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I didn’t figure anyone but me had noticed the smudges of color beneath my eyes, and I wipe at them even though they won’t disappear.
“So . . . another one bites the dust?” Shay hedges, asking a question again instead of telling me things.
“Nah, this isn’t some big love story, but I’m enjoying it while it lasts.” My thumbnail scrapes along my lip, and though I won’t say it to Shayanne, I know that the last few times I’ve been with Erica, it has felt different. Less casual, more intense, and . . . real. Our conversations are deeper, our sex is more intimate, and feelings are developing whether I want them to or not. But I can handle it. I know how this goes.
But fuck, am I gonna miss her when she’s done with me. I’ll miss the way her cheeks flush when she’s turned on, highlighting the sprinkles of freckles. I’ll miss her passion for cars and her intellect, because the woman knows everything about engines and has the drive and ambition to do so much with her brilliance. I’ll miss the sharp wit she uses to flay me wide open, verbally sparring with me like no one ever has. I’ll miss the soft and sleepy rasp of her voice when she first wakes up, says good morning, and then snuggles into my side for ‘five more minutes’. I’ll miss the sight of her not giving a single solitary fuck as she walks around naked. I’ll miss . . . her. I’ll miss . . . us.
Fuck.
“While it lasts? Just don’t screw it up and then it can last forever.” Her voice goes soft and breathy at the end, like a little girl talking about a princess finding her prince.
But that’s not my story, not anyone’s, really. Disney just never showed the truth after the happily ever after-fade to black ending, the part where Cinderella bitches that Prince Charming left his socks on the floor, or where Beauty missed dinner again because her nose was buried in a book. Or most importantly, where Snow White dies and leaves behind her prince and a whole rag-tag group of pseudo-children who fucking need her.
“It’s not that simple, Shay.” Even I hear the bitterness and cynicism.
She taps her nose knowingly. “Except it is.”
She sounds so certain, so sure. I wish I could still have that naïve belief in forever, but I’ll take it as a job well done that I managed to get Shay to adulthood as a woman who still believes in fairy tales. Maybe I at least did that right.
“Let’s get this jam delivered. I’ve got shit to do.”
As far as conversation enders go, it’s weak, but Shayanne allows it. Though she gives me a glance that says she’s still thinking about this topic. I turn the radio up to circumvent her.
“Good song,” I tell her as I sing along to Josh Turner’s Your Man.
“Did you know Chris Stapleton wrote this song?” Shay asks, feet tapping along as she dances in her seat.
“No shit?” She shakes her head. “Huh, had no idea.”
We sing along, and for now, I can live in the moment where everything is fine enough.
The delivery to the resort is handled quickly because the kitchen workers hustle to help unload the truck. I leave Shayanne with Katelyn to hitch a ride home and take off like a demon to see Erica.
I know I’m treading into dangerous territory here, but I meant what I told Shay. I’m going to enjoy this while I can. Because Erica is someone special.
At the garage, music is playing again. Greta van Fleet, I think? They’re the new guys that sound old school, and that I know that much speaks volumes to my musical education at Erica’s side.
I find her standing on her stool, head buried in a truck again. I wave silently to Manuel and Reed then put a finger to my lips. Manuel grins back, curious. Reed glares, still mad at my existence. I sneak right up behind Erica, bending down low to stay out of range of those fists, and pinch her on the butt.
She whirls, already cussing. “What the fuck, asshole!” She sees my smirk and