hey, dumbass, when do we stop walking for a while?” 

To which he responded by shoving me. 

When we got back, we said our goodnights and my father ensured we retired to our respective rooms.  

I was smiling, but our plan had definitely been a fail. 

After changing back into my pj’s, I went in the bathroom and pulled back my hair, scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth and put in my retainer. When I opened the door, Wes was leaning against the wall in the hallway. 

He grinned, and his dimples were like a laser shot to my midsection. 

“What are you doing,” I started, but realized when I dragged my “g” that I was wearing my retainer, so I quickly stopped talking. I wanted to disappear because I knew just how terrible I looked, but Wes straightened and took two steps so he was directly in front of me, giving me a heart-stopping grin. 

He said, “I’m sorry - are you twelve? Is that a retainer I spy?” 

I crossed my arms and attempted a glare. 

He coughed over a laugh and said, “Why didn’t I know about this, honey? Do you have, like, a glass eye or anything else I’m unaware of?” 

“Two, in fact.” 

“Well,” he said, stepping even closer and lowering his deep voice to a husky growl, “I was lurking because I wanted to steal a kiss before bed. But since you’ve already got your oral hardware all locked and loaded, I guess I’ll have to take a raincheck. God only knows the amount of bacteria that bad boy is housing. Like a little wired petri dish.” 

I laughed in spite of my mortification. “Can you please not look at me and also perform a brain scrub so you’re unable to recover the memory of this image?” 

“Don’t you get it?” He lifted a hand and ran his big thumb over my cheek. “Little Lizzie is my kryptonite. When you show me that weirdy side that you try so hard to repress, I am smitten and weak as fuck.” 

“I think there’s something wrong with you,” I said, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging just a little. 

“Yeah, but you love me,” he said, lowering his head and kissing just under my ear. “Can’t take it back now, Buxbaum.” 

“Like I’d ever want to,” I breathed, and as he bit down on my earlobe, the lyrics of Kryptonite started playing in my head, getting louder and louder as the scene faded to happiness black. 

It wasn’t until later, when I turned out the lights and settled into bed, that I realized. 

Holy shit. 

Wes hadn’t said I love you back. 

“Because you saw me when I was invisible.” 

Mia, The Princess Diaries

_________

Utah

I see your reflection

Sleeping so softly

Pillow on the window

- Road Trip, Matt Walden

__________

Wes

Liz pulled over onto the shoulder and unbuckled her seat belt. Her muttered shit, shit, shit had woken me up, but she was so deep in the freakout zone that she hadn’t noticed. She dug into her purse and pulled out her wallet as the Highway Patrol officer approached her window. 

The guy leaned down a little and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” 

Liz cleared her throat – she always did that when she was nervous but pretending not to be. She raised a hand to the silky green scarf that was tied in her hair like she was Doris Day before she said, “No, officer. I wasn’t speeding so I don’t know…” 

She trailed off, staring up at the guy. It was so typically Liz to not flirt or fake cry to get out of a ticket. No, Liz Buxbaum was going to blink up at him from behind her owlish glasses – I could see her reflection in his aviators - until he caved and let her go. 

Which he wouldn’t do, by the way. I’d been dozing so I couldn’t be sure, but Liz had a heavy foot and tended to drive at least fifteen over the speed limit if she was listening to music. 

And she’d been singing along to every note of Evermore when I’d fallen asleep. 

“The speed limit is eighty, and we clocked you at ninety-six.” 

“Miles per hour?” she asked. 

The cop just stared at her. 

“Um,” she said to him in a hushed voice before glancing over at me. As soon as she saw I was awake she did a double-take, like she hadn’t considered that I might regain consciousness while she was being detained by the authorities. I shot her a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-Buxbaum look, and she gave me the glare that meant she was smiling inside, even though she refused to let it out. Her mouth was puckered and pointed to the left, her not-gonna-laugh pout, and she turned her face back toward the cop. 

My mind replayed her words from the day before. 

“Do you know how much I love you?” 

If I was going to freeze and not be able to say it back, I should’ve at least played it cool and asked- “on a scale of one-to-let’s bone?” -just to be a smartass. 

But no. I’d gotten so tripped up in my own emotional bullshit that I’d said SAME, like a fucking middle-schooler, in response to Elizabeth Marisol Buxbaum saying that she loved me. 

I was like a pathetic dipshit who’d never seen a girl before or something. 

And now my brain had it on a loop and hadn’t stopped binge-watching since she’d said it; I’d been up all-night thinking about my epic failure. 

I finally realized at 3:42 a.m., as I’d tossed and turned in that tiny condo bed, why her words had come as such a shock. 

Because really, they shouldn’t have, right? Things had been great with us since prom, we were basically inseparable, so I knew she liked me. Okay – I even knew she like-liked me (see aforementioned pathetic dipshittery).  

But I think it was the fact that I’d had a thing for Liz since… shit, um, forever… that made what should’ve been a normal next-step in our relationship turn into a gut-punch of a surprise. Her being my girlfriend was still kind of surreal, in and of itself.  

I mean, last week when we watched Titanic in her living room and she’d fallen asleep with her head on my chest, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Liz was sleeping on me on the couch that sat next to the piano that I used to listen to her play through the back windows. 

It was a bit of a mind screw, getting the girl you’d always been preoccupied with. 

“I don’t think that can be right.” Liz ran her hand through her long red hair, making the smell of coconut find my nose as she said to the officer, “I never speed.” 

I wanted to snort, but I kept my mouth shut and opened the glove box, grabbing the pink slip and insurance as the first notes of Back To You popped out of the speakers. 

“You might want to look up the definition of “never” after you give me your license and registration, young lady.” The cop gave her a stern half-smile, a total power douche look. 

“Here you go,” I said, holding out the registration in front of Liz. “It’s my car.” 

He grabbed it, and after he took her license and went back to his car, Liz sighed and looked over at me. I looked back, but she just raised an eyebrow. I tried not to smile as I innocently asked, “What?” 

She rolled her eyes, the same way she’d rolled them at me since kindergarten, and I said around a laugh, “What, Lib? I didn’t say a word.” 

“You didn’t have to,” she said, shaking her head but sliding into a smirk. “For the record, no way was I going that fast.” 

Now I raised my eyebrow. 

“Seriously,” she argued, still grinning the grin that made her eyes get squinty, “His little radar gun has to be malfunctioning or something.” 

“I’ve heard that happens when they reach a certain age.” I grabbed my Red Bull out of the center console. 

“That’s the only explanation,” she said, moving the rearview mirror so she could look back at the patrol car. 

I took a drink and watched as she adjusted the mirror, pulled out her lipstick, and reapplied. 

Retrograde red. 

The color of my happiness. 

See? That was some pathetic dipshittery right there. 

“What song is playing right now, Buxbaum,” I asked, my eyes glued to the motion of that red stick and her perfect mouth. 

If I were the one loading up songs, I’d choose Lie To Me by 5SOS simply because that’s how I felt. If I asked her if she loved me, and she’d changed her mind since Ogallala, I didn’t want to know. 

I hope you lie-lie-lie-lie, lie to me. 

Pathetic Dipshittery x 1000. 

“Well,” she said, capping the tube of lipstick and putting it away as she grinned one of those just-for-me smiles that always gave me an annoying little pinch in the center of my chest. “The obvious choices would’ve been Breaking the Law by Judas Priest or I Can’t Drive 55-” 

“Obviously.” 

“But I actually decided on Bad by Royal Deluxe because I love the vibe.” 

“Vibe my ass,” I teased, “You picked it because you’re not sorry.” 

“And because I’m bad as bad can be.” Her green eyes pulled me in with their happy crinkle as she laughed. “But you’re right - I’m not sorry. I know I should be, and telling my dad about this ticket is going to suck, but driving through the desert is the worst and I just want to put it behind us.” 

“Want me to drive?” 

“Nah - I just need a Twiz.” She reached into her purse and pulled out two pieces of licorice. “Want one?” 

I shook my head as the officer came back. He started talking to Liz about the ticket, and I realized I should probably be listening to his lecture or helping her somehow. Instead, though, I just enjoyed the show.  

The way she tilted her head when he was being condescending, the way she said “mmm” instead of agreeing with his take that she’d been “zoning out and flying over the highway,” and the way she rubbed her eyebrow when he called her “dear” and asked if she needed him to show her how to use cruise control; her patience was commendable. 

“I actually know how to use it but prefer not to. Thank you, though.” 

To the world she appeared polite and respectful, but I knew she was seething inside. 

Swear to God, sometimes it felt like I knew her as well as I knew myself. 

It was weird. I’d always assumed if a person finally got with the person they’d been into forever, the reality would fall short. Surely that person couldn’t be as amazing as the other had made them out to be in their head for so long, right? 

Somehow, though, Liz was better. 

It pained me to think something so inane, but that morning, as she’d subjected me to an endless T-Swift playlist, I realized that Liz was a fucking Taylor Swift song.  

She was. 

Vibey and romantic, but with the uncanny ability to reach inside of you and grab your heart with her absolute specificity. Liz Buxbaum wasn’t just a redhead; no, she was a girl whose hair was the color of the late September maple leaves that fluttered on the home base tree in her front yard.  

And Liz Buxbaum didn’t just wear a sweater, for God’s sake. No, she wore an apple green cardigan that smelled like Chanel No.5 and the front seat of your car, where she’d left it for a week. 

She said it reminded her of the way the rain sounded on the roof the first time you kissed her. 

Taylor. Fucking. Swift. 

Had anyone ever been that pathetic before? 

Probably not, but I blamed Liz.  

“Dude.” 

“Huh?” I’d totally been in the zone and had no idea what Liz had just said. 

“Can you believe what a tool that guy was?” She buckled her seatbelt and put the car into drive, her eyebrows all scrunched together as she rolled her eyes at me. “He called me “dear,” for God’s sake.” 

“Well, honey,” I said, grabbing a piece of licorice and holding it up to her mouth, “He was just trying to help. I can always show you how to use the cruise control later, if you’re a good girl.” 

She rolled those eyes yet again and bit down on the Twizzler. “Don’t make me kill you and leave you in the desert. You’re too pretty to have your face eaten off by wolves.” 

“Awww, you think I’m pretty.” 

She snorted and said as she pulled back onto the interstate, “Pretty annoying.” 

