Life rarely presents fully finished photographs. An image evolves, often from a single strand of visual interest—a distant horizon, a moment of light, a held expression.
–Sam Abell
Marc
Gwen stands in the center of the empty living room. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her back is to me as she gazes out the small window.
“The truck is packed up and ready to go.”
She turns and smiles. “Okay.” Then she resumes her stance. Her eyes are tired.
We’re both sweaty and dirty from moving all day. Her face is free of makeup and she’s wearing old jeans that have a hole in the knee.
She’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.
I wrap my arms around her from behind, propping my head on her shoulder. “Are you all right? Regretting your decision yet?”
She chuckles and relaxes back against me. “Nope. You can’t get rid of me that easy. It’s just weird to be leaving the one place I’ve lived in the city.”
“You can come back and visit sometime. I’m sure Bethany won’t mind.” We sublet Gwen’s place to one of her sister’s friends since her lease isn’t up for another year.
“I’m sure she won’t mind me visiting but she might mind working for your father.”
In a series of fortuitous events, my father’s assistant Alex quit not so unexpectedly. I needed a new employee. Bethany needed a change of scenery. Now she’s moving to the city and has a new job and a place to get her started. Plus she’ll be checking our mail and watering our plants while we’re gone. Smiles all around. “It will be okay. She might actually be able to handle him. Being a pretty blonde won’t hurt. I tried to scare her off, but she didn’t seem concerned.”
We’re silent for a moment, standing by the window in the remains of the day, gazing at the view. It’s not much to look at, a brick building across the way and the street below where the occasional pedestrian or vehicle passes by. But I would stand here with her for hours if it made her feel better.
“Have you talked to Brent?” she asks.
“Just a text.”
She rubs gentle hands down my tense arms and I try to relax. I haven’t seen Brent since the morning in the hospital. By the time Gwen and I came back to New York a week later, he had left.
It’s been two months. At first, he had the excuse of playoffs and team stuff, but now he’s finished out the season and I have yet to see him. All I’ve gotten is a few random texts to let me know he’s okay. If it wasn’t for the occasional paparazzi shot and his meager attempts at contact, I might have thought he was dead. He must be staying in hotels or with other friends.
“He’ll come around,” Gwen says.
“I hope so. I would like to see him before we leave the country.”
We’re flying out in less than a month. Gwen’s proposal to Warren at News Weekly went amazingly well. They gave her the green light within a week. We were a little surprised—not that they would want to run her idea, she’s brilliant and amazing—but since Brent fired Starlee, we weren’t sure if that would affect her chances. Apparently not.
We stand there for a few more minutes in comfortable silence, gazing out at nothing but content all the same. Mostly content. There’s something going on with Brent, more than the Gwen stuff. Something he hasn’t been sharing. It’s not like him to keep things from me, but I can’t force him. I can just hope he’ll let me in, eventually.
“Are you ready to go home?” I ask finally.
We have to drop off most of her belongings in storage. We’re only taking the essentials back to my place. Our place. We’ve basically been living in each other’s pockets anyway for the last two months, so it’s not a huge change, but it feels important, meshing our earthly possessions together.
She turns in my arms. “You’re my home.”
I gasp. “That was so cheesy.”
She grins. “Yes! I win the cheeseball award today.”
“You do not. I had that line earlier, about how you mean more to me than the entire sun and universe and galaxy, remember?”
“That was so not as good as my home comment.”
“Puh-lease.” I totally win.
“I think I can change your mind.” She unzips my pants and reaches inside.
I suck a breath in between my teeth. “I’m listening.”
“We never did it in the kitchen.” Her grasp is firm and she strokes me once. Twice.
What were we talking about? I pick her up, jarring her hand out of my jeans and lifting her by the ass. Her legs straddle me, her arms looping around my neck, her lips close enough to taste.
Oh right, the kitchen. “That’s because one full-grown person can’t fit in here, let alone two.”
“I disagree.”
“Let’s test that theory, shall we?” I walk with her still wrapped around me the couple of paces it takes to get to the microscopic kitchen. I set her on the counter and glance around. “I guess we do fit.”
She kisses me then, her hands sliding against my scalp, sending goose bumps down my arms, and then she speaks against my mouth. “We fit perfectly.”
The End