Twenty-six

Nico

I’ve never been so nervous for a wedding, and it’s not even mine. My runs and workouts have done nothing to settle the tension in my bones, and I can’t sit still. It’s too early to head to the ceremony, but I’d rather drive around in my truck than look at the couch I took Raven on or the tub she slipped into or the sheets we slid against. This is how it’s been since the bachelor party. Two weeks of seeing her presence everywhere.

Waking up the next morning taught me two things. Drinking that much whiskey is worse than downing lighter fluid. I didn’t puke, but my room spun and my gut ached and I passed out cold. The other lesson, the harder one, is that my revelation about Raven was spot on: I pushed her away because my high standards were the only thing keeping me afloat while my family nearly drowned. Fear is what it was. Pure and simple. Raven was wrong to ask me to lie, but I was wrong to believe one false step had meant she’d failed, or one more would mean Josh had failed. Nikki had failed. Tim had failed. I had failed.

I’m finally ready to talk it out with her, no longer worried my temper will flare. Only problem is, she won’t see me.

Too busy with work and the wedding, she put me off the past two weeks. An excuse? A way to create distance? She might have texted that she wanted to talk, but that could have been to seek closure, move on. Put an end to whatever is still between us. And maybe this is the end. Maybe too much has happened. But if we don’t hash things out, we’ll never know.

I tuck my handkerchief into my suit pocket, knowing it matches Raven’s dress—midnight blue, according to Lily. Lily dropped the handkerchief off and told me I’d be walking Raven down the aisle, both of us standing up for our friends as they say their vows. The news sent my heart slamming into my ribs, where it’s been lodged ever since. To see her and touch her and walk next to her might be more than I can take.

Blowing out a breath, I check the mirror one last time. My palms are sweaty, my tux stifling. My shoes feel too tight. I grab my keys and head for the door, and my phone buzzes. My phone displaying Raven’s name. When I remember how to inhale, I open her message:

I need a favor. I left my purse at a gallery. I’m with the girls and didn’t know who else to call. Can you get it for me on your way?

I deflate at her businesslike tone. She doesn’t mention the talk we’re supposed to have, or the fact that we’ve had no contact in two months and we’ll be walking down the aisle together. No inkling she’s as torn up over this as I am. Sawyer said she’s been struggling, but he was wasted and I was three sheets to the wind, and the flatness in her text proves otherwise.

Sure, I type. One word. My standard reply. Not much else to say these days.

She sends me the address and a simple Thanks.

I roll down the window as I drive, the December air like a cold beer on a hot day. I drink it in. Christmas is ten days away, and Raven’s present is still burning a hole in my dresser. Knowing how she’d love to skydive, I bought her a pass and haven’t been able to ask for a refund. Like I couldn’t ask her to return my apartment key. As though, somehow, even before I cleared the mess crowding my head, I knew I didn’t want our relationship to end.

It takes a few passes before I find a parking spot a couple blocks away from the gallery. Walking in the Gaslight District in a tux isn’t my idea of fun; I’m more conspicuous than in my uniform blues. People stare, two women taking an eyeful. I’d smile back if I had the energy. The gallery is small, the sign outside written in old school lettering. I duck inside, nod to a man at a back desk, and walk toward him with blinders on, barely noting the dark lighting or what’s on the walls. Not caring much.

Get her purse. Get to the party. Force Raven to talk things out.

The man at the desk stands as I approach. He has a hipster vibe with his tight pants and checkered shirt, his red hair parted to the side. His eyes—bluer than mine—dance over my suit. “You must be Nico.”

I nod. “Raven said she left her purse.”

He grins, like he knows something I don’t. “I see why she’s gone to so much trouble.” Gaze on my crotch, he licks his lips.

His blatant perusal would be amusing, but I can’t focus on anything except his words. “What do you mean trouble?”

Instead of answering me, he pulls an envelope from his desk drawer and holds it out. “You’ll see.”