“Pretty annoying must be your kryptonite, then.” 

She cued up more Taylor Swift - Run this time - and stood on the gas pedal. “I guess it must be.”  

And as she shot forward on the desolate stretch of Utah road, I realized I was becoming a bit of a (pathetic dipshit) Taylor Swift fan, myself. 

Darling, let's run

Run from it all

We can go like they're trying to chase us

Go where no one else is

Run

_______

Liz

Maybe he hadn’t realized that he hadn’t said it. 

That was possible, right? 

I set the cruise control - of course I knew how to set the cruise control, Officer Assbag - and slid off the shoes I’d jammed my feet into when I’d seen the cop. I’d been up all night, tossing and turning in that huge condo bed, but I ultimately talked myself into believing that Wes hadn’t even noticed that he’d only said “same.” 

I mean, the look on his face after I’d said it, the way he’d kissed me; that’d felt like crazy-stupid love. It’d felt so much like love that it’d taken me twelve hours to realize I hadn’t heard him say the actual words, for God’s sake. 

And it was early - we hadn’t been an official thing for that long. It was fine if he didn’t want to say it yet. 

Wasn’t it? 

It was strange, I thought, looking at the desert highway and listening to Wes hum along to the Red album. As someone who’d spent her entire life gearing up for love, daydreaming and impatiently awaiting its big-gesture arrival, I would’ve expected this to freak me out more. 

Those three words were everything, right? 

But there was just something about Wes - his presence, his half-smiles, his thoughtfulness - that made me feel kind of chill about it. Patient, even. I loved him, and I loved being with him. If he wasn’t ready to say those words, I could wait until he was.  

That morning, while my dad, Helena and I had filled our faces at a charming Vail café before hitting the road, Wes went outside and called the rescue shelter in Ogallala, just so he could get an update on Cookie the Cat for me. He maybe hadn’t said that he loved me yet, but as long as he was still right there, beside me, giving me every amazing bit of his Wes-ness, I could totally wait. 

“What’re you thinking about, Speed Racer?” 

I glanced over at him, at that teasing smile and those mischievous eyes as he stretched his long legs out in front of him, and I just said, “How badly that cat kicked your ass yesterday.” 

He gave a little laugh sound and said, “You’re so lucky you’re driving right now, Buxbaum.” 

“I feel lucky,” I said, turning up volume on the stereo and letting the music pour into the moment. 

“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”

Noah, The Notebook

_____________

Nevada

We’re winning ‘til the curtain’s coming down

- Vegas Lights, Panic! At The Disco

________

Liz

“How ya doin’ over there, Bennett?” 

Wes’s eyes raised to me from his forearm, where the tattoo artist was busy at work, and he gave me a slow grin. “Amazing, Buxbaum. You?” 

I grinned back at him as the needle moved over the skin of my shoulder and the chorus of Tattoos Together by Lauv looped through me. “Amazing as well, thank you for asking.” 

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Wes and I were in Vegas, getting matching tattoos. 

It was mind-boggling, what we were doing, but I was so excited. Never had a random, spur of the moment idea made two dorks so ridiculously enthusiastic. 

I blamed Las Vegas. 

Since neither of us had ever been there, we’d decided to give ourselves an hour to walk around on the strip. We’d pulled into town, parked the car, and headed out to see the city. I had wicked blisters from walking so much in Colorado, so Wes - my most incredible Wesley - piggybacked me around the sights so I didn’t have to destroy my heels. 

It was getting absurd, the depth of my feelings for that perfectly wonderful pain in the ass. 

As we ran around the strip acting like idiots, we saw an ad for tattoos at The Venetian. That launched a conversation about how Wes couldn’t wait to get one and how I wanted another one, and before either of us knew what was happening, we were brainstorming which tattoos each of us were going to get. 

We’d plopped down at an outdoor table, sucked down cold Starbucks, and worked through the options.  

We each wanted to get something small. Symbolic. One thing led to another, and we started talking about how fun it would be to get something to commemorate our epic road trip. 

“I don’t mean something to commemorate us,” I clarified as he scrolled through Google images of tattoos on his phone, “So don’t lose your mind and think I want to immortalize you on my body in ink or something.” 

He glanced up. “You know you do.” 

“Anyway,” I said as he set down his phone, crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me like he couldn’t wait to hear the rest. “I just think that even if we hate each other someday, we will both still have amazing memories of this drive, right?” 

“Like you could ever hate me, Buxbaum. You’re madly in love with me, remember?” 

“I never said “in” love - just love. And I never said madly, either.” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“Degree of affection – there’s math involved.” 

“Come on Lib - the degree is, like, the Nth degree. Admit it.” 

“I will not.” 

“So. Okay. What are we talking about here, tattoo-wise? Like… a cat? To remember Fluffy? Because I’m not getting a cat tattoo.” 

“A cattoo. And her name was Cookie.” 

“Dickhead, actually.” He reached out a big palm and tousled my hair, making a laugh sound in this throat when I swatted at his hand. “Now listen. I like your idea. What if we got, like, something…”  

He paused for a few seconds before saying, “Something like the latitude and longitude of the animal shelter?” 

I gasped. Then I squealed. Because Wes totally nailed it. A tattoo that would mean something to each of us forever, even if we didn’t live happily ever after together.  

But sidenote: I was really starting to think we would. (Note to self: add The Best Years by 5SOS) 

I tried to keep it casual all the time, because we weren’t even college freshman yet, but Wes was so much BETTER than everything I’d ever thought I wanted from a cinematic romcom hero. Not only was he hot and sweet and charming, but I never had as much fun as when I was just hanging out with him. 

Example: When I rode along with him the day he renewed his tags at the DMV, which was purportedly the worst place to go on the planet, we had so much fun that I’d ended up making a DMV soundtrack. Now whenever I drove by the shiny government building, I smiled like a lovesick fool as I remembered the game he created where we each attempted to chew 20 pieces of Juicy Fruit at one time without drooling. 

Now you have to sing the alphabet song, Buxbaum.  

Sidenote: No one wins at that game. 

I’d literally laugh-cried off all my mascara that day. 

“Do you think your dad is going to freak out when we get to the hotel tonight?” Wes seemed entirely unfazed by the needle moving over his skin, which was somehow not surprising at all. He looked at me and said, “I mean, he’s pretty cool, but these are permanent.”  

I shrugged. “We don’t have to tell him - you can wear long sleeves and they won’t see mine.” 

“You’re such a little sneak.” 

“Am not.” 

“We want to go see Vail’s lights, Daddy,” he said in a ridiculous singsong voice. “So we’re taking a walk in the dark and you can’t come.” 

I started laughing and rolled my eyes, which made him start laughing, too, which made both of our tattoo artists have to stop working until we could pull ourselves together.   

Once we were finished, we spent a solid thirty minutes telling each other how great our tattoos looked. His tan, muscular forearm looked downright sexy with his brand-new longitudial tattoo, and he seemed to think my fresh ink was worthy of worship at a later date when it was no longer covered with A&D ointment and Saran wrap. 

He piggybacked me to the car, and he’d just set me down by the trunk when his phone buzzed from inside my hoodie pouch, where I’d been keeping it for him. 

“You just got a text,” I said, watching him pop open the back so he could grab a soda out of the cooler. 

“Who’s it from?” he asked, opening the lid and digging into the ice. “Read it.” 

Wes was the only guy I’d ever met who had no qualms about anyone getting into his phone. Like, ever. I pulled it out, looked at the message and said, “It’s from your dad. He wants to know if you worked out at the hotel last night.” 

Wes froze for the slightest of seconds and his jaw clenched, and even though they were the tiniest movements, I could tell that he wasn’t happy. He said, “Just ignore it.” 

“I can just lie and say yes if you want…?”  

He gave his head a tiny shake. “Thanks, but he’ll want details.” 

“So I should say no, then,” I said, giving him a teasing look. 

He sighed and gave me a smile that looked like he was pretending he didn’t care. “Then he’ll lecture.” 

“Oof.” I tried picturing Mr. Bennett. “Talk about a lose-lose.” 

His face came to me then, but not the neighborly face I’d seen throughout my childhood. That image had been erased by the intense man I’d seen at Wes’s baseball games, a serious guy who crossed his arms over his chest and yelled a lot. 

“Well,” I said, “How about I say yes but I’m driving so I can’t talk.” 

Wes narrowed his eyes, like he was really considering me, and then he said, “If you want to, go for it.” 

“You don’t think it’ll work?” I asked. 

He just gave a chin-nod toward the phone, egging me on to do it. 

So I did. I sent the text, and then I said, “There.” 

I put the phone back in my pocket, but Wes said, “You might as well keep it out.” 

Before I could question that, the phone buzzed. 

Wes closed the trunk, but we both stood there as I took out the phone again. 

Mr. Bennet had sent multiple messages. 

Dad: As long as I’m paying for your phone, you can answer the question. 

Dad: How much did you lift? 

Dad: What’d you eat yesterday? 

I looked over at Wes, who was watching me, and he did it again. He gave me a patented laidback Wes smile, but it hurt my heart because his eyes weren’t smiling. 

Another text came in. 

Dad: We’ve worked too damn hard for this for you to screw around on the way there. I hope you’re taking this seriously. 

I sighed and texted for Wes: I am. 

Dad: Really? Because I didn’t see that you entered a damn thing in Coach’s workout log for yesterday. Is this how you want to start your career? Blowing off the important stuff to fuck around? 

I looked up from the phone and said to Wes, “Does your dad know that you’re only 18? I think he thinks you’re 30 and play in the majors.”  

“It’s fine.” He reached over and took back his phone, looking embarrassed. “He’s just a little nuts about baseball.”  

“I remember from your games,” I said, wondering if his dad had always been an asshole and I’d just never known. “I think he’s more nuts about baseball than you are.” 

I’d said it offhandedly, but Wes barked out a laugh, like I’d just said something ridiculous. His smile was forced and sarcastic. “Ya think?” 

For a split second he looked unbearably sad, and I stepped closer to him. “Wes--” 

“No. Buxbaum.” He gave his head a shake and said, “We’re not going to do th--” 

“Nope – we’re not.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him a little closer. “But I do have to be annoying for the tiniest second and tell you that you deserve to make yourself happy. You’re 18 and starting your whole big life. Fuck everything – and everyone - that doesn’t make you smile.” 

