Shit got really real there at the Andy Warhol museum tonight, and I feel like I need a good, stiff drink. Except I'm leaving with Emma on my arm, and she doesn't drink alcohol. She and the other Cheswicks cried and hugged for awhile. Eventually her dad shook my hand and told me my sculpture was nice. I try to imagine how I'd react if some asshole told me he made art from my naked daughter, and I decide Mr. Chezz isn't all that bad.
Emma wants to walk home, so I take her high heels from her, draping an arm over her shoulders while she walks barefoot along the sidewalk. "Did you really make that sculpture based on me?" she says, the street light reflecting off her green eyes and looking amazing. It gives me ideas. She's always inspiring my work, and I love that.
I nod. "You looked like the dawn after a long darkness, naked and glowing. Aurora," I tell her. "I don't ever want to forget that moment." We walk in silence a bit more until I gather up the nerve to tell her what I really need to say. "Emma," I say, squeezing her hand. "I want to talk about us."
"Hm?" she looks down, stepping over a pothole as we cross the street. I squeeze her shoulder and stop walking.
"Chezz, I don't want to end things with you after the wedding this weekend."
Her eyes dance back and forth, her gaze searching mine. "I need you in my life to keep calm in emergencies. You inspire me, Emma. Christ, do you know what you do for my work?" I gesture around. "All of that back there, that's you. That's all you. You are my muse." She starts crying now, and I rub my thumb on her cheeks, brushing away the tears. "Be with me, Chezz. Give us a shot." There's an eternity where my heart stops and she doesn't respond, and I think I've put myself fully on the line, raw and exposed, and she's going to turn me down. But then she closes her eyes and stretches up, grabs hold of my face with both hands, and sinks into the sweetest, best kiss of my life. Then I know she's mine.