If my tux felt stifling before, it’s downright suffocating now. It’s not Raven’s style to be so cryptic. Cagey, yes. Sarcastic, fuck yeah. But not mysterious. Studying the envelope, I rub the back of my neck, my movements jerky.

When I don’t grab his offering, he says, “She’s put a lot of work into this, and she’s a tad intimidating. If nothing else, take it for me. I don’t want her chewing me out.”

With a tight smile, I grab the envelope and pull out a folded piece of paper. Two words are written on it:

I’m sorry.

She’s said them a number of times since I walked out her door, but they steamroll me tonight, flatten my chest. I’m so fucking sorry, too. But why isn’t she here to say her apology? To listen to mine. To finally get it all out in the open. I look up at the gallery owner, and he lays his hand over his heart. “She said you were a sensitive one.”

I don’t know how my face looks. I only know how I feel: desperate, dazed, lovesick.

He gestures to the room. “This is her show. She wanted you to see it.”

My attention snaps to the walls. They come to life, the space transforming as I take it in. Enlarged photographs hang on the exposed brick, the light dimmer than I’d expect for a gallery. The way a spotlight hits each piece, I can tell it’s on purpose, turning me into a voyeur, like the images captured are private.

I return to the entrance and start at the beginning. The first few are familiar. Too familiar. Betty Leroux is in one. It was the day we were at the slums, and she was ranting about her blanket. Her hands are tossed in the air, indignation on her lined face. The next one thickens my throat. Two sets of feet face each other, my boots and Betty’s ripped sneakers. The contrast is moving, the lighting making it more powerful. They aren’t framed, the images pressed between glass, and after a couple more, I realize small sections have been painted. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but as I return to the start, I see Raven’s hand in the work. The gray blends with the black-and-white tones, but more blues tint the sections as the images progress.

A little girl’s sock. The pillow under a vagrant’s head. The flames in a fire.

Still early for tonight’s wedding, I take my time. I try to see the photos through Raven’s eyes. Although a few scenes are familiar, most aren’t. She’s been busy, snapping frames when not at work. As I study them, a man and a woman walk in and whisper to each other, taking in her show. The words strong and dynamic and talented drift toward me. Pride fills me like helium.

Halfway through, the air hisses out.

The next image doesn’t look like Raven’s. The lines aren’t as sharp, the photo grainy, like the focus is off, but I’d recognize the face staring at me anywhere. Josh. He’s on a ratty mattress, crumbling concrete at his back, bottles and garbage littered around his feet. The can of beans in his hand is painted gray-blue, but it’s his eyes that hit me: Flat. Dead. No laughter or light. Even knowing how solid he is now, it flays me. Scratches at memories I’d rather let lie. The card at the side of the photograph credits Jericho for taking the picture.

For ruining my brother’s life, it should say.

My pulse thunders. Why would she put this here? Why show the world just how far my brother fell? And somehow she’s been in contact with Josh.

Shaken, I move through the space. The other couple is long gone, a group of three arriving. Raven’s small painted areas get brighter as I near the end, and so do the photos. Hope brightens a child’s face as she accepts a gift, the shelter she’s living in blurred but noticeable. The blue parcel in her hand pops against the gray tones. In the next, a First Nations man scrubs graffiti from a wall, his few teeth visible in his beaming smile. The word fallen, scrawled in blue, is about to be scoured away.

The last one winds me. Knocks the air clean out of my chest. I stand for a good five minutes and stare. This is Raven’s apology, the words I never let her say in person.

A portrait of Josh beams at me, his blue eyes—my eyes—painted with so much detail they glow. He’s crowded by masks and creature designs, his college acceptance held in his hand. This is why she needed the other photo: To show someone rise, you have to show them fall. Some of my anger the past months stemmed from the fact that I didn’t think she understood me. But this photo is everything. It’s the work I put into Josh. It’s my drive to be better. It’s my family and me seen through her eyes. It’s beautiful.

A man steps beside me and studies the piece. “They’re raw, but really give you a sense of the city. Makes me want to visit a shelter.”