_________

Wes

I swallowed, but it felt like something jagged was in my throat. 

I looked at her lips, her cheeks, her eyes and her defiant eyebrows, and I opened my mouth. Couldn’t think of what to say, so I closed it again. 

“It’s your life, Bennett,” she said, reaching up to grab the strings at the top of my hoodie. “Yours to own. Starting now.” 

I reached out a finger and ran it along her cheekbone, feeling, to be honest, a bit overwhelmed. “God, you do love me.” 

I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it was still so fucking incredible. 

She nodded, her mouth turning up at the corners before she said, “No matter what.” 

Fuck.  

“Listen, Lib,” I said, my voice a little gravellier than I cared for her to hear. “When we were at the cat shelter yesterday, I wanted to say it. I hadn’t expected-” 

“I know. Shh.” She raised up onto her tiptoes, touching her mouth to mine so sweetly that I wanted to fucking cry. What the fuck, right? She kissed me, and it felt like she was trying to show me something that felt important.  

More dipshittery right there. 

But my arms went around her waist, squeezing her, pulling her closer, and I tried my hardest to fucking inhale Liz Buxbaum. 

She made a noise - a sigh - when I kissed her back, and I swear to God I lost it every single time she did that. It was sweet and nothing, but it felt like some sort of contented reaction to me that always made me want to pump my fist in the air. 

That was me - I did that. 

She set her hands on my chest and met me kiss for kiss, driving me wild with the flexing of her fingers and the smell of her perfume. I swear to God it felt like Libby kissed competitively, like she was trying to win every time our mouths came together. 

Every single kiss was perfection. 

I could kiss her for centuries and never get tired of it. 

She was that good. 

Eventually, she pulled back and looked up at me through heavy-lidded green eyes and a smartass smirk. The moment - the tension - had been erased, and I wanted to kiss her again when she said as if nothing had happened, “Listen, Bennett – we’re going to get arrested if you keep pawing at me in public.” 

________

Liz 

It wasn’t until hours later, when it was getting dark and we were cocooned in the quiet of the car and the hum of the highway under our tires, that I turned toward him in my seat and said, “Can I confess something?” 

“Please don’t tell me you’re Catfishing someone in California and we’re stopping off to meet them tomorrow.” 

I chuckled and thought he looked good in the lights of the dashboard. I could still see the angles of his face and the curl of his long eyelashes, but the faint red of the speedometer made his dark eyes sparkle in the most delightful way. 

“No, smartass, and now I’m not telling you.” 

“Oh, come on - tell me.” 

“No.” 

“Pleeeeeeease, Libby. Please tell me your deepest, darkest confession.” 

His lips curled up, and I felt like that tiny movement controlled the temperature of my happiness. Like, all the time. He smiled, and I burned just a little brighter. His eyes were on the road as I said, “I don’t know. Now that I think about it, you’ll probably judge me harshly and my confession might even lower my Wessy stock value.”  

“Your Wessy stock value continues to soar, don’t worry.” He looked over at me and grinned before dropping a hand to my knee. It was nothing, just his hand resting on me, but I loved being his to touch. I loved that it was natural for him to set a hand on me while he was talking. 

“It’s nothing, honestly,” I said, staring down at his big fingers, “But because you know what a little weirdy I am, I thought you’d find it ironically funny.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Okay. So.” I cleared my throat before saying, “I realized as we were getting inked that not only do I have a reminder of Cookie, but--” 

“Mr. Ugly,” he corrected. 

I rolled my eyes and continued. “I have a reminder of the first time I ever said those three words to someone.” 

“Those three…?” He trailed off and his eyebrows bunched together. He glanced over at me and said, “No. You lie, Buxbaum. You’re the silly little love-lover, remember?” 

“I know.” I shrugged and said, “I guess I just always wanted to save it.” 

He glanced over at me again for a fleeting second, and his expression was so unguarded that I felt a little hitch in my breathing. He said, “But…” 

“But you’re the first.” 

I watched his profile as he drove through the dark Nevada night, and his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed. There was a long pause before he said, “The hell you say.” 

“I’m serious.” My voice was scratchy as I said, “You’re the only one.” 

“Um. Shit.” His eyes shot over to me before returning to the road, as if to confirm that I said what I’d said. Then he hit the brakes, pulling over onto the shoulder of the nearly deserted highway. When the car came to a complete stop, he jammed it into park and gave me a white-hot look that I could feel through the darkness.  

Before I could think, his big hands were on my face and his mouth was on mine. I loved the feel of his baseball calluses on my skin as his scent slithered through my senses and gave me goosebumps. His lips opened my lips, making me breathless as he kissed me like I was going to disappear and he needed to devour every bit of me before that happened. 

His tongue slid inside my mouth, but he wasn’t one of those guys attempting to taste a tonsil. No, Wes kissed with stomach-dropping finesse. He did this scraping thing with his teeth - ohhh, his teeth - that made me moan in an embarrassing way. 

It was always like that when Wes kissed me, where I pretty much had to dig my fingernails into his biceps and hold on tight, because what else could I do when my entire body was melting into a puddle?  

When he pulled back, my eyelids felt weighted. I blinked - slowly because it was so difficult - and just wanted more as I looked up at his handsome face. 

“I love you, Elizabeth Buxbaum.” 

I swear to God my heart stuttered in my chest as he looked at me like he meant every word. I took a shaky breath and whispered back, “I love you more, Wesley Harold Bennett.” 

He rubbed his thumb over my chin and said regretfully, “I should’ve said it back--” 

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, watching him watch his finger on my skin. “You didn’t have to say it for me to know.” 

His mouth moved dropped a small, sweet kiss on mine before moving over to my ear. He took my earlobe in his teeth and said in a raspy voice, “What song is playing now, Buxbaum?” 

I closed my eyes and pictured him under the streetlight back home, tugging on the strings of the hoodie I’d been wearing after prom. It was the way I always pictured him when I was alone and cataloguing every amazing thing about him, and I could still perfectly hear his deep voice. Enemies-to-lovers - it’s our trope, Buxbaum. 

I smiled in the darkness and said, “Cue the Bazzi.” 

“And she saved him right back.”

Vivian, Pretty Woman

______________

Sabotage

There was obviously something wrong with me.

Because there I stood, sweating in the practice gym, giving Liz two thumbs-up and a supportive wingman smile when all I really wanted to do was kick things over. I waggled my eyebrows suggestively as Michael looked down at her like she was buck-naked and wrapped in a bow, but every voice inside my head was actually bark-screaming the word ‘NO!’ and setting shit on fire.

NO!

He said something in that accent of his – y’all kill me, please – that made her smile. Only she didn’t just smile. No, Lizzie smiled up at Michael from her spot on the floor as if he were everything her little love-loving heart had ever dared to wish for.

Y’all kill me, please.

I dribbled and took a shot, but missed because I couldn’t avert my eyes from Liz as she grabbed Michael’s extended hand and climbed to her feet. He let go as soon as she was standing, praise Jesus, but my chest got pinched when I saw her flex her fingers at her side.

Because I knew exactly where her romantic mind was.

Pemberley 2005. #KillMeNow

I tried distracting myself with basketball, but my eyes kept going back to the two of them on the other side of the gym. Never wished to be parted from them, apparently, because I couldn’t look away. Michael was shooting around while they talked – that was a lucky shot, asshole – and then he gave the ball to Liz.

I watched her toss up an atrocious airball, but when she started laughing, I had to clench my jaw to keep myself from growling. Because her giggles made me crazy. Her giggles gave me this stupid desperate desire to be the one sharing the laugh with her. I wanted to run over there with my ball and beg her to play with me.

Young was smiling like she was adorable – yeah, she is, you fuck – and it was insane how knotted up the scene was making me.

Get a grip, dipshit. They’re playing basketball, not making out.

I inhaled through my nose and might’ve actually succeeded in turning away, but then.

But.

Then.

Young moved behind her, his hands covering her hands as he raised the ball for a better shooting angle. NO. His body was right behind her body, so close that it was impossible to tell where she ended and where he began. NO. Her cheeks were pink and his face was close to hers and suddenly my ball was on the ground, forgotten, and I was headed toward them.

There was a roaring in my ears as I charged in their direction, seeing nothing but his mouth, so close to her face, and his fingers, resting on top of her fingers. NO NO NO. My body was moving of its own accord and the only thought in my head was NO.

But then she took the shot.

I stumbled to a halt as Michael stepped back from Liz and she smiled as the basketball went through the hoop.

Get a grip, dipshit.

“Did you, uh, teach her that, Young?” I said, my voice cracking as I attempted to sound like someone calm, like someone who hadn’t been just about to do... something. Liz’s eyes shot to mine as I added, “Because she damn sure didn’t know how to do that before.”

Of course, I had no idea if that were true because she’d never played basketball with me.

As if reading that thought, she picked up the ball and said, “How would you know?”

“I know all, Buxbaum.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away. Just turned her back and dribbled in the other direction, obviously disappointed by the reality that I still existed and had ruined – yet again – what she surely considered some sort of meet-cute.

As if that wasn’t irritating enough, Michael chose that moment to talk to me about his hair. Yes, that’s right – his hair. I was trying not to be a dick, because it wasn’t his fault that he was destroying my soul simply by being himself, but why would I care about his hair?

Did I look like someone into hair?

I didn’t even own a brush, for God’s sake; I just ran a hand over my head when I got out of the shower and called it good.

So why??

But when I glanced over at Liz, she was watching us with guilt all over her freckle- sprinkled face. Her eyes were squinty as she tried her hardest to overhear Michael’s ridiculous follicular rhetoric, and I knew she had something to do with this.

“You can be your own hair hero,” Michael was saying to me, and he patted my shoulder.

Hair hero?

Yeah, something was definitely up.

“Michael!” Liz interrupted, very-nearly yelling as she tried changing the subject. “Have you given any more thought to prom? If you’re going to go with someone? Maybe a friend or whatever.”

I crossed my arms and looked at her face.

“What about you, Wes – are you going?” She was talking too fast and blinking too much. “It just seems like a lot of people are skipping this year. I heard.”

I knew she didn’t care if I went to prom (which was ironic because I’d had a very vivid dream two nights ago about Liz showing up on my porch in a white flowered dress and begging me to take her - to prom, among other things), so why was she asking?

