Now that I was in one city for the next five months and Reagan just performed a show in London, my lesbian dating app resurrected from the Cloud and blew up with matches and messages from girls in the area. Since Reagan had nothing to lose with me, everything Bristol Perri told me went right out the window.
Hello, dating world; it’s me, Blair Bennett.
In the few conversations with girls on the dating app, only one conversation didn’t eventually lead to them figuring out my job was touring with Reagan Moore. The girl, Paige, asked me what I did for a living, and I told her I was a musician, and I think she probably figured I was really, like, a waitress who said she was a musician but really just busked on Hollywood Boulevard. It wasn’t until three days into our conversation that I invited her out to our gig at House of Blues in Anaheim, and I think she figured out then it was more than a hobby. But still no signs of internet research, which earned bonus points from me.
While Reagan toured Europe, during the day, Miles and I finished recording our album. Finally. Only a year later. The summer of sexual frustration, confusion, and feelings really helped fill my journal with songs, and by the time November came around, the album was completed. Over those two months, Reagan and I only exchanged casual text messages a few times a week as if we were just friends who never saw each other naked, talking about finishing up albums and how a VIP fan passed out in Paris when she first saw Reagan backstage. I told her how excited I was to sign more boobs that belonged to a really hot woman after our Anaheim show. Apparently, that was becoming a thing now when we headlined shows. That was something I would always say yes to. Reagan thought it was impressive as well, but it made me wonder if she felt any sort of jealousy. I told myself not to hold my breath on that because not once since Gaslight Shores did we ever crack open our feelings about missing each other.
I woke up to the smell of coffee from our kitchen. Miles always woke up before me and saved me two cups of coffee. He’d been doing this routine ever since we started living together right after I dropped out of USC my sophomore year. We’d spent the night before at a club with Paige, and then I ended the night with her in my bed. So needless to say, I really needed some caffeine.
Taking the first sip of my black coffee, I checked my phone and saw I had a message waiting for me.
Reagan’s text read, Touring isn’t the same without you. I really miss our talks. How are you?
Who needed coffee in the morning to wake you up when the girl you were a giant question mark with sprang out of nowhere and texted you? A text that had feelings hidden underneath. The kind of text message you’ve only been waiting two months for.
As her text settled in me, Miles came up behind me and said, “So, another successful night?”
“My head is pounding, but I guess.” I looked at him skeptically. “Why?”
“Because I was awake. Thank you for the background noise.”
I playfully slugged his arm. “Shut it.”
“You know, when we’re back on tour, I’ve already decided to make a move on Ethan.”
“Yeah, why haven’t you?”
“Because the dude is so hard to read. At first, I thought I was going in blind with a straight dude, but now I’m not so sure? He’s been texting me this whole time.” He wiggled his phone, and this aching of jealousy zipped through me. “‘When are you coming back? Why aren’t you here?’” Miles said, reading his messages. “‘These British openers are fun and all, but you’re way cooler. Come back to me soon.’ Like, who says that?”
“A guy who wants it. You really need to make a move. I think you got him all smitten.”
He tossed his head back until it hit the top of the couch. “Ugh! It’s so far away.”
“Or you can ask him out on a date like the grown-up you are when they get back.”
He shot me a glare. “You’re one to talk. How long did it take you to make a move on Reagan? Didn’t she tell you she aged, like, twenty years waiting for you?”
He cackled, and I punched his arm again. “I never made a move before.”
“Oh, woe is you. You could get any girl you want, and you do, and you’re lucky all of them have just thrown themselves at you. It has to be the sleeve.”
“That’s why I got it,” I joked.
“So, when are you guys going to tell Corbin and Finn?” He smiled behind his mug, knowing I was going to toss him a glare, which I did. “Don’t you think the managers need to know about this?”
“When it’s worth telling.”
“You’re still mad about her comment?”
“Yes, and the fact we only talk about nothing now. At least you and Ethan talk about how much you miss each other, so please, go ask him out. It’ll lessen the blow when Corbin finds out about us doing Reagan Moore and her crew.”
I responded to Reagan. I’m feeling great now that the album is finished. When do you come back?
Reagan texted back with, Next week. Can you believe?! Can I see you next Thursday?
That’s our first late show appearance! Yikes!
Oh my God! That’s right! That’s so exciting!!! I’ll make sure to watch it since I really miss your face.
I looked back at Miles, who watched me the whole time.
“You’re grinning,” he said with a smirk. “Must mean Reagan’s texting you.”
A blush warmed my cheeks. “Do I smile when she texts me?”
“All the freakin’ time. Is she sexting you?”
“No, but she said she misses my face. You know, this is the first time she’s admitted that she’s missed me…or, you know, has slept with me, since Labor Day?”
“Swallow the pride, Blair, and enjoy this moment. Now text her back something nice.”
“If you text Ethan right now and ask him out. They’re coming back next week.”
“Two completely different things.”
“Wanna make out with him or not?”
He rolled his eyes and picked up his phone, and I responded to Reagan, swallowing my pride like Miles demanded. I kinda miss your face too.
Reagan: What about Saturday?
Me: Can’t. We have a show in San Bernardino. What about Monday?
Reagan: Can’t. I got album 4 recordings going on.
Me: Ugh. Wed?
Reagan: Flying out to Nashville to be with the fam for Thanksgiving. Going to spend time with them until the Asia shows in Jan.
Me: Well…this really sucks then.