Makes me want to tear across town and whisk Raven away to a deserted island. “She’s talented,” I say. And too far away from me. This isn’t her needing distance and closure. This is her hooking my heart and reeling me in.

“Did she do good?” the hipster guy calls as I stride for the door.

I pause and turn. “Knocked me straight.”

“That, sweetheart, is a shame.” He blows me a kiss.

Chuckling, I hurry to my car. Hank Williams croons from the stereo, singing about being young and foolish and losing his woman’s trust. Hank sure knew how to write. By the time I get to the Moondog office, I’m buzzing. I ride the elevator to the top, the walls barely containing me and the ten thousand things I need to say to Raven. The light flicks from number to number as I climb, my restless energy rising with it. We still need to talk things out, but us not ending up together is no longer an option. That woman is mine.

When the doors slide open, I step off, expecting the usual loft space I visit. Normally it’s sparse, half the high-ceilinged room filled with sample ski clothing and jackets, the other taken up with desks.

But this isn’t an office; it’s a galaxy.

Panels line the walls, floor to ceiling, painted like the night sky. Or maybe wallpapered. The purples, blues, and blacks flow onto the tables, the ceiling covered in something similar. Moving lights dot the ceiling with stars, more candles than I’ve ever seen filling the space, some as tall as a man, all encased in glass. The flowers are wilder than the ones inked on Raven’s chest. It’s sexy and otherworldly, and I wish she were on my arm to enjoy it.

I scan the room, ready to bulldoze the place until I find her, but Sawyer’s mother blocks my way. “Thank God you’re here.”

Evelyn West is in a black, sparkly dress, her dark hair pinned on her head. She’s all class, as usual. “Did you think I’d bail?”

“Don’t be silly. But Sawyer needs your help.”

“Has he forgotten how to tie his tie?” My gaze slips past her, scanning, searching. What sounds like a harp plays from somewhere, each strum flowing over the guests. None of them Raven.

She fusses with the handkerchief in my pocket. “If I know my boy, his nerves are getting the best of him. The men’s area is sectioned off with the kitchen, and I’ve been banned. Would you mind checking on him?”

I mind not searching for Raven, but I can’t say no to the woman who’d let us boys tear up her lawn with our football games and raid her always-stocked fridge. “Sure. And trust me, nothing will stop him from marrying Lily.” Except I’ve seen Sawyer at his lowest. There’s a good chance he’s freaking out.

She pats my arm as I push through the crowd to find the groom. I find Kolton and his son instead. “Hey, little man.”

Jackson’s eyes light up, and he tries to tackle me. At eight years old, four-foot-nothing, and thin as a reed, he doesn’t make a dent, but I stumble back. “When did you get so strong?”

“I went to karate with Daddy this week and learned how to stand and do a snap kick and block a punch, and I think my muscles got really big.” He steps back, pushes his glasses up his nose, and shows me his kick.

This damn kid. Moving in with him and Kolton was one of the hardest and best experiences of my life. Losing his wife shook Kolton so thoroughly I’d be the one to wake up and feed Jackson, and I’d fall asleep with him on my chest. He peed on me. His diapers were a horror show. But when those brown eyes locked on mine, I was a goner.

I ruffle his hair. “I wouldn’t mess with you.”

Kolton fixes the little man’s suit jacket and squats in front of him. “Can you run this over to Shay?” He holds out a note.

Nodding, Jackson grabs the paper and jogs out.

“You passing notes to your girlfriend?” I ask.

Kolton straightens, a smirk in place. “I write her notes all the time.”

“You sure you want your kid accidentally reading it?”

“I kept this one PG and left out the dick pic.”

Such a comedian. “Probably for the best. Don’t want her thinking you’re romantic.”

“Too late for that.” He punches my shoulder. “Your sappiness rubbed off on me.”

Early on, with Raven, the comment would have worried me. I would have wondered if my feelings for her would fade like always, my sentimental side a constant joke with the guys. But everything with her is different. I want her more, think about her more. I wake up wishing she were beside me. I run with my weight vest on, the fire in my lungs no match for the dull ache behind my ribs. An ache that’s intensified since seeing her exhibit.