“Well,” Michael said, looking at Liz in a way made my stomach hurt, “I’m still—”

“Heads up!” Noah yelled from the other side of the gym, and before I could even register the warning, a basketball slammed into Liz’s face and knocked her flat on her ass.

_____________________

Feelin’ Alright

The next twenty minutes were a blur, like reality was being played at 3x its normal speed.

Because the second I saw Liz’s big green eyes looking to me for help as her hands covered her face, my brain left my body. My thoughts became a series of disjointed fragments, with some staying inside my head and some escaping out my mouth.

Holy shit, there’s blood all over her.

“You’re okay.”

We need a towel.

“Where the hell is a towel? Shouldn’t there be towels in a goddamn gym?”

Are there tears in her eyes?

God, her eyes are so pretty.

“Here - use my shirt.”

What if her nose is broken? What if her face is ruined because she went to a game with me? What if she never forgives me for bringing her here?

“You okay, Buxbaum?”

How the fuck were there zero towels anywhere?

“You okay?” I asked for what was probably the fifteenth time, but what else was there to say as she held my now-bloody shirt against her probably-broken nose?

Before answering, Liz reached over and squeezed my hand.

She. Squeezed. My hand.

Liz Buxbaum squeezed my hand, and suddenly the world returned to its normal speed.

My eyes found hers and they were soft – like she wanted to make me feel better, which didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

“I think it’s fine,” she said matter-of-factly, as if her shirt didn’t look like a crime scene. “As soon as the bleeding stops, we’ll probably be good.”

“She’s so much tougher than you, Bennett,” Adam laughed.

“No shit.” I barely heard him – or anyone or anything - because Liz’s hand was on mine. With mine. Against mine. I squeezed back, hypnotized by the sight of those long, slim fingers on my skin. A line from the poem we’d studied in Lit landed in my head as I stared down at the perfect tiny mole on her middle finger.

Not even the rain has such small hands.

It was outrageously ridiculous that I was thinking in poetic verse because she’d dared to touch me, but then again, that had always been the way of things.

Liz Buxbaum made me outrageously ridiculous.

______________

Paradise

“By the way,” Liz said, putting her phone away. “Thanks a lot. You didn’t have to escort me.”

I nudged her shoulder with mine, needing the touch as we walked toward the hospital building. She’d always brought out the physicality in me, the urge to lay hands on her in some way, shape, or form, and tonight was no exception. “My luck, you’d bleed to death and then my guilt wouldn’t allow me to enjoy the Forever Spot.”

“Wait – you’d still take it,” she said, grinning and giving my arm a little punch, “Even after having a hand in my untimely demise?”

I caught her fist in my hand, and when she let out a squeak of shock, I laughed and let go. “Well it’s right there, Buxbaum – how could I not?”

I knew it was wrong that I was having a good time when Liz’s face had just been crushed by a basketball, but I couldn’t help it. It felt like we were in a new place, a new place where – God help me - not smiling was proving to be a tiny bit challenging.

It began with the discovery of her ‘hair hero’ nonsense on my phone when we were walking out of the gym. Little Liz had tried pranking me, the shit, and I could tell she was proud of herself. I’d laughed my ass off when she admitted it, that stubborn chin high and cocky, and now she was punching me.

And laughing.

Who were we right now?

I was in love with this version of us.

We stopped at the corner red light, and when I looked down at her, she smiled. It was small and inconsequential, polite, really, but I almost forgot how to speak for a minute because it was mine. There was no one else around, so that look was just for me.

Not Michael.

“So were you making any headway with Young before you got bashed?” I asked casually.

Whyyyyyyyyy? Why would you mention him, you idiot?

“You know, I think I was,” she said. “He was being a little flirty before you walked over to the small court—”

Yes, I saw and it was disgusting.

“And he physically moved my arm to help me shoot better.”

God, I hated my good friend Michael.

I also hated five-seconds-ago me for bringing him up.

“Sweet Lord, he touched you?” I teased.

“He did,” she said excitedly, totally missing the sarcasm. Her face was all lit up like an excited child, and I was torn between wanting to applaud her joy and wanting to pull her hair.

Also was it weird that I thought she looked cute as hell with a swollen nose?

“Like, how did he do it?” I asked dramatically, gasping. “Was it coachy and clinical, or...?”

“It was like this.” She was almost squealing as she reached over and moved my elbows, literally showing me exactly how he’d touched her.

Like I haven’t been replaying it in my mind since it happened, honey.

“Only maybe lighter and more fingertippy,” she added.

“Holy shit, Liz,” I said loudly – obnoxiously - knowing I was being an asshole but fuck. “That’s huuuge.”

“It is?”

“Oh, my God, no. It isn’t.” I put my hands in my pockets and started walking when the light changed, annoyed by her desperation to make Michael happen. “That was sarcasm. I thought you knew until you said ‘fingertippy.’”

“Oh.” She blinked fast and cleared her throat. “Well, it felt like something.”

“Like something fingertippy?”

She was quiet as we approached the ER, so much for our new place, and just before we hit the main doors, I couldn’t stop myself. I asked, “You don’t seriously think his fingertippiness was a thing, do you?”

“How should I know?” She shrugged and looked hopeful. “It could’ve been.”

I groaned and wanted to bang my head against a wall. “How are you so bad at reading signals?”

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

What the hell was that, you idiot?

Liz’s eyebrows crinkled together, and I knew I’d blown it. She was either seeing what a jealous dick I was, or realizing that I was the walking manifestation of SIGNALS.

“Liz!” Her dad ran out through the hospital doors at that moment, like he’d been watching for her arrival through the window. “We were literally at the theater across the street. How’s the nose?”

He whisked her inside, wrapping his arms around her, and she was immediately surrounded by the love and concern of her parents. Helena was nice to me – howdy, neighbor - but her focus was on Liz’s comfort, and Mr. Buxbaum looked like he wanted to bawl his eyes out as he repeatedly asked Liz how badly it hurt.

Something about the sweet scene, mixed with fingertippy bullshit and the reality of my own less-than-ideal family life, made me feel pathetically alone in that crowded Emergency Room.

Stupid lonely.

I swallowed and needed to get the hell out of there.

“Later, Buxbaum,” I said, throwing up my arm in a wave and heading for the exit. She gave me a weird look, like she was surprised I was leaving, but there was too much going on for anyone else to really notice me.

I exited the ER without looking back.

_______________

Chapter 1

Omaha: The Orpheum Theater (8pm)

________

Wes

I couldn’t take it. 

Seriously, was this for real? 

We were sitting in the dark – five rows back from the front – and the orchestra was going hard on the Nutcracker theme. I’d just witnessed some sort of fever dream on stage, where knife wielding ballerina mice were dancing around on a boat what the hell why would there be a boat, and now fake snow was falling while ballerina snowflakes spun all over the place and snow queens (maybe?) swung from the rafters. 

On actual swings.   

It was quite the spectacle, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from Liz’s face. 

Because her expression was fucking ridiculous.  

Over the course of my life, I’d studied those green eyes and freckle-kissed cheeks like there was going to be a quiz and I couldn’t afford a bad grade. I knew the arch of her brows right down to the exact degree of angle. 

It was a known fact that I was obsessed with that particular face. 

But when it did this, this thing where it morphed into, like, a little-girl-seeing-Santa-in-her own-living-room kind of rapt expression, I found it hard to breathe. Her eyes were wide, her mouth curled up into a near-smile, and every bit of her attention was focused on the stage. 

She was radiant. 

She was a masterpiece. My body was still as I took in every detail like I needed to commit it to memory. Dancing eyes, soft mouth, softer curls. 

I wanted to kiss the breath out of her, but I didn’t dare interrupt. 

“What are you doing?” she whispered out of the side of her mouth, leaning her head closer but keeping her eyes on the stage. 

“Watching you,” I replied, rubbing my nose against her cheek, inhaling her perfume. 

“Do you hate the ballet?” she asked, finally looking at me. “Is this awful for you?” 

“No.” Nothing is awful with you. “I’ve waited my entire life to see a pack of wild rats go toe-to toe with a toy soldier. This shit is epic.” 

I loved the smile she gave me, the one that was all I-shouldn’t-validate-his-idiocy-by-laughing-but-I’m-kind-of-into-it, and she whispered, “By the way, did I tell you how hot you look in your holiday sweater?” 

I’d bought a red sweater especially for the evening, mostly because I knew Lib would go full on delighted-elf over the way we matched in our holiday colors. She was wearing a red plaid dress and a pair of shiny black boots that had been giving me all the thoughts since the minute she’d crossed her legs in the front seat of my car. 

Talk about a present. 

All I want for Christmas is you. 

“No,” I said, “But it’s obvious in the way that you’re ignoring me to ogle a man in tights.” 

“I’m not ogling,” she whispered, her eyes squinting as she giggled. 

“You lie, Ogler.” 

“Shhhhhh,” someone shushed from behind us.  

I made a stern dad face at Liz and pointed, which made her giggle again. 

Which made the shushing person shush again. 

Which made me snort. 

Which made her giggle. 

“Come on,” she whispered, her eyes bright and her grin huge. “Let’s go get a drink before we get kicked out.” 

“No,” I whispered back, “I don’t want you to miss this.”  

“It’s almost intermission, anyway.” She stood – hot damn that was a hell of a dress – and grabbed my hand. I followed those boots as she led me into the aisle and through the dark theater, a sea of faces on each side of us as we headed for the exit. As the Land of Snow portion of Tchaikovsky’s suite played, all soft flutes and floaty harps, I knew my brain would forever tie it to the sight of Lizzie in motion. 

And as I took it all in, I realized something monumental. 

I fucking loved the ballet. 

_______

Liz 

“You are a menace,” I said as soon as the doors shut behind us, but I didn’t mind.  

Because every second of that day had been perfection.  

The walk in the park as snow fell on the lit-up trees, dinner at Nicola’s, hot chocolate at Zen Coffee - Wes had made the evening everything.  

And he was taking me to Ted and Wally’s as soon as the ballet ended, so things were only getting better. 

His dark eyes were twinkling – they were always twinkling – as he said, “I’m so sorry.” 

He didn’t look remotely sorry. 

And he smelled crazy-good. 