Reagan: I know. Now I’m in a bad mood.
I was too. Now we had to tack on two more months to water down the raging chemistry we had during the summer. Would anything still be left when we resumed our American shows in February?
* * *
I needed a distraction. Craved a distraction. I turned to Paige, and we went out with Miles to the gay clubs of West Hollywood. We drank, we danced, and Paige surprised us with some Molly, so the three of us took it and waited for our bodies to feel blissful. The music, the lights, the hot girl in front of me; my body felt so warm and overjoyed, and then Paige started grinding on me on the dance floor, fully enthralled by the high of the Molly. The carefree and weightless feelings of lust reacquainted with my body. I missed those. I needed more of those. Not the timid, heavy feelings that I felt whenever I saw Reagan’s face on the internet or that face cream commercial that always played or whenever the thought of her popped in my head.
The morning before Thanksgiving, a few hours after Paige left my bed, my eyes felt as if they were almost glued shut. The downfall of the Molly, feeling as if I hadn’t slept in days and my body was hit by a truck. I met Miles out in the kitchen with that same long sulk, knowing we both had to regain all the serotonin we used up the night before. He recapped his bathroom stall rendezvous with a guy he found on the middle of the dance floor when my phone chirped and stole my attention away from the juicy details. Seeing Reagan’s name sent a jolt through me, the shot of espresso that I really needed at the moment came from just seeing her name light up my phone screen.
Well, scratch the whole going home to Nashville for Thanksgiving. My flights were just canceled.
I frowned as I typed back, What?!
My flight got canceled because of that stupid blizzard Nashville’s getting.
Her next text was a screenshot of the radar in Nashville. The whole area was covered in deep blue to signal the blizzard, expected to drop over a foot of snow. In my thirteen years living in Nashville, I could probably count the number of times we got more than over two inches. We never had a blizzard, and any of my sledding experiences involved blades of grass poking through the thin layers of snow.
She responded again. I’m so upset. I really was looking forward to meeting my niece. I bought her all these adorable clothes and toys and everything.
Me: I’m so sorry. You should come spend it with me and my mom so you’re not by yourself.
Reagan: I don’t want to intrude.
Me: Oh, stop it. You’re not intruding. I don’t want you to spend it by yourself, and I kind of really want you to come.
Reagan: Aww, really?
Me: Really. My mom is going all out this year. It’s the first time she’s making a whole Thanksgiving meal in her first home ever. She’s really excited. You can be my date.
Me: Also, please save me because I’ll be third wheeling it with my mom and her boy toy.
Reagan: Your date?! I really want to be your date!
Those butterflies unleashed again.
Reagan: And I’ll gladly save you from being the third wheel.
Me: Then be my date. It can be our first date…if you want it to be…
I decided why the hell not. There was nothing to lose, right? So why not take the risk and ask. Plus, if she said no, I’d go to Paige…even though she wasn’t as beautiful or funny or talented or mesmerizing or exciting or as great a kisser as Reagan.
I held my breath as I watched the typing cloud appear and disappear and then appear again.
Reagan: I want it to be.
It was a date. A real date. With Reagan. I had to learn to breathe through those thoughts.
Now that I had a date for Thanksgiving dinner, I was actually looking forward to it more than I was before. Even though Mom was excited to host her first Thanksgiving, the emptiness of where Gramps should have been sitting with his Johnnie Walker would haunt the dinner table. Then, on top of worrying about being the third wheel to Mom and Greg, I was planning on drinking lots of wine and eating lots of turkey to put myself into a coma to save myself from their honeymoon phase. But now that I had Reagan coming over? I was shocked that I was really looking forward to the day I’d been dreading. The empty space for Gramps would be less noticeable with her there.
She was right on time. I told her to come over at two, and she knocked on Mom’s front door at five after two in dark blue skinny jeans, black boots with heels, and a dark maroon sweater with a maroon, mustard yellow, and orange scarf around her neck. Her hair was down in slight waves, and two tote bags dangled from her arms.
She was just as beautiful as I remembered. Must have been all that face cream.
I couldn’t believe this was my Thanksgiving date. It was a real shame that she had to skip out on going home because of that blizzard, but I was the real winner for her flights being canceled. And when she beamed at me as I opened the door, I felt pinned to my spot with a tight chest.
“Wow,” I said, still studying her and her beautiful, thick blond hair.
“Hey, stranger,” she said with a bright smile that warmed my face. “I almost forgot what you looked like.”
“Hopefully still hot and charming?”
A light blush dusted her cheeks, and God, it made me feel so great knowing I could do that to her. “Definitely still hot and charming.” And as my face heated, she looked down at her tote bags and said, “Okay, so I didn’t know what kind of wine you guys like. Which is completely silly because I should know if you like red or white wine. So, I decided to buy all the wine—cabernet sauvignon, pinot grigio, and rosé. Oh, and I brought pumpkin pie…but I don’t know why I did that since you bake. That was stupid. You probably made a killer pumpkin pie.”
After speaking a million miles per hour, she finally looked up at me, and I laughed by how adorably nervous she apparently was for this dinner. If she really didn’t have that much to lose with me, why did she talk at the speed of light?
The overanalyzing gears in my brain kicked in.