“Pretty sure that’s all Shay,” I say. “Should I be expecting another wedding soon?”

His blissed-out eyes are answer enough. “Hopefully. I’m trying to figure out the best way to ask. I was thinking of taking her back to Aspen.”

“Back to where it all began?”

“Yeah. I just don’t want it to be cheesy. And we fought a lot there. Might not be the best place.” He looks out over the city, the lights bright against the night sky. More voices drift from the main room. “It feels weird to want to marry someone else.”

He doesn’t mention Marina’s name, but he doesn’t have to. He lost so much the day he lost her, but he gained Jackson. “She would have loved Shay. Loved that she doesn’t take your shit.”

He laughs at that. “She would have.”

A makeshift kitchen is set up at the far end of our narrow space, cooks milling about as things sizzle and pop. We watch them fuss over hors d’oeuvres, the bites so small I’d need fifty to stave my hunger.

Kolton turns back to the window. “I’ll probably end up rolling over in bed one morning and asking. Not sure how much longer I can wait.”

If Raven and I can bridge the distance between us, I don’t imagine I’d be much farther behind. But tonight isn’t about Kolton or me. We’re here for Sawyer and Lily, and as his mother suspected, Sawyer’s nowhere to be seen. “Has the groom bailed?”

He frowns. “Took off to the bathroom and never came back. Probably snuck in to see Lily.”

Or maybe not. Sawyer’s family could be solely responsible for Vancouver’s rising divorce rate. Their inability to commit and the fallout have chased him since he was a kid. He’s as devoted to Lily as Kolton is to Shay, but chances are his feet are on the ice-block side of cold. I nod to Kolton and slip out to find Sawyer, scanning the room as I go. Still no Raven. But flashes by the bar hint at a camera. As much as I want to see her, I need to make sure Sawyer isn’t face-first in a toilet.

He isn’t, but it’s just as bad.

The few stalls are empty, and he’s gripping the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his skin as pale as I’ve ever seen it. The man looks about to puke. “Should I bring the garbage closer?”

His shaky laugh doesn’t inspire confidence. Neither does his suit. I didn’t know they made tuxes in dark purple, but I’m not sure they should. Leaning down, he turns the tap on and splashes his face with water. “Is the building spinning? Because it feels like my legs might buckle.”

I lean into the wall. “Last I checked, we were stationary.”

He blots his face with a paper towel and tosses it in the trash. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve wanted this for months. I should be ecstatic.”

“You’re human, and your parents did a number on you growing up. Plus, your extended family is highly dysfunctional. I’d say what you’re feeling is pretty normal.”

“Thanks for the shrink session, Dr. Downer.” He tugs at his tie.

“Getting married is a big deal. If you were your usual obnoxious self, I’d be worried.”

Sighing, he rubs his eyes. “I better not hurt her.”

“You’re damn right, you better not.” Just like I better not push Raven away again. If I lose her, I’ll likely claim Sawyer’s spot, green and noxious and gripping the sink.

“If I hurt her,” he says, “I give you permission to paintball me in the nuts.”

“I might do that anyway, but glad to see you’re taking your commitment seriously. Do I need to stage an intervention, or are you good?”

He shakes out his body, drags his hands through his hair, then smiles at his reflection. “Fuck it. I got this. For the next sixty years, I will devote my life to making sure Lily knows how much I love her.” Face pinched, he turns my way. “I think your sappiness rubbed off on me.”

These assholes and their jokes. “Get your ugly mug outside before they send in a search party.”

Speaking of search parties, it’s about time I find a certain dark-haired beauty who’s inked herself on my soul. A woman who’s only had a taste of my romantic side. The guys can bust my balls all they want, but I’m more than ready to confess my feelings to Raven, tell her I’ve loved her since Aspen. If our talk goes as well as I hope, she’ll witness me in all my sappy glory.