We passed by the quiet lobby of the old theater, the sounds of the ballet now cocooned behind the closed doors, and my chest was full of warm, gooey happiness as Wes’s fingers squeezed between mine like they were meant to be there. He was absurdly good-looking that night in his cashmere sweater and nice pants, and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes on anything but him. 

I knew I shouldn’t leer, but baseball players looked good in dress pants.  

And he looks even better. 

In fact, the Orpheum building itself – a historical architectural landmark – was reduced to a simple holiday background in my eyes, like its sole purpose was to serve as a festive accessory to the eye candy that was Wes Bennett. Ornate chandeliers, grand staircases, Christmas trees, garland; it was all there to accentuate a very tall boy with dark hair and flashing eyes. 

“So can we talk about the tights situation?” he asked, giving me a sideways glance as we approached the staircase, his deep voice making my eyes dip down to his Adam’s apple. “I’m enjoying the ballet, but the tights that those guys are wearing keep zero secrets.” 

“You seriously want to talk about this?” I asked, grabbing the marble railing as we started down the stairs. “About how we can totally see what perfect butts the ballerina boys have?” 

“No.” His eyebrows scrunched together and he gave his head a shake. “No, I was thinking we’d do it in more of a mocking way. One that would make me feel better about myself. Are we not doing that?” 

“Sorry, kid,” I said, “But this is a mock-free zone.” 

“The ballet in general?” he asked, then pointed in front of him. “Or these stairs? Because I’m happy to go someplace else, if that makes a difference.” 

This is what I love most about him. He was a million things that I loved, but Wes made everything fun. Everything. We could be locked in an empty closet together and I wouldn’t even look for a way out, because it would be the very best closet time anyone had ever had. 

“Wait - is there even a bar down here?” I asked when we reached the lower level. I could see ornate seating areas and restrooms down the long hallway, and a coat check closet that wasn’t being used, but there wasn’t a concessions bar to be found. I’d been here every year for the ballet (since I was five), but this was the first time I’d ever ventured downstairs. 

“Hmm,” he said, his eyes scanning the corridor. Christmas music was playing softly from somewhere – ceiling speakers, maybe – and it was the Harry Connick Jr. version of What are you doing New Year’s Eve. 

I loved that song. 

“It’s not looking good,” he said, at the exact second I said, “It’s not looking good.” 

NO. 

I looked at Wes and shit, he hadn’t missed it. His eyes sparked electric as his mouth slid into the naughtiest of grins, good God.  

“Ten,” he said, looking so ridiculously happy as he starting counting. 

“Wes. No,” I said, ruining my seriousness by letting out a giggle as I looked over my shoulder. “Not here.” 

“Nine – rules are rules Buxbaum – eight,” he counted, his face all lit up as he grinned. 

Gahhhhhhhhh! 

A few weeks ago, when Wes and I happened to say ‘I love you’ at the same time, he decided that “jinx” was just too low stakes. He complained no one even cares anymore, which made me point out that no one had ever really cared since second grade, but he was not one to be deterred. 

Wes was Wes, after all. 

He’d called his cousin Charlie, who was just as ridiculous as he was when it came to creating games, and they’d set entirely new parameters for the couples-version of jinx. Under the new rules, when two people said something in unison, they had a 10-second countdown before they each had to shout – loudly – a “spontaneous love outburst.” 

They’d cackled like children while coming up with their nonsense. 

Basically, you had a 10-count before you each had to yell a compliment. But it had to be very specific and entirely accurate; it couldn’t just be I love you or you’re pretty. Whoever finished their declaration first was the winner, and the winner then tickled the living shit out of the loser. No matter where you were or what time it was. 

Last time this happened, at the bus stop (and yes – everyone DID stare at us), Wes screamed YOUR EARLOBES ARE SO TINY! at the same second I yelled YOUR FINGERNAIL BEDS ARE SPECTACULAR!, but he was quicker. 

Which meant I ended up dropping to the sidewalk in front of the bus bench (while screamlaughing on my knees like a lunatic) as he tickled me.  

The sad reality was that as an extremely ticklish person, I had no choice but to participate in these very public displays of tomfoolery. 

“Wes, come on,” I tried, holding up a hand. Everything in the Orpheum was elegant and refined, and by the sounds of things, intermission was upon us. 

Which meant we were seconds away from having a lot of elegant and refined company. I said, “Be reasonable.” 

“Seven – I am reasonable but these are the rules – six – I already have my compliment ready – five-” 

“Noooooo,” I said, shaking my head as I could see hordes of well-dressed ballet-goers coming down the stairs to use the restrooms. 

“Four, three-” 

I grabbed the knob, pulled open the coat check door, pushed Wes inside and shut the door behind us. 

“Two,” he continued in the empty closet full of coat racks. The room was dark, but a safety light next to the door made it possible to see his huge smile when he said, “One.” 

“YOUR FACE IS SYMMETRICAL!” I yelled as fast as I could. 

“YOU TAKE HYDRATION VERY SERIOUSLY!” he yelled at the exact same time. 

We stared at each other, grinning, because there was no way the people outside this door didn’t hear us. The closet was obscenely quiet as we listened to the sounds of a lot of people converging upon that hallway. He calmly said, as if this was normal behavior, “Do you really think my face is symmetrical, Buxbaum?” 

It was hard to speak around the giggles when I answered, “No one’s eyes have ever been so even.” 

“You know, that really means a lot to me.” He put his big hands on my shoulders and started moving, propelling me backward until I felt the wall at my back. “By the way, did we actually finish together?” 

“Yes,” I said, relieved he wasn’t going to dispute it and tickle me anyway. “The exact same time.” 

“Maybe I should text Charlie and get a ruling on this.” His hands slid up my neck to cradle my face – God, I love it when he does that,  and I felt almost drunk with giddy happiness as he smiled down at me. “Ties are unprecedented.” 

“Well you could text your cousin,” I said, setting my hands on that very wide chest and trying not to faint as wild brown eyes gazed down at me in the dark, “Or you could see if that door locks.” 

________

Wes

She didn’t have to tell me twice. 

I left her to check the door – which did not lock but it was one of those weird old doors where you could open the top half without the bottom so who the hell knew about a thing like that – then went right back to where she waited. 

Where the tiny closet light showed me the tiny grin on her face. 

God, I love her, I thought as my hands found her waist. 

“Did you lock it?” she asked, and something about the breathy sound of her voice in the darkness made me fucking crazy. 

“It doesn’t lock,” I said, leaning my body into hers, pressing her against the wall while I lowered my mouth to her ear. “Tell me you don’t care, Lib.” 

I heard her sharp intake of breath as her fingers grabbed onto the front of my sweater, and I felt the noise she made in the back of her throat when I opened my mouth on the side of her neck. This woman will never not make me drunk with want, I thought as my heart rate spiked and I tasted her skin on my tongue.  

“How could I care,” she breathed, her fingers sliding into my hair, “When I’m with you?” 

I had to kiss her then, because nothing in the world was like kissing Liz. It was almost as if the universe used her mouth as a tool to remind me that nothing would ever be as perfect for me as she was. 

My lips found hers and suddenly we weren’t playing anymore. She kissed me like there were only ten seconds left before she’d never kiss again, like she was desperate to consume every detail of my mouth before it was taken away for all of eternity. Lips, teeth, tongue – they were everywhere at once, demanding, inciting a fucking riot inside of me. 

It was breathy and hot, needy and seeking, and I was just her fool. 

Her lackey. 

I’d happily do anything she asked and beg for more. 

I’ll forever take your crumbs, Buxbaum. 

I let go of her waist to hold her face, to hold her in place while I absolutely lost my cool. I angled my head and went deep, devouring her hot cocoa mouth in the darkness as her nails dug into my pectorals and she made a noise that I felt in my chest.  

Liz’s reactions were everything, and reading them like a map, like an instruction manual, was my favorite thing in— 

“The switches are in here.” Lights flooded the coat check closet as the door swung open. I turned around as two men stepped inside the room, then froze when they saw us. 

“Oh,” the tall one said, his eyes moving knowingly between Liz and me. 

“We didn’t know, um,” the shorter one said, squinty eyes darting back and forth like he wasn’t sure what to look at. “That anyone was in here.” 

“We needed to hang up our coats,” Liz blurted, pushing away from me as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “That’s why we’re in here.” 

I turned and looked down at her. Her eyes were bright and her lip gloss was a little smeared, but those things paled in comparison to the hot color that was blazing on her cheeks. 

God, my beautiful liar. 

Neither of us had a coat in that closet, so she wasn’t fooling anyone, but they wouldn’t have been fooled anyway. 

“Well you turned off the exterior lights,” the tall guy said, pointing behind her. 

I looked to where he was pointing and oh, shit. I’d been pressing Liz’s back against a panel of switches.  

She swallowed and tucked her hair behind her ears again, trying so hard to look unfazed as her face went full-on pink. “Sorry.” 

Only she said it at the exact second that I said, “Sorry.” 

Bright green eyes narrowed on me and she held up a finger. She pointed at my chest and said, “Not now, Wes, you know that--” 

“Ten,” I interrupted, loving the way this turn of events had her fast blinking. “Nine-” 

“No, Wes,” she giggled, looking at the maintenance guys and then back at me. “We can’t.” 

“Eight – rules are rules – seven – you’re looking ticklish, Lib – six—” 

“Nooooo,” she said around a laugh, shaking her head. “Wesley.” 

“Five – I love it when you call me Wesley – four-” 

“I’m not doing it, Wes,” she squealed as the two dudes looked at us like we were crazy.  

“Three – you’re gonna look cute on the floor – two – after I tickle under your arms – one-” 

“YOU KISS LIKE YOU HAVE A PHD IN KISSING!” she shouted at the top of her lungs in the small coat-check closet in the now-busy hallway. 

I, on the other hand, said nothing. 

Both of the maintenance technicians looked at her like she was out of her mind, and I could sense people looking our way from out in the corridor. It took everything in my power not to laugh as her big green eyes stared at me in shock. 

“Well thank you, honey,” I said, reaching out and grabbing her hand. “But maybe say it a little quieter next time. I think you scared these nice gentlemen.” 

“No - no, it’s a rule,” she said to the men as I led her to the door, looking shocked by my betrayal. “It’s a game. He was supposed to yell something, too.” 

“Ah,” one of the guys said, his eyes narrowed. 