“Okay, one: I made a dessert, yes,” I said, “but a pumpkin pie is greatly appreciated. And two: you didn’t have to bring over three bottles of wine—”
“You didn’t have to invite me over, and your mom didn’t have to make extra food for me—”
“Three: she was going to make extra food anyways because she’s super excited about her five-burner gas stove and her brand-new Williams-Sonoma pots and pans. Four: we love all wine, so any wine you would have brought over would have been perfect. With the exception of blue wine, so thank you for not bringing that. And five: you look really beautiful. Like, amazingly beautiful.”
I watched the worry leave her eyes, and her gaze became so soft. “What? Really?”
“Oh, really. If you catch me staring for too long, you know that it’s because I’m caught up in all of this.” I motioned to her face. “You’re gorgeous.”
I thought I lost the ability to properly speak around her because I was so nervous about where we left off. But saying those words felt so comfortable that I didn’t even get embarrassed when I realized I put my feelings out there.
It could have been that first glass of wine too. Maybe it was a combination of both.
“Wow, thanks, Blair. God,” she said, shaking her head as it fell to the ground. “Now you have me blushing, and I haven’t even walked in yet.” She wiped her cheeks as if that was going to erase the deep red soaked into her skin. “You look good too. As always.”
“Now that we have turned ourselves bright red, come in and let’s show it off to my mom.”
The smells of roasted turkey, thyme, sage, and rosemary scented the whole condo in wonderfulness. Inside the kitchen, Mom and Greg split up tasks of making sour cream and chive mashed potatoes. Greg chopped up the fresh chives as Mom skinned the potatoes. She stopped when she saw Reagan next to me. She tossed the potato on the chopping board and reached her arms out for a hug, luckily not seeming to notice the blush still heating my neck, face, and ears.
“Oh my gosh, hi, Reagan!” She gave Reagan a tight squeeze as if they were long lost best friends.
Reagan gladly reciprocated the embrace. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Ms. Bennett.”
Mom pulled away and waved a casual hand. “Oh, please, call me Karen. I’m so glad you’re joining us today. And this is Greg.”
I was glad I wasn’t the only one blushing in the kitchen. When Reagan noticed Greg, it didn’t matter if he was in his forties, he knew who Reagan Moore was. If he had any daughters, there was a ninety-eight percent chance they were Reagan Moore fans, much like the rest of the female population. So, Reagan Moore even had the ability to cause middle-aged men to become starstruck.
“Hi, Greg. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Reagan,” she said in her seamless charm. “I’d like to take partial credit for the shoes Karen wore on your first date.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Greg said with a shy smile. “And she really looked beautiful. I approved of the shoes.”
“I had to ask Reagan because I don’t trust my own daughter’s judgment,” Mom added with a playful grin to me.
“Hey, I think I look pretty damn okay for Thanksgiving dinner, thank you very much,” I said, gesturing to my dark gray cashmere sweater.
“You do,” Reagan said, softly enough to probably get away with Mom and Greg not catching it. But just as I thought that, Mom studied the two of us for a split second before Reagan said, “Please, let me know what I can do to help. It’s the least I can do after you took in a Thanksgiving dinner orphan. I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. I’m so sorry you can’t fly home to your family, but I promise we’ll make tonight a close second. We’re happy to have you here.”
“I have no doubts about that. I brought a few things. I didn’t know what bottle of wine everyone liked so I have three options.”
“I like her,” Mom told me. “She comes prepared.”
“And I brought a pumpkin pie, but I don’t know what I was thinking since Blair is the baking queen. But, you know, just in case we want to be traditional. Pumpkin pie from my favorite bakery and Cool Whip right here. But I already know I’m going straight for Blair’s pie and not this one, so consider this a treat for after Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, great!” Mom said and took the pie and Cool Whip container and placed it by my dessert in the fridge. “Blair made a simple caramel apple pie with apple cider whipped cream. So, we have options now, but I love me some pumpkin pie.”
She let out a laugh and faced me. “Oh? A simple caramel apple pie with apple cider whipped cream? Doesn’t sound simple.”
“Try making macarons, and then you’ll think it’s simple,” I told her.
“Oh, I got you a present,” she said to me and dug one last thing out of her tote bag as Mom checked on Greg’s chive dicing. She pulled out a small rectangular gift wrapped in shimmering blue paper with a white bow on it.
“You got me something? Why?”
“Because I thought of you,” she said and then took a step forward, and it was as if we stepped back into our old world. Smelling the designer perfume flowing off her and the lack of space between us lifted that weight off my chest that I’d been carrying around since Gaslight Shores.
I glanced behind her shoulders, and Mom and Greg were now checking on the turkey roasting in the oven. Mom was really worried about messing up a recipe. All the recipes, actually. But mostly the turkey. No matter how many times Greg and I told her that everything was going to taste fine, she continued to worry and kept checking the oven to make sure the turkey was cooking to a nice brown roast.
“Karen, stop checking on it,” Greg said every time, a smile in his tone. “It’s fine. Stop letting the heat out.”
“I just don’t want it to be too dry.”
“I thought of you a lot, actually,” Reagan continued, and I snapped my attention back to her as she assessed the gift in my hands.
Whatever unfamiliar place we were in prior to this moment, we shifted right back to the days of acknowledging the mysterious force between us. A grin spread across her face, and it was small enough to clue me in that it was just for me. A grin that told me she was so genuinely happy to see me. My eyes widened when her confession settled in me, and I remembered what I was up to two days prior, making out with Paige on the dance floor, high on Molly, and rolling around with her naked in my sheets. Now came the guilt. I knew that was the feeling choking my chest. Reagan thought of me a lot while she was gone, and what did I do? I found myself another sex friend because I didn’t think she would miss me, and I was wrong the whole time.