The harpist is still strumming, the room now twice as full as it was. Mrs. West catches my eye, and I give her a thumbs-up. Waitstaff pass champagne as people enter. No, not waitstaff. Creatures. Dressed in slim black suits with slicked hair, the men and women carrying trays look like something out of Star Trek. Their cheekbones are raised, their colorful brows enhanced. It’s the type of makeup Josh will learn. Pride swells at the thought.

Then I see her.

The deep blue of Raven’s dress matches my handkerchief. Her strapless top hugs her curves, her long skirt flows to the floor, and something on it catches the flickering light. Every time she moves, it shimmers. And my throat burns.

If there’s an exotic creature in this room, it’s Raven.

A fresh bout of nerves keeps me rooted. She’s cagey at the best of times. Too worried her heart will get trampled, she keeps it under lock and key. She let me in twice, neither time ending well. My fault. Her fault. If we end up arguing, she might decide we’re not worth the drama.

Her camera is at her face, the flash strobing over the crowd. She floats around, capturing candid moments, even sitting on the floor to change her angle. I’ve never seen her so happy. Or so stunning. I itch to drag the zipper down the back of her dress and watch all that fabric pool at her feet. I want to kiss every inch of ink on her skin and fill in the gaps with my teeth, branding her. I miss having her at my family dinners and fighting over music.

Love this intense isn’t something you toss away at the first sign of trouble. Or the second. You argue, you make up, then you come back together, stronger. If Raven pushes me away, I’ll only fight harder. I stand by the side wall and watch her through the mingling guests.

Black hair. Sharp bangs. Full lips. Sultry movements.

Then her lens swings toward me, and her body jerks. She freezes, camera in place, and I stand taller. You’re mine, I want to say. Instead I release a shuddering breath.

She approaches slowly, never lowering her camera. She’s taken photos of me before, usually when I’m not looking, but we never got around to those naked pictures she’d talked about. I imagine this is how posing for them would feel: Sexy. Intimate. She works the lens and presses her finger until she’s a foot in front of me. There’s glitter or something on her chest and arms, making her skin glow. My skin feels too tight, hers looks too delicious.

I press two fingers on top of the lens and lower her camera. “You’re beautiful.” There’s glitter on her face, too, and colored makeup around her dark eyes. There’s probably a fancier way to tell her how gorgeous she is, but I’m at a loss.

She smiles at the handkerchief in my pocket. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

“As good as I did in that Hawaiian shirt?”

“Do you have to be a virgin to live on the Virgin Islands?”

She’s back on those stupid questions. Our questions. Our game. The familiarity has me moving a step closer, but I don’t feel much like playing. “If you want to ask me a stupid question, ask me if I’ve missed you.”

The sparkles on her chest glint with each quickened breath. “Have you missed me?”

I lean down and whisper, “Painfully.”

Instead of replying, she glances over her shoulder. This is her night. Her gig. And I’m interfering. I scrub my head, the short stubble scratching my palm. “Your photographs were amazing.”

Her attention swings back to me, and she grazes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We really need to talk.” So I can tell her I love her. Even now, not saying it is like being gagged, the air in my lungs clawing to get out.

“Or not talk…” There’s rasp to her voice, a seductive edge. It’s how she sounds when I make love to her slow and deep.

“That, too,” I agree.

She looks down, at my thick fingers brushing her thigh. “Unfortunately, both will have to wait.” She taps her camera. “I have a job to do. Save a dance for me, though.”

“Of course.”

Our eyes collide another moment, then she turns, her dress glinting with the sway of her hips.

This better be the fastest ceremony in the history of the world, because we do have to talk. And not talk. There are things that need saying, by both of us. Apologies given and received. And I have to tell her how impressed I am with her exhibition and how that photo of Josh lit up the room. And my heart. But having her this close—those lips, that body, and that inked skin within reach—stirs my blood. My hunger for her is a tangible thing. Thickness fists my throat. Tonight, if all goes according to plan, the springs in my bed will be put to the test.