I wake up a few hours later, my arm curled around her waist. I kiss her shoulder and head for the shower. I pass by the sketch of Wickham and don’t realize I’m smiling until I glance in the mirror. I blink. Fuck. When’s the last time I woke up looking forward to the day? A damn long time.
I bought the sketch around nine years ago, after the death of my father and when my mother went missing. Some of those days are blurry, cloudy, as if I were stoned. The truth is I was hurt and lost. Still, I put on my smile and played football. Pretending. I feel like shit for the women I went through in those years. And just when I was starting to find my footing, my mom showed up for help.
The hot water spills over me, and I hum Bia’s “Can’t Touch This” as it plays on the shower speaker. I dance. Shake my ass. And when “Come and Get Your Love,” by Redbone, comes on, I’m singing.
“Wahoo! Can I join the party?” Francesca says as she sashays into the room, wearing nothing but my mask from Decadence. Her dark hair is mussed, her lips curled in a pouty smile. I laugh, the sound layered with joy and liberation.
With her hand on her hip, she blows a kiss at me. “Hey, sexy pantyhose slayer. Wanna open the door and let me in?”
“Hell yeah.”
She removes the mask, puts it on the counter, and then giggles as she darts into my arms. I gaze down at her, and clarity tingles over me. She gets me and accepts me, and she kissed me. I know what that means. She’s all in—and it doesn’t even scare me right now.
Was it fate or coincidence that we met on my birthday, the anniversary of my dad’s death? Don’t know, but she feels right.
Like a gift from the heavens to make up for the bad shit.
Herman opens the door for us at Wickham. “You two look happy.”
We murmur our hellos, then smile at each other.
“Okay, so what’s the surprise today?” I ask as we get in the elevator. After our shower, she said she wanted to show me something today but wouldn’t say what.
“There’s no fun in telling you. First, I need to put on warm clothes, ’kay? Ones that fit me.”
She’s wearing a pair of my sweats rolled under at the waist a few times and a baggy Pythons sweatshirt. I’m wearing a thick cream fisherman sweater and jeans. I feel ready to take on the world.
The elevator door opens as Darden comes out of his apartment.
“Good morning,” I say, and he grunts, his craggy face flattening.
“Are you two just getting in?” He glares at Francesca’s clothes.
Francesca nods, her voice demure. “Yes, Mr. Darden.”
He harrumphs. “Did any talking get done?”
“Uh, yeah?” I say uncertainly at his tone. I don’t know what he’s referring to, but perhaps Francesca has confided in him about us?
Francesca waves him off. “You look handsome today. Where are you headed, Mr. Darden?”
He points his cane at her. “Where do you think? Widow Crane has blackmailed me into her ridiculous book club. I’m going. A prisoner of war.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It doesn’t suit you,” Francesca coos as she walks to him and straightens his bow tie.
He lets her, arching his neck. “I’m about to undergo torture by a man-eater. For you, Miss Lane. I’d hardly call me dramatic. Perhaps if you’d been home last night, you could have come up with a solution to get me out of this predicament.” He pats her arm. “Of course, you could end my suffering with just a few sentences.” He gives her a meaningful look, and she brushes her lips over his cheek, then whispers something in his ear.
He rears back. “You are my business, young lady, and I want what’s best for you. Communication is key. Stop pussyfooting around!”
He stomps off, and Francesca sighs as we walk inside her apartment.
“What was that?” I ask as I shut the door.
“Nothing really.”
“Nice place,” I murmur as I take in her art, the colorful decor. It’s small but cozy and warm, and her view of the park is spectacular.
I follow her as she goes into the kitchen, stares at the coffeepot for a few moments, pours a cup, takes a long drink, and then groans in relief. I offered her coffee at my place earlier, and she said no.
“Is there something special about your coffee?” I ask.
“I just don’t indulge often, but . . .” She shrugs. “Anyway, Darden is upset about joining the book club. It might be my fault.”
Before I can ask more questions, Brogan comes out from where I guess is his bedroom. Wearing pajama pants and an NYU sweatshirt, he gives me an incredulous, almost happy look, then laughs. “Morning! Good to see you, Tuck—you know, outside of Decadence.”
“And there’s no British accent,” I say as we clasp hands.
“Morning. Fancy a cuppa?” He grins as he moves to pour a mug for himself, then puts in sugar.
“Sure.”