If it meant anything, I thought about her a lot too.
“You thought of me a lot?” I asked just in case I heard it wrong.
“Of course. Glad the feelings were mutual.” She nudged me in the arm. “I found this at an adorable used bookstore in London. I couldn’t believe they actually had this tucked in the back corner of the store. I also don’t know how I found it, but I guess it seriously was meant to be, so I knew I had to get it for you. I hope it’s not too much.”
“Why would it be too much?”
I couldn’t stop my curiosity at that point. I ripped the bow off, placed it on her head, and laughed when she let it sit there, a nervous smile finding her lips. Underneath the blue wrapping paper was a dark green book that had seen better days. The binding was worn, the pages aged in a dark yellow tint, each page emanating the smell of all the years that it collected. On the cover was a gold outline of a little boy with a fishing hook next to a small golden outline of a small bear with his paws up.
My stomach plummeted.
“If it’s too much, then I’m sorry,” she said in that nervously fast voice, the same voice and speed that she gave me at the front door. “I thought of what your tattoo means and how much you miss him. So, if it upsets you, then I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought—”
I looked at her, trying to hold back the emotions budding in the back of my throat. My eyes stung as my fingers clenched around the book. “This is a Winnie-the-Pooh book,” I said, interrupting her apprehensive ramble, staring at A.A. Milne’s name under my thumbs.
I was amazed at what was in my hand. I was amazed at what she found shoved in the back of a used bookstore in London. This book clearly came from the first few editions printed back in the 1920s. How the hell did she find it?
“Yeah, it’s a first edition,” she said insecurely. “The bookseller confirmed it.”
My heart swelled up like a balloon in my chest. I had no idea how to feel. It felt as if my heart ripped in two all over again at the same time it was being sewn up by this girl who was starting to feel like anything but a hookup to me. I couldn’t believe I spent this whole time with another girl at the same time Reagan was buying me a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh in London. I was so embarrassed by how I couldn’t keep myself from crying. Over a Winnie-the-Pooh book. If she thought Southern Comfort was laughable in the name of rock ’n’ roll, surely crying over a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh would be number one on the list. But a part of me didn’t even care because this was single-handedly the best gift anyone had even given me.
I wish I could have shown my grandpa. He would have loved this and would have treasured it as much as I already did.
“Reagan, this is…”
“You look upset. Shit, maybe it was too much. I’m sorry. I just thought—”
I grabbed her hand to make her shut up, and without even thinking, I let go of her fingers and cupped her warm, soft cheek. I could feel the tension that stiffened her body relax into my palm. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Really?”
“Really. I really love it.” I let go of her face and quickly wiped away the tears hanging on the corner of my eyes. Something connected us in that moment as we studied each other. Whatever was happening, it overpowered me with the strong desire to kiss her.
“I’m really glad you like it,” she said, her eyes holding mine.
I really messed up. This was not what casual hookups bought each other. Holding that book in my hand, any last resistance of having casual feelings for her quickly dissolved, and I could feel myself opening up in a way I never felt before. I felt so warm, and it was only then when I understood what happened with us. She wasn’t a hookup to me anymore. She wasn’t the girl I used for sex or the girl I allowed to use me for sex. I really, really liked her, and when I finally admitted that to myself, those encumbering, uneasy feelings seeped right out of me.
“I love it,” I said. “Seriously. This is…amazing. This is really amazing. You don’t even know how much this means to me.”
“I think I have an idea.”
“I…I really wish I had something to give you.”
She grabbed my hand again and traced invisible circles on my skin with her thumb. “You invited me over for Thanksgiving. It’s enough.”
“It’s not.”
She squeezed my hand tighter. “It is to me. Trust me.”
Right then in that moment, the strong desire to kiss her softly on the forehead overpowered me. A gift like that told me I could probably get away with a kiss too. By the way her eyes held on to mine, I could almost catch a glimpse of how appreciative she was about me inviting her over to my mom’s. I guess we were even.
For now.
Well, with that major shift in mood and more tension forcing us together, Reagan and I joined Mom and Greg in cooking. I tried sneaking in my own moments with Reagan, knowing that her feelings for me were on a significantly larger scale after she bought me that book. Still with that white bow on her head, she worked on the green bean casserole with me. I sautéed the green beans in butter and garlic, and once I placed it in the oven-safe dish, she sprinkled shredded Swiss cheese and smashed cornflakes on top of it. As Mom checked the turkey again, I stole a scoop of mashed potatoes with my finger and plopped a dollop on Reagan’s nose. In return, she snatched a cornflake off the casserole and tossed it in my cleavage as if she was going for a free throw. When I mixed the cranberry sauce in Mom’s new Williams-Sonoma sauce pot, I made Reagan taste it. She opened her mouth, and I shoved the spoon in, purposely trying to get some cranberry sauce on her face. It worked. Just a drop at the corner of her mouth. She backed away, checking to see if any sauce got on her scarf and sweater.
“I hate you,” she said, licking her lips to clean up the mess. “That can stain!”
“Your face is already ruined, so the cranberry sauce isn’t going add that much more damage.”
She laughed and hit my arm. In return, I tapped her butt.