“No, really,” she insisted, glancing at me as we exited the room. “Now he lost and has to be tickled. Tell them, Wes.” 

“I lost and have to be tickled,” I said over my shoulder as the long line of women waiting to use the ladies room all looked at us. 

“You are seriously evil,” she said under her breath, ruining it with a giggle as she shook her head. “I cannot believe you did that to me.” 

“But you’re the winner.” I let go of her hand so I could wrap my arm around her shoulder and puller her closer. “Now you get to tickle me, Lib.” 

“That’s true,” she said, narrowing her eyes like she was thinking hard while I brought her even closer and kissed the top of her head. 

And twenty minutes later, when she tickled me during the dance of the sugarplum fairies, making me squeal like a psychotic pig in the front of the entire quiet theater, I knew the universe was right. 

Nothing would ever be as perfect for me as she was.

______________

Chapter 2

Omaha: Nicola’s Restaurant (8pm)

__________

Emilie

“Leave room for the lemon cake.” 

I sunk the fork into my last meatball, but paused before eating it to say, “I don’t like  lemons.” 

“Oh, I know,” Nick said, looking amused as I shoved the entire meatball into my mouth. “But you’ll like this cake. Trust me.” 

“I trust you, but a. you’re not getting out of taking me to Ted and Wally’s after this, and b. all non-chocolate cake is trash.” I held up a finger while I chewed my food, swallowed, then took a sip of my water. Only then did I add, “That’s just my worldview, bro.” 

His smirk slid into a smile as he shook his head. “Bro, she says.” 

I couldn’t hold in the grin as he mocked me, contentedness pouring through my veins and settling into every cell in my body. Nick – who looked ridiculously hot in his thick wool fisherman’s sweater - had taken me to see the afternoon performance of The Nutcracker, which I thought he would’ve hated but he’d shocked me by loving. 

Although that wasn’t really a shock at all. 

I was getting used to the fact that he always surprised me. He loved to cook, knew how to play piano, was fluent in ASL and had seriously considered buying a motorcycle; Nick Stark was anything but predictable. 

That was only thing predictable about Nick, the way he was a walking contradiction. 

After the ballet we walked around downtown in the snow, taking photos by the holiday lights before dipping in and out of the Old Market shops. He bought a screaming rubber chicken and an RBG calendar for his mom at City Limits, and I bought a white sweater at Nouvelle Eve and some roasted nuts from the guy on the corner. 

Then he took me to dinner. 

I’d never been to Nicola’s before, but everything about the place was so Nick-coded that it seemed right that I’d waited. Not only did the entire staff seem to know him, saying his name like he was a favorite cousin instead of a customer, but the Italian restaurant oozed with a charm utterly unique to itself. 

Just like Nick. 

It was small, with no more than ten or twelve tables. Framed photographs of Italy adorned the walls, the food was plate-licking good, big band Christmas music was coming from somewhere in the establishment, and the artificial tree in the corner had twinkling lights that danced alongside the melodies.  

It was perfection, I thought, watching out the window as the streetlights illuminated the falling snow. 

The entire day had been perfection. 

“Come on, Hornby,” he said, pushing his empty dinner plate out of the way. “Just try the cake. It takes the bite out of the garlic and settles your stomach.” 

“Are you an Italian grandmother right now?” 

“I just might be.” 

“Okay. Well I will eat this cake,” I said, pointing my fork at the cake that honestly looked amazing even though I hated lemons, “If you’ll discuss the thing we aren’t discussing.” 

A dark eyebrow went up as he reached his fork across the table and dug it into the huge slice. Dear God he was an attractive person, especially when he was giving me flirtatiously challenging halfsmiles that made me want to engage in an epic battle of truth-or-dare with him. “You want to discuss this now? Tonight? On the eve of our romantic Christmassy date?” 

“Why not?” I shrugged and tried playing it cool, but the truth was that I wanted it. 

Badly. 

But I didn’t want him to know I wanted it badly. 

In case he didn’t. 

But I was pretty sure that he did. 

“Let’s recap the facts, shall we?” he said, sliding the fork between his teeth and making me feel… something as he took a bite of the dessert. I waited patiently as he chewed, those eyes on me, and then he finally said, “You lost our bet.” 

“That’s correct,” I said, nodding in agreement. 

“So you are supposed to get a quote tattoo of my choice,” he continued, his voice deep and quiet and a tiny bit growly at the moment. “Somewhere on your body.” 

“Yep,” I said, my voice barely there. 

“Somewhere to be determined by me.” 

I swallowed and wondered if it was hot in there or if I was on fire. “Correct.” 

“And even though I told you that you don’t have to, you’re insisting on going through with it.” 

“It’s only fair,” I said, clearing my throat. “I made the bet.”  

His face was a little unreadable as he looked at me, serious and intense in the way that only Nick Stark’s face could be, and Harry Connick Jr.’s voice shimmied out of the overhead speaker and up my spine, leaving a shiver behind. 

Maybe I'm crazy to suppose, I'd ever be the one you chose-

“I mean, I’m not gonna lie, Em – the idea makes me crazy, okay? It’s a little hard for me to breathe every time I think about it. Words that I chose, crawling down your spine? My selection, climbing along your hip bone? Dear God.” His throat moved around a swallow and he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a level I could barely hear over the sounds of the restaurant and the Christmas music. But his lips found my ear and I felt them in the center of my chest when he asked, “But is it too soon? I don’t want you to have regrets.” 

I turned my head slightly, so our eyes were level (though mine were slightly unfocused), and I confessed, “It feels like I’ve loved you forever, so I don’t know how it could be too soon.” 

His eyes were everywhere on my face as his jaw flexed. “Is that right?” 

God, I love that tiny little movement. It always felt like an emotional tell, like he was feeling things when his jaw jumped. I took a deep breath and said, “It is. But the beauty of the tattoo being the result of a wager is that we don’t have to overthink it. If you dump me tomorrow – which would mean I’d have to figure out how to bury your very heavy body but that’s a whole other thing – the tattoo won’t be anything more than some random something I got when I lost a bet.”  

“A random something, huh?” he said, and I wished I could read his mind when his face looked like that. Because sometimes, when those fathomless blue eyes swept over me, it felt like they could see everything.  

Like he was weighing all the information they were capturing, and he was forming imperative decisions based on those observations. 

“Yep.” I reached my fork over and grabbed a bite of the cake. “The only thing I’ll regret is that I wasn’t the one to win. Then I could’ve given you a face tattoo that says Em is a goddess.” 

“Face tattoos were against the rules, remember?” 

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, taking a bite. “As were asses.” 

“As were asses,” he agreed, his lips quirking the tiniest bit. 

I chewed - holy crap that cake is delicious – and still wasn’t sure where we were with the tattoo. “Okay, well—” 

“Okay, well.” Nick slammed both hands onto the table, like his decision was made, and he said, “If you’re doing it, so am I.” 

“What?”  

“I find myself very inspired by Emilie Hornby’s commitment.” His calm sarcasm was still there, but his eyes were dancing and he looked… energized when he said, “We should do it tonight, if Dante has an opening.” 

“Wait.” I almost choked on my cake. “Tonight?” 

“Unless you don’t want to,” he said, a crinkle forming between his brows. “Which is totally fine.” 

“No, I want to.” I swallowed and reached for my water, trying to downplay just how excited I actually was. Because the idea of Nick’s words on my skin? Hell, yes, I definitely wanted that. But I was calm and cool when I said, “Do you think he can fit us in?” 

“I do,” he said, his mouth sliding into a half-smile. “Tattoos were not on my agenda for tonight, Em, but I fucking love this. Eat your lemon cake and let’s brainstorm.” 

___________

Nick 

“Yours better not say ‘hold on tight, spider monkey’ or I will rage.”  

“Oh, my God, I forgot you’ve read Twilight. And don’t worry,” she said, grinning as she carefully wrote the words onto a piece of paper. She was sitting beside me in the lobby of the tattoo shop, but holding up a hand so I couldn’t “copy” off her paper. “I would never stain your skin with Edward Cullen’s words.” 

“Good girl,” I said, ignoring her giggles as I scrawled out my quote and then said, “Done.” 

She looked up. “That was too fast.” 

“It’s one tiny sentence.” 

“Write it again,” she said, pointing at my paper. “If it’s going to be on my skin forever, I want it to be legible and your handwriting’s atrocious.” 

“Who’s going to be reading it but me?” 

She rolled her eyes and pointed. “Again, but slower.” 

I knew she was waiting for me to do it right, so I wrote as slowly as humanly possible, sticking out my tongue and slow-rolling every letter like a kindergartener concentrating on their first ABC’s. 

“Nick Stark,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “You better not write something stupid.” 

“As if I would ever.” 

Thank God Dante – my former boss - had been kind enough to squeeze us in. Neither one of us had left the house that night with a plan to get tattoos after the ballet, but once Emilie’s brain sparked, there was no stopping her.  

And why the hell would anyone ever want to? 

She’d looked at me in the quiet Italian restaurant and said, “What if we each pick a quote – from a book, song, or movie – for each other, but we don’t share it beforehand. So it’s a surprise.” 

Now, if anyone else did this, or told me about someone doing this, I would tell them they were out of their minds. Who would be that stupid, to not know what’s being needled into their skin forever? But I trusted Em so much that I wanted whatever words she chose. It could say BEEPBEEP and I would fucking love my beepbeep tattoo because it was created by her. 

By the time we headed toward 402 Ink, she’d gone all Emilie the Planner on me and nextleveled the shit out of our idea. We were each writing the other’s quote and getting it tattooed in our respective handwriting, which I wanted to make fun of because it was over-the-top cheese, but I also was mildly obsessed with the idea of being able to look down at my arm and see her perfect cursive for the rest of my life. 

Even if it said beepbeep. 

“Emilie?” Dante called her name from the counter and gestured for her to stand. “You’re up.” 

She gave me a grin as she stood, a smile that teased a waterfall of giggles, and I felt that smile like a physical touch. God, I was in love with the way she looked that night. She was wearing a fuzzy black sweater with a short plaid skirt, and the black ribbon in the back of her hair made it feel like she was my Christmas gift. 

It feels like I’ve loved you forever. 

Sometimes her words came out of nowhere and punched me in the gut, and what she said at dinner - It feels like I’ve loved you forever - was like a rock-solid uppercut.  