She tells us she needs to get dressed as Brogan and I chat about Decadence and the Vegas game.
“What are you guys up to today?” he asks as he gets me a cup of coffee.
“She wants to show me her favorite place.”
Brogan’s eyebrows rise. “Oh shit.” A small laugh comes from him. “Where do you think it is?”
“In New York? I figured we’re going to a museum or a gallery.”
He shakes his head. “Here’s the thing about Francesca. She’s tough, but there’s a sappy side . . .” He smirks. “Meh, I’ll let her show you the place.”
I inch closer. “Is she gonna take me to the Empire State Building for a kiss?”
He smiles slowly. “Not telling, but know this: she’s read The Notebook and would have loved to be part of that book club but doesn’t like Widow Carnes.”
“Do I need to read this book?”
He laughs. “Maybe. But she loves that stuff. Ever see Titanic?”
“God, no.”
“Right? She has. A hundred times. Just because I’m gay, they want to foist it on me.” He flexes a bicep at me. “I’m a tough guy who enjoys thrillers and horror, but they force movies on me. The Last of the Mohicans, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, La La Land, The Fault in Our Stars. Sad shit. Her and Cece—Jesus, it’s a wonder I haven’t started a menstrual cycle living here.”
“You said you loved The Last of the Mohicans!” Francesca calls from down the hall.
“I said I liked the booming orchestra music!” Brogan calls back, then half smiles, half grimaces. “She’s got bionic ears.”
“So she’s taking me to the cinema to watch her favorite movie?”
“Worse. At least she won’t be making you go to the catacombs under Saint Paul’s. She cornered us into that one night. Freaky as hell. She loves all the tourist tours in the city.” He pauses. “So, um, did you guys talk?”
I pause midsip. Darden asked the same thing. “Is there something I should know?”
“Nope. Just checking.” He looks away from me and begins to clean up the kitchen.
She walks in the room and rushes up to me wearing a clingy black sweater dress with black heeled boots. She slips on her moto jacket, and when her hand takes mine, I try to forget about the tingle of unease I got from Brogan’s question.
We walk down Fifth Avenue to Seventy-Fifth Street, cross over to the sidewalk, and enter Central Park. Holding hands in a companionable silence, we pass the playground, then Alice in Wonderland, a large bronze sculpture. Not crowded at this hour, the park is sparsely populated, the trees stark as they stick up into the sky.
We reach the lake and pass the boathouse, then the Bethesda Fountain. “Do you want to make a wish in the fountain?” I wait for her to tell me it’s her favorite place.
“No.”
“Well then, that leaves Bow Bridge up ahead,” I murmur as we continue down the path.
Her hand tightens in mine. “Yep. One of New York’s iconic landmarks.”
I laugh at the glow that emanates from her smile.
“Is that your favorite place in New York?”
She nods. “Cliché, right? Made of cast iron—the second-oldest one in the US—it’s the crown jewel of the park. The shape is a cupid’s bow. I mean, come on—how cool is that? Doesn’t it make you gooey?”
“No.” I snort. “I mean, yeah, I appreciate how old it is, the style.”
She nods. “Victorian, Gothic, and Renaissance styles. Plus you have the Manhattan landscape. Where’s your favorite place, then?”
“No clue.”
“Come on; you must have one!”
“Hmm, maybe the stadium? I won three Super Bowls there.” I take in the couples on the bridge. “Don’t people propose here a lot?”
“There’s no ring in my pocket, so don’t freak,” she says with a smirk. “Let’s get to the center and look out over the lake. I love the walkway, the way it slowly rises up. It’s like a surprise at every step.”
“Jesus. You are really, really silly,” I say teasingly as I kiss her hand clasped in mine.
“Growing up, I always dreamed of seeing the landmarks here. This one is my favorite. Our city is full of grit, but here’s the heart.”
“Hmm.”
We gaze out at a boat paddling by, and my arm goes around her.
She looks over at me, and our eyes cling. Hers are full of uncertainty. Questions.
I touch her face. “Hey. I like your favorite place. It’s cool. I get it. Our city has magic. New York gets dinged for crime and scandals and homelessness, but it’s home. Yours.”
She lifts her hand, her fingers carding through my hair. Her words are shy. “And it’s where I want you to kiss me.”
Warmth fills my chest as I turn her to face me and press my lips to hers. “You and me, little princess. Kissing on Bow Bridge.”