Mom’s fears finally died when Greg took out the turkey, and it was a perfect brown. He sliced the turkey, and we set the table and made sure everyone had their pick of the wine Reagan brought. Mom’s first attempt at her own Thanksgiving was a complete success. She thought she undercooked the turkey, but the three of us assured her that the turkey was perfect and moist. The wine quickly drained the more we ate, swapped stories, and laughed. Mom found the Winnie-the-Pooh book and became just as speechless as I was when she held it. Reagan’s face turned bright red when Mom gushed about how considerate it was and then informed Greg about how important Winnie-the-Pooh was to me and Gramps. She made me flash him my tattoo on my left tricep, and what really got me going was when Reagan slipped her hand into mine under the table while we took ten minutes to talk about Gramps and how much we missed him and Grandma. I think she sensed how I started noticing his absence at the dinner table. I squeezed her hand back, and the feeling of her eased the pain of missing him.
After we grazed, the four of us slouched on the couches in the living room, had our fourth and fifth wines, and swapped worldly adventures. Mom and Greg shared the loveseat, and it was the first time I’d ever seen my mom cuddle with a man. While Reagan and I kept about a foot of space between us, Greg had his arm on the back of the loveseat, and Mom snuggled close enough to him that their legs touched. She rested her hand on his leg, and as he told us stories of his younger years traveling the world, Mom gazed up at him as if he was the most interesting person she’d met in a while. That probably filled me with happiness more than that whole Thanksgiving meal. I was so thankful that my wonderful, selfless, and caring mother found a guy who made her feel all the things she deserved to feel.
I thought Greg was going to be a boring, conservative, elitist business executive from Beverly Hills. But the guy was much more than that. He never talked about his work—or gave any indication that he had money—at all. He talked about his three daughters as if they were his gods and looked at my mom the same way she looked at him. He was funny, dorky, and an all-around good person and a good dad.
“Speaking of my middle daughter,” Greg said as he shifted his attention to Reagan after modestly bragging about his middle daughter studying pre-med at Cal Tech. “She’s a really big fan of yours. Huge fan. You should have seen her trying to buy tickets for your LA show. She almost didn’t get them and started freaking out.”
I smiled, knowing this confession was sponsored by all the wine we’d had.
“Oh, no! She got some, right?” Reagan said, and her pink cheeks and wine-soaked eyes were the cutest.
“Yeah, eventually. The system kept saying they were sold out, but she finally found some on the upper level.”
“The upper level?” Reagan scoffed at that. “Forget that. How about front row and backstage passes?”
Greg’s eyes widened, and Reagan casually sipped her wine as if she’d just offered him a ride home. Backstage passes to a sold-out world tour? No big deal.
“What? Really? You’d do that?” Greg said, probably knowing how many bonus points he was about to get with his daughter.
“I know a few people. A friend of a friend of a friend.”
“I mean, that would be great. She would be so excited—”
“Consider it done. She deserves a break from pre-med studying. My treat. I’m very happy to do it.”
Greg’s smile stretched ear to ear when he faced Mom. “Well, I think I finished my Christmas shopping now. The best Christmas present to get a twenty-year-old.”
“You’re like Santa Claus,” I whispered to her.
“It’s what I always wanted to be.”
“Want me to get you more wine?”
“I probably shouldn’t. I’m already feeling it, and I have a forty-minute drive home.”
“Spend the night.” She looked at me as if I asked her to run away with me to elope. Even though her surprised stare said what the fuck, Blair, the small curve of her smile said, thank you for finally asking. “I have some clothes I can lend you, and there’s a spare room right next to mine that you don’t have to stay in at all.”
She leaned closer to me and rested a hand on my upper thigh. “I don’t want to stay in the spare room.”
I wanted that hand to slide farther up my leg. I pressed my lips together for a brief moment to suck back the desire that hit my center, and then said, “Good, you can stay in my bed instead. Now, since you’re staying here, can I get you another glass?”
“Only if you’re going to have some too.”
“Obviously.”
As I got off the couch, I grabbed her hand briefly and slowly let my fingers glide off her. Grinning the whole way to the kitchen, I was so thankful that everything was falling back into place. The mindless touching, flirting, deep eye gazing.
Thank you, Winnie-the-Pooh.
Since we still had yet to touch the pinot grigio, I popped open the bottle and poured it into the freshly rinsed wine glasses. This overwhelming sense of contentment ran through me. I felt…whole. It was a feeling that filled me when I was younger with Mom, Grandma, and Gramps during the holidays. It used to be my favorite time of year when my family was still here. But ever since Grandma left us, the holidays became lonelier, and I thought that the first Thanksgiving and Christmas without Gramps and Grandma would be so miserable. Though I still had the urge to ask Gramps if he wanted another Johnnie Walker Blue neat and realized several times there was no Johnnie Walker or Gramps, I felt as whole as one could be. It helped that Mom seemed happy for the first time this year, and it helped that I had Reagan close to my side throughout the whole day.
That was when I found Mom standing next to me. She rested her cheek on her palm with a curious, mischievous smirk etched on her face.
“I see you’re fetching her wine?” she said with a playful twinkle in her dark eyes.
“It’s the least I could do. Did you see that book she got me?”
“I did, and I want to know what you two are about.”
I glanced into the living room and noticed Reagan had scooted into my spot on the couch to get closer to Greg. The two were talking about something, seemingly okay with being alone with each other while my mother dragged the gossip out of me.
“So, something?” Mom said, eyebrows raised, attention right on my face, like a meddling teenager at a sleepover.