Even though it shouldn’t be. 

Because we weren’t new anymore. Em and I exchanged I love you’s like our lungs exchanged oxygen for carbon dioxide; constantly and without consideration. There was no doubt in my mind that we were “end-game,” to use an annoyingly overused phrase. 

Hell, I didn’t even feel pathetic thinking that because it was just a fact. 

Em was my center. 

I could recognize her sighs in a line-up, and I knew her face as well as I knew my own. She was the biggest thing in my universe, yet at the same time she was small and comfortable, like the soft blanket that lived on the arm of the couch. 

But her casual reciprocation of those enormous fucking feels never failed to shock me. And now she wanted to get this tattoo. 

I wasn’t sure why I’d thrown down the wager to begin with, but once I had, the idea of some part of me being permanently on her made me nuts. Possessive and proud and fucking insanely bewitched.  

Of course, the same went for her words being tattooed on my skin. Emilie’s mind was my obsession, this perfectly beautiful mystery that I never wanted to solve, so the thought of her carefully-curated words being etched on my body was mind-boggling. 

In the very best way. 

“Stark,” AJ (the other tattoo artist and my former co-worker) said, shaking his head like I was embarrassingly cuffed. “Let’s go.” 

“See you on the other side, Hornby,” I said, laughing as she grinned at me over her shoulder. 

“Not if I see your first, Stark,” she replied, giving me a wink. 

I followed AJ to the back, where he was going to permanently ink whatever the hell Em wanted, wherever the hell Em wanted, and I was a thousand percent comfortable with this decision. 

It was madness, how hard I fucking loved her. 

____________________

“Okay – who gets to see theirs first?” Emilie asked excitedly as we exited the shop, the snow coming down even harder than before. “I’m equal parts scared and excited, by the way.” 

“Yeah, same,” I replied, grabbing her hand and wondering what she’d think of the quote I’d chosen. “You can go fir--” 

“No, no, I want you to see yours,” she interrupted with a grin, tightening her fingers around mine and pulling me over to a bench beside a fully-lit Christmas tree. “And if you hate it I’ll pay to have it lasered off.” 

“You will?” I asked, wanting to laugh as she pushed me down to a sit. 

It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was so fucking pretty, all the time, but Em with snow on her hair was another thing entirely. 

Absurdly gorgeous. 

“I don’t know – does that cost a lot? Maybe,” she said sheepishly, the wind blowing her curls in front of her face as she sat beside me. “Now go. Unwrap your tat.” 

“Tat, she says,” I muttered, raising the sleeve of my sweater for “the reveal.” 

“What else should I call it?” she asked, her perfume finding my nose. “Your ink?” 

“Hornby,” I said, looking down as the clear wrap became visible, “You can call it whatev—” 

Holy shit. 

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me as I looked down at my forearm, at the fresh tattoo. 

Holy shit. 

I couldn’t believe it. 

Twisted around my existing tattoo, in Em’s perfect cursive, was the line from Everywhere, Everything. 

______________________________________

‘til our fingers decompose

“You’re not saying anything,” she said, her smile gone. “Do you hate it? I really will pay for the removal if you--” 

“No. Em,” I interrupted, strangely at a loss for words. The fresh snow was soft and quiet, insulating the world so everything went silent except for Em and I.  

It felt like we were the only two people on the snowy earth as I said, “Just shut up and lift your shirt. Now.” 

___________

Emilie

“What?” 

I looked at Nick, clueless as to what was going on. Why hadn’t he said anything about his tattoo yet?? Did he hate it? And why was he looking at me like that, like he’d just slammed two Red 

Bulls and he was about to explode?  

His eyes were bright and a little intense when he said, “It’s your turn. Raise that sweater for me, honey.” 

“I need to find a mirror,” I said, nervous to see the words that were now written on my spine. 

“I’ll take a picture of it,” he said, and his Adam’s apple moved around a swallow.  

“Are you okay?” I asked, turning on the bench so he could take a picture of my back. Nick wasn’t always easy to read, but this unexpected wildness in his eyes was really freaking me out. 

“Shhhh,” he said as he pushed up my sweater and carefully straightened the wrap that covered the tattoo. I felt his warm fingers between my shoulder blades as he held up my sweater. 

“Just wait.” 

I heard the sound of him taking the picture as the cold wind and snow shocked my bare skin, then I felt him lowering my sweater. He was holding out my coat as I turned back around, and I shivered and slid into my jacket. 

“Are you ready?” Nick asked, his voice kind of gravelly. 

“I don’t know – am I?” 

Suddenly I wasn’t sure. Was I ready?  

“You definitely are not,” he said, opening his photos. I looked at the screen as he held his phone in front of me, and when I saw the tattoo on my spine, I squinted and moved my face closer. 

It looked like it said-- 

“Oh, my God!” 

“Right?” he said, sounding just as shocked as I felt. 

I grabbed his phone and stared at the picture, unable to believe what I was seeing. It wasn’t possible, was it? Out of all of the quotes in the world, he chose that one? 

It was just impossible. 

Scrawled out in Nick’s all-cap handwriting was the quote from Everywhere, Everything.  

KEEP MY HAND IN YOURS  

I absentmindedly handed back his phone as my mind reeled. “Howww is this possible?” 

He shook his head as his mouth curled up at the corners. “It isn’t, Hornby.” 

“We chose the same song.” 

“We chose the same song,” he repeated. “And I finished your lyrics.” 

“I wanna love you ‘til we’re food for the worms to eat,” I quoted the line, absolutely in shock. 

“’Til our fingers decompose,” Nick sang quietly. “Keep my hand in yours.” 

“What does this mean?” I turned toward him on the bench, scooting closer because this was too much. I squeezed both of his thighs and shouted into the night, “How could this have actually happened?” 

He shook his head, and his dark eyes were twinkling when he said, “I think we both know what it means.” 

I couldn’t stop the smile if I’d wanted to. “Enlighten me, Stark.” 

“It either means a. you used more of that voodoo magic you got from Eric and controlled my choice without consent,” he said, grabbing the front of my coat and sliding me even closer to him, “b. you looked at my paper and changed your answer because you think you’re the literal mastermind and want me to believe it’s fate--” 

“Like I could read your writing enough to copy,” I interrupted. 

“C,” he said loudly, shutting me up with his hand on my mouth and a stern daddy look that didn’t work because his eyes were happy-squinting, “It is fate.” 

God, I love him. 

I got lost for a second, just staring into those cerulean eyes, before I moved his big hand from my mouth and said, “I think C. Fate.” 

“Yeah?” he said quietly. 

“Yeah,” I agreed, lost in his gaze. “Fate. I like that.” 

“Oh, you do, huh?” Nick pushed back my hair, his mouth sliding into an intimate smile that curled my toes. “Well I like you, Hornby.” 

He lowered his head and kissed me the way he always kissed me. 

Like he was trying to convince me he knew everything there was to know about kissing.  

Like he was going to get arrested if he failed to prove that he was legitimately the best kisser in the land. 

Like his only goal in life was to render me breathless and weak. 

His fingers slid into my hair and he angled my head, slanting his mouth over mine and sending heat everywhere inside me as the snow came down in showers. I grabbed onto the front of his sweater as he fed me hot kisses, and in spite of the Christmas-themed date and the lights twinkling all around us, I didn’t actually have a Christmas song going through my head at that moment. 

No, I had Noah and Gracie’s song on my mind while he rendered me breathless and weak. 

Everywhere, everything 

I wanna love you 'til we're food for the worms to eat 

'Til our fingers decompose 

Keep my hand in yours 

_______________

Chapter 3

Omaha: The Orpheum Theater (8:40pm)

________

Charlie

Where the hell was she? 

It was snowing harder now, and the crowd exiting the theater had dwindled down to a few random slow people who obviously were in no hurry. It was the only exit door, so where the hell was she? 

I leaned her surprise against the side of the building, pulled out my phone and texted: How was the ballet? 

I wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow, but I found an earlier flight to surprise her. We’d originally had an entire Christmassy date planned for tonight – The Nutcracker with my cousin and his girlfriend, dinner at Nicola’s, caroling in the Old Market – but then my dad changed his holiday plans so I was out-of-town for an early Christmas with him, instead. 

She’d acted like it was no big deal, but I knew she was disappointed because Bay was like a child when it came to the holidays. She loved every single thing about it. She wanted all the lights, all the cookies, all the wrapping; she was a goddamn human elf.  

A goddamn human elf that I was goddamn obsessed with. 

My phone lit up and her text shocked the shit out of me. I didn’t go, actually. 

I grabbed her bulky surprise and started walking away from the theater, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now. I texted: Why not? 

I had no idea where I was going, yet I kept walking. 

Bailey: When I got downtown, I realized I don’t like ballet enough to sit there for an hour and watch your cousin drool all over Liz. It’d just make me miss your dumb face. 

I looked up long enough to say excuse me as I dragged that thing around two people trying to remember where they parked, then texted: I thought you were dying to do the Nutcracker thing. 

The snow was starting to stick to the ground as I crossed at the corner. Every tree in the greater downtown area appeared to be decorated with twinkling white lights, and Bailey needed to see it. 

She’d fucking love it. 

I needed to get to her. 

Bailey: I was dying to do it with YOU because I knew you’d create a stupid game to make it fun. 

I would have – she was right, but the reason why I would’ve done it was because it would’ve made her do the quiet giggle thing I loved more than anything in the world. Something about the breathlessness of her laughter, when she attempted to keep it quiet, made me insane. 

I texted: So where are you now? Home? 

Please say no, please say no. 

Bailey: I’m still downtown. 

“Thank God,” I muttered to myself as I switched arms and kept walking.  

Her surprise was getting heavy as hell. 

I didn’t want to give anything away, but I needed more information than “downtown” if I was going to find her. I texted: Send me a downtown selfie, Glasses. 

She immediately responded with: I’m not getting arrested for you or for anyone, pervert. 

Such a little smartass. I texted: What if I beg? 

The smell of roasted nuts – the cinnamon ones they sold from the back of a truck in the Old Market – found my nose and made me hungry. 

Bailey: FOUL. You know I can’t resist a groveling Chuck. 

I glanced up from my phone just in time to not barrel over an old guy with the surprise I was getting really sick of lugging along beside me. “Excuse me.” 