“It’s…”
“It’s what? Tell me!”
I faltered. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? How is it complicated? I’ve never seen a girl look at you the way Reagan looks at you.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like you’re everything. And you do it too. You look at her like she’s everything.”
Warmth crawled up my whole body and took over my face. It was a feeling that I’d never experienced before. A feeling that I always ran away from but not anymore. I embraced it. What was going on with me? Was it all the sage I inhaled on tour? Was it all the wine I already drank?
“Your voice even changes when you talk to her,” Mom said. “It gets all high-pitched and goofy. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Seriously, did Mom have her heat on? Like, at seventy-five? My neck started to sweat from just pouring wine into glasses.
“My voice doesn’t change, and you do the same thing with Greg!”
“I know, and it’s great.” She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder to take a peek at Greg and Reagan. Reagan had now moved onto the loveseat with Greg, and he showed her pictures on his phone that I only assumed to be of his three daughters. “I really like him,” Mom continued. “Isn’t he great?”
“He actually is. Consider yourself lucky to find a good person on the internet.”
She faced me again. “And I know you like her, Blair. You can deny it all you want, but she bought you a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh. That told me everything before I could hear both of your voices change or both of you giving each other these looks like you’re completely smitten. I finally get why you broke up with Alanna now. She never made you do that.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, now you’re getting it.”
“Maybe Reagan’s the one you’ve been saving yourself for.”
“Okay, that sounds really religious and disgusting.”
“What? It’s true. I like to think of your heart as china—”
I made a face. “Like the country?”
“No, like a nice china set. It’s beautiful and valuable, but it’s always locked up and never put to use. You have so much to offer someone if you allowed them to open the door. But I have a feeling you’re keeping that locked up for someone special.”
I raised a skeptical brow. “You’re referring to my heart as china? Like Grandma’s china?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m no poet, Blair, and I know you understand what I’m trying to say; you’re just terrified that I’m saying it. Falling for someone isn’t a scary thing, hon. It’s a beautiful thing, and if you relax and stop running from it, you’ll see how beautiful it could be. Use that good heart of yours. Don’t keep it locked up. That’s all I have to say about that.”
“She’s gonna spend the night.”
“Then it’s a good thing that my room is at the opposite end of the condo, isn’t it?” She squeezed my arm and headed back into the living room, leaving me with heat on my face.
Moms knew everything. I hated it.
Mom, Gramps, Grandma, and I had a family tradition on Thanksgiving evening. We always watched The Polar Express to celebrate the start of the Christmas season. Grandma loved Christmas, and she would bake an assortment of all the best Christmas cookies the night before to eat while we watched the movie, and Gramps made hot chocolate. In the later years after Grandma passed, Gramps and I snuck into the kitchen to add some whiskey to our hot chocolates and snickered to each other because Mom never caught on. I always looked forward to that little secret we shared for those last five years of his life. Now, we didn’t have the cookies, but we had two pies, still tons of wine, and hot chocolate that I spiked with whiskey, an ode to Gramps because I knew he was having the same wherever he was in the universe.
At first, I was wary of getting really comfortable with Reagan on the couch for fear of Mom’s teasing, but I noticed Mom relaxed back into Greg’s chest, and she was way too focused on the movie and Greg to be paying attention to Reagan and me. But about a half hour into the movie, our legs were touching. We looked at each other, then at the blanket that cloaked our legs, and I forced myself to put my arm around her shoulder. She cozied into me, wrapped an arm around my stomach, and rested her head on my shoulder. For the rest of the movie, I inhaled her shampoo and perfume and absentmindedly started rubbing up and down her arms, and her hand found the inside of my thigh.
After the movie, Mom showed Greg to her room, and I did the same with Reagan. While I gave her privacy to change after presenting her with clothes to sleep in, I went downstairs to grab some water. I found Mom outside on the patio, looking out at the twinkling lights from the homes stacked on top of each other in typical Southern California fashion.
“Hey,” I said, creeping outside.
She smiled and gave me a half hug while clutching on to the remains of her pinot grigio with her other hand. “Oh, hi, dear. Are you and Reagan all set up for your big girl sleepover?”
“Are you and Greg?”
“Soon. Just wanted to finish my wine and enjoy the night. He’s catching up with his girls. They’re with their mother in San Francisco.”
I rested my head on her shoulder and let out the longest sigh of my life about the truth I was about to utter. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I have a confession.”
“Okay.”
“Reagan and I…we’ve…well…we’ve been sleeping together.”
Mom’s facial expression made it seem as if I told her that we were engaged. “What? You have? Pause this! I’ll grab the wine—”
“No, you don’t. That’s really it. I mean, it’s kinda been put on hold since she’s been in Europe, but that’s the extent to whatever this is. Just sex.”
“I knew it! I knew it the second she walked in. You were watching her sprinkle cheese with this look of full infatuation in your eyes.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“You don’t sound very happy that it’s just sex.”
“I don’t know if she likes me enough to date me or if she just sees me as a hookup.”
“Well, she’s quite the romantic with her hookups, then, if she’s buying you a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh.”
I shrugged. “She gives me butterflies. Like all the time.”
Confirming it felt so rewarding, like finally breathing after holding my breath for so long.
“Oh, honey,” she said in the most sympathetic Mom tone I’d heard come out of her. Her grip around my shoulders tightened and turned into a full, motherly embrace. She knew me better than I knew myself. She knew that, for whatever reason that was never psychoanalyzed by a therapist, I had trouble admitting my feelings. “I’ve never heard you say that about a girl.”
“Because it’s true. Because Reagan is…well…different. She’s so different.”
I pulled away from the hug and rested my arms against the patio railing, glancing out at the flickering homes up and down the rolling hills of Los Feliz.
“Then what’s the issue?” Mom asked. “Have you told her how you feel?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“She had this whole interview in Vogue a few months back where they were asking her about dating, and she said she didn’t want to be in a relationship right now. And when we spent Labor Day at her summer house and the internet was talking about us, she said she wasn’t worried about it because we weren’t in a relationship, and there was nothing to lose. So I was, like, ‘okay, I’m just a hookup. I’ll find myself another girl while she’s in Europe.’”
“Oh, Blair, don’t tell me you found another girl.”
“Uh, yeah, I did. Because Reagan flat out told me there was nothing to lose with me. She said she doesn’t want a relationship in Vogue. I’m not gonna be the person to suddenly change that.”
“So, she buys you a book, mushes in her seat anytime you speak or look at her, spends all day with you, and then is going to spend the night in your bed?”
I threw my hands over my face. It was all too confusing. Reagan Moore was so fucking confusing the more I analyzed it. “God, I have no idea what she wants.”
“Gee, Blair, I don’t know, have you ever tried talking to the girl?”
I dragged my hands down my face and then found my mom smirking behind her wine glass as if she enjoyed watching my struggle. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“Says the songwriter.”
“You don’t get it. Ever since Labor Day, everything has felt different.”
“Good different?”
“Fucking scary different. I haven’t seen her since then, and when I saw her for the first time today, everything was different. I felt so insecure and nervous. We kept holding hands under the dinner table and blanket, and we’ve never done that before—”
Mom lowered her wine glass. “Oh my God, she likes you! Now go be a mature adult and talk to her about it.”
“The next time we kiss, it’s going to mean something. I don’t think I see her as a hookup anymore. I even want to kiss her on her forehead.”
“You make it sound like that’s an obstacle.”
“Forehead kisses are intimate, Mom. You don’t forehead kiss someone you’re using for sex.”
“Dear child of mine, those are called feelings. Get acquainted with them. It means you care about her, and I can tell by the way she looks at you that she cares about you too. You’re already treating her so much differently than girls you’ve called your girlfriend.”
“That’s because she’s different. That’s because she—”
“Gives you butterflies?”
Just the thought of her gave me butterflies like it was doing at that exact moment. “Yeah.” I relaxed into my mom’s grip. “That.”
“How about you stop acting like this is a game and talk to her. If you don’t act, she’ll find someone who will.”
Then, the patio door slid open. Mom and I glanced back at Reagan stepping out onto the patio in my buffalo plaid sweatpants and my black Queen T-shirt, and holy hell, was she even more attractive in my clothes. How was I supposed to talk to her when all I could do was stare?
“Hi, guys, mind if I join?” she said.
While still studying every inch of Reagan wearing my clothes, I could feel my mother eyeing me.
“Actually, I’m going to follow your lead, Reagan,” Mom said and grabbed her wine. “I should get back to Greg and maybe finish reading my book. Today was a long—but good—day.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks so much again, Karen, for everything today. It really means a lot to me.”
“Of course, honey. Anytime. I’m so glad you spent it with us. You’re always welcome here. You two enjoy your talk.” And that was when my mother gave me that motherly direct order with a stare and a lightly creased brow. I got these many times growing up. The seventh time she asked me to clean my room. The third time she asked me to stop playing the drums. Anytime I talked back to her, Gramps, or Grandma. The worst communication a mother could give. That motherly stare.
When Mom went back inside, she took all the oxygen on the patio because as Reagan inched closer, I thought my heart was going to sprint right out of my chest.
In addition to never making the first move, it was no surprise that I never told a girl how I felt about her—probably because I never had feelings worthy enough to go into a full-fledged monologue. Alanna and I had known each other since freshman year of college, didn’t start casually hooking up until the year after she graduated, and then one day, she told me she wanted to be exclusive. So, I agreed because my thought literally was “why not?” My girlfriend before Alanna, Carrie, those two years I spent at USC, we never put a label on it, but she was the one who told me she really liked me. I also thought she was really, really hot so I thought that meant I liked her a lot too. My high school girlfriend, Rachel, asked me to be her girlfriend senior year, and I wanted a girlfriend because I felt as if that would prove to my friends that I was gay and not just saying shit. But I did like Rachel. She made me laugh, and kissing her gave me tingles on my lips. I liked her the way people liked their high school girlfriend of four months.
Reagan threaded her fingers around my belt loop and pulled me into her. She glanced up, and I wondered what the hell was going through her head because she did a really good job shielding it.
“Why are you so quiet?” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Um, do you…do you think we could talk?”
“Of course.”
I scratched the back of my head. “Like, a serious talk.”
That prompted her to take her fingers out of my belt loop, and I could already feel their absence. She took a step back and crossed her arms, as if preparing for the serious talk.
“What’s wrong?” she said cautiously.
“What’s going on with us?”
The scared frown appeared on her face the same way my face probably looked when my mom told me I had to talk to her. Terrified, as if this was the conversation she dreaded the most, which made me feel as if I chugged sour milk.