I moved out of foot traffic and stopped outside of the Farnam Hotel. I messaged: You can’t resist a Chuck PERIOD. And I’m waiting for my selfie… 

I needed her to be close. I didn’t want to drive, and I didn’t want to wait. I wanted Bay to be nearby and close enough to touch momentarily. 

Bailey: You DO have your irresistible charms, though demanding a selfie like a frat boy saying SEND A PIC is not one of them. 

I glanced up and when the two women passing by smiled at me, I realized I was grinning. I was just standing there, on the snowy street, grinning like a damn fool. 

It was her fault. 

Bailey Mitchell had become my constant smile. 

I texted: I just miss you, Glasses, and want to see your face. 

Her response was quick: Gahhhhhh dammit I hate that! 

I coughed out a laugh because I could almost see the crinkle between her dark eyebrows. I replied: That I miss you and want to see your face? 

Bailey: No, I hate when you ruin perfectly snarky banter by being wonderful. 

I texted: I should be an asshole? 

Bailey: Shut up, you wonderful asshole, so I can take a selfie. 

Yesssss. I sent: Commencing shutting upping. 

I felt a rush of something – serotonin, maybe – when I saw the conversation bubbles bubbling, and I felt fucking happy when the message came through. 

God, I loved that face. 

She was grinning at me through a shower of snow, wearing a red turtleneck with those glasses, and suddenly I was desperate to get to her. I’d wanted to surprise her, but as I looked at curved lips and pink cheeks, it felt like I was the one being gifted with the unexpected. 

Fuck, I needed her now. 

I narrowed my eyes and looked closer. 

She was outside. 

Downtown. 

I moved the phone closer to my face, brushing away the flakes of snow collecting on the screen, and I felt like I recognized the background of the photo. She was definitely nearby – glowing trees were everywhere in the shot – but it took me a second. Everything felt very familiar yet I couldn’t put my finger on it, until… 

BINGO. 

I knew where she was. 

I texted: I know where you are – don’t move. 

I put my phone in my pocket, picked up that surprise that suddenly felt like it weighed no more than an ounce, and I started running. 

Fucking fast. 

I yelled excuse me and on your left as I sprinted past people, darting in and out of fellow pedestrians as I flew down the sidewalk. 

There was no way in hell I was slowing down. 

Sorry not sorry. 

Because there was a girl in glasses on a swing in the park in the snow, and I was coming straight home to her. 

____________

Bailey

I texted: Why exactly am I not supposed to move? 

I knew I was smiling like a moron as I sat on one of the two-person swings, all by myself, surrounded by families and couples who were out doing Christmassy things in the center of town, but that was just what Charlie did to me. He was impossible to figure out, all the time, and that puzzle was my absolute favorite challenge in the entire world.  

Because it was a trustable impossibility. 

He might be erratic and all over the place, but he was sweet and thoughtful and the funniest person I’d ever met. So even though I never had any idea what wild ride we were about to go on, I always knew he’d keep me safe, happy, and entertained (while holding on for dear life. And screaming, usually). 

He didn’t respond, which should’ve made me move because my ass was totally frozen on the metal swing, but where did I have to go? Charlie had been gone for an entire week, and even though I’d done fun holiday things with my mom and Scott, life wasn’t the same when he was gone. 

It was like the lights shined a little less brightly – in the world – without Charlie Sampson’s presence. 

Charlie: Take another selfie in ten seconds. AND I MEAN A LEGIT TEN. As in, count it down with Mississippeys. 

I was giggling as I started counting under my breath, not knowing why but absolutely one thousand percent in. 

Ten mississippi. Nine mississippi. Eight mississippi. Seven mississippi. Six mississippi. Five mississippi. Four mississippi. Three mississippi. Two mississippi. One mississippi. 

I held out the phone to take a photo, and I saw him the second I pressed the button. 

Charlie was behind me. 

“Charlie?!” I turned around and almost fell off the swing. 

Holy Christmas balls. 

He was standing there, tall and beautiful in his wool coat and mischievous eyes, holding up a Christmas tree in his right hand. A Christmas tree that was as big as he was and covered in (what I assumed were battery-operated) twinkling white lights. 

“I got you a tree,” he said with a shrug, as if this was absolutely no big deal whatsoever. 

But it was. 

It was a very big deal. 

Since Scott was allergic to real Christmas trees, he and my mom put up a wimpy little 4-ft artificial thing that I hated. So when Charlie called the other night, I’d whined to him (like a toddler) about how it wasn’t Christmas without the smell of pine needles in your nose and the sticky ick of sap on your fingers. 

And now here he was, with a tree. 

For me. 

“How are you even here?” I squealed as I jumped off the swing and into his arms, wrapping myself around him as my brain registered warm and solid. “With a tree?” 

“Moldova me first, Glasses,” he said, his eyes squinting around the sweetest smile as he wrapped his free hand around my waist. “Then we’ll talk.” 

I raised onto my tiptoes and found his mouth, pulling his face down to mine and kissing him like I hadn’t seen him in over a week and needed to show him just how much I’d missed him. I made it quick, since we were in the center of the bustling city park, but those three seconds were packed full of teeth, tongue and greedy want. 

And whoa. His eyes were dark and hot when I pulled back – dear God I love that face – and he raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. 

“God bless Moldova,” he said around a slow-sliding dirty grin. 

“God bless Moldova,” I repeated, happiness spreading through every single part of me. “Now tell me how you’re here. With a tree!” 

“Well it’s simple,” he said, his hand sliding away from my waist to find my hand. “I switched flights and picked up a tree. Walk with me, though, will you? We don’t want to be late.” 

“Be late for what?” I said, squeezing his gloved fingers between mine and walking alongside him, because I’d go wherever he wanted me to go.  

“Well we may have missed the ballet, but there’s no reason we have to miss out on caroling and the whole Ted-Wally ice cream thing.” I was distracted, as I listened to him, by the way the tree he was carrying totally lit-up his handsome face. “Right?” 

“Well of course,” I said around a laugh as every single person in the vicinity was staring at this boy who was dragging a fully illuminated tree with him like it was normal. “But please explain this tree.” 

“You wanted a live tree,” he said, as if that explained everything. 

“Yes…?” 

“So you should have a live tree. And I know you can’t have one at Scott’s house, but why not have one for the night, while we carol?” He said it very matter-of-factly, like his mobile tree was the soundest of logic. “This way we’ll bring festive joy everywhere we go, you get to sniff the pine and stroke the sap, and then at the end of the evening, we can leave it somewhere magical for the public’s enjoyment.” 

My heart was going to explode from joy. That was a thing, right? “Example of magical places, please.” 

“Uh, next to a porta-potty to spruce – get it, the tree reference? – it up, or underneath the bridge where it’s illegal for people to camp but they still do and could use a little holiday cheer, or even on a median, so everyone who stops at a red light gets to enjoy the vibes.” 

I loved the way his mind worked. “Those are good examples.” 

“And I’d love to keep discussing them with you, Glasses,” he said, “But we really need to start caroling before all the holiday bustlers go home. It’s snowing pretty hard, and people in this town are pussies about the cold.” 

“Okay.” I let go of his hand to flip up the collar of my coat. “So what’s the plan?” 

“The plan?” He looked over at me like I was an idiot, then said, very slowly, “The plan is that we sing. Christmas carols.” 

“But, like, where do we meet up with everyone else?” I asked. 

His eyebrows scrunched together. “Everyone else who?” 

“Everyone else who’s caroling,” I said, walking around a couple who’d stopped to take a photo in the falling snow. 

“Are other people caroling?” he asked, looking confused. 

“Aren’t they?” 

“Are they?” 

“Charlie!” I yelled, laughing at the ridiculousness. “What is the story with caroling?” 

“I just thought we’d walk around town, singing Christmas carols,” he said, smiling like a little kid, shrugging. “Isn’t that how it works?” 

“Just us?” I asked, wondering if he’d added the lights to the tree or if he’d bought it that way. 

“I mean, for now. I’m sure people will join us, if Hallmark has taught me anything, and we’ll force Wes and Liz to do it with us when we get to Ted and Wally’s.” 

He was serious. His face was dead-serious as he looked over at me like he was waiting for my response. His “we’ll go Christmas caroling” suggestion, when we planned this night, had literally meant – to him - that he and I would walk around downtown, singing songs. 

While he dragged along a Christmas tree. 

I wasn’t sure it was possible, but it kind of felt like I loved him more, at that moment, than I ever had before. I reached into my pocket for my warm hat with the pompom on top and said, “What song should we start with?” 

“A Nonsense Christmas?” he suggested. 

“Too sexy.” 

“Might Ruin Christmas?” 

“No one knows that song,” I said. 

“You do.” 

“True, but let’s go traditional.” 

“Okay,” he said, tilting his head like he was really wracking his brain for the perfect carol. “I think you and I will totally slay – get it – the White Christmas duet from the Michael Bublé album, don’t you?” 

“Enough with the puns,” I said, “And absolutely we will.” 

“I call the Shania part, though,” he said. “Because her I-I-I falls in the sweet spot of my vocal range.” 

“Obviously.” 

“And I think we need to skip,” he added, nodding while he took the hat from my hands and pushed it onto my head, his eyes all over my face. “Skipping is far more festive than walking.” 

“Can you skip with the tree in your hand?” I asked, my breath catching in my throat as he placed a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose. 

Dear Lord, I could get lost in his face. 

“Don’t insult me with your ridiculous questions, Glasses, of course I can. Are you ready?” 

I’d never felt more in the Christmas spirit as I looked up at Charlie through the chunky flakes of snow, the lights of the tree twinkling beside him. “Let’s do this, Sampson.” 

I don’t know why it shocked me, but I stood there, frozen in place, when six-and-a-half-foot Charlie start skipping down the street, dragging that tree behind him. 

While yell-singing a Christmas carol. 

“I’M DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS JUST LIKE THE ONES I USED TO KNOW!” 

“Hey, that’s my part,” I laugh-shouted, speed-skipping to catch up to him.  

“Then sing, Bublé,” he yelled back, grinning at me when I reached his side.  

So I did. 

“WHERE THE TREE TOPS GLISTEN, AND CHILDREN LISTEN, TO HEAR SLEIGH BELLS IN THE SNOW!”