“Oh wow,” she said at the same time she exhaled. “Um…I…I don’t…”
I wanted to jump off the balcony. That was what I really wanted to do. How she could tell me she had no idea what we were doing after everything that happened in one day amazed me. And angered me.
“Stop playing a game with me,” I said.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I feel like everything with you is a game. You’re really trying to tell me you have no idea what’s going on with us after what happened today? You buy all of your hookups first editions of their favorite book?”
Calm down. Take a deep breath. You’re sounding aggressive, I told myself.
“No, I don’t.” The harshness in her tone matched mine.
“Then what are we doing, Reagan? Don’t you think we need to have this conversation?”
“Of course, I think we need to have this conversation.”
“Okay, then let’s have it.”
“After you.” She motioned me to go ahead.
“Fine,” I said, fingers clenching around the railing. “I want to know why you think you have nothing to lose with me.”
Her eyebrow furrowed more. “What?”
“On the plane back from Gaslight Shores, you said you didn’t care about the drones getting pictures of us because you had nothing to lose with me. Because we weren’t in a relationship. That fucking hurt, you know.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant—”
“Yeah? Well, I took that as a sign that we weren’t anything. So, while you were in Europe, I found someone else to sleep with.”
“You did?” She loosened her crossed arms, and it sounded as if my confession knocked the wind right out of her.
“How was I supposed to know anything? All we did was have sex. The whole time you were over there, you gave me no indication that you cared about me more than just some hookup. Not even once. You had an interview in Vogue that said you didn’t want to be in a relationship—”
“Blair, you broke up with your last girlfriend because you didn’t want a relationship. Why would I talk about relationships with someone I’m sleeping with who’s terrified of them?”
“I’m not terrified of them—”
“And that interview was done back in April, for the record. More than six months ago.”
“You’re not answering my question. What are we doing?”
“We’re fighting.”
I let out a sigh that came from the pit of my stomach. “What. Are. We. Doing?”
“I don’t know, Blair!” She threw her hands in the air. “I have no idea what we’re doing or what the hell you want or what the hell I want or what the hell we’re supposed to do. I don’t know.”
“Am I just something casual and meaningless to you, or am I something more?”
“I bought you that book. I think that says what you want to know.”
God, this woman was difficult.
“I want you to actually say it.”
She let out a frustrated sigh and looked at the maroon sky for a second. “You’re more than casual.”
Finally, my fingers unraveled their grip. I could finally let out that breath I’d been holding. “I wasn’t expecting today to be good at all,” I admitted. “Because it’s the first holiday without my grandparents and everything, but it was actually really great, and that’s because of you. I really like you, Reagan, and it really scares me.”
She took a step closer to me. “Why?”
“Because I’m selfish and clueless and bad at relationships.”
“I’m selfish, not really clueless, and also bad at relationships.”
“I don’t know what’s right for me right now. I thought it wasn’t the right time to be in a relationship, but now with you, it doesn’t feel right not to be in a relationship. I just know that the thought of you makes me so happy and less lonely, and the thought of you with someone else nauseates me.”
“That’s how I feel right now knowing you found someone else. I…I don’t know how to process it. It keeps playing in my head, you two doing all the same things we used to—”
“She’s not you, if that’s any consolation.”
I could tell by looking at her face she was just as scared as I was. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to catch feelings, and we weren’t supposed to care if the other person slept with someone else. We were supposed to use each other for sex and keep each other company during our lonely nights on tour.
I guess that was exactly why we fell into this trap.
“Tell me more about the girl,” Reagan said softly.
“She’s gone if you want her to be.”
Another step closer, and her hands rested on the waist of my jeans. “I want her to be.”
“Consider it done.”
I tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, and then ran the back of my hand down her soft cheek before I pulled her in for a kiss. She inhaled deeply when her mouth parted, and her tongue welcomed mine, buzzing my lips and everything below my waist. I was right. This kiss was so different. It was hungry and passionate and deep and slow and tender and furious all at the same time. We breathed into each other, cupped each other’s faces securely, and when we took turns kissing and sucking on the other’s neck, she tilted her head back as if each suck was getting rid of the emotions from her body like venom.
Somehow, we made it to my room, but I wasn’t sure how. By the time I kicked my door shut, I had already peeled off the flannel pants and T-shirt. But just like the kiss, the sex was different. Our kisses were deep and hungry. Our movements were slow and tender. I even opened my eyes at one point to marvel at her face, and when I did, I caught her doing the same thing, and we stared deep into each other while warm electrical currents swarmed through me as our naked bodies grinded against each other. We held each other tightly, exchanging soft moans in each other’s ears and mouths. This time, I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted to fully enjoy the sensation of her breasts against mine. I wanted to take my time sucking murmurs from her neck, tracing circles around her nipples with my tongue, feeling them harden in my mouth, holding her undulating body in my hands. And when we both came, all the feelings I’d been bottling up the past few months escaped me at the same time they escaped her. That never happened to me before. It made me feel so much closer to her that we shared that blissful moment together.
I got the truest sense of how much had changed in that day because this time, as we collected our breaths and wiped the sweat from our foreheads, her arms brought me into her body, and I rested my cheek on her breasts. She cradled my shoulders like the perfect big spoon that she was. I listened to how fast her pulse sped, and I could feel mine beating at the same pace as hers.
But just when I thought I couldn’t feel happier and more complete, she kissed me softly on the forehead, and everything felt so right for the first time in a long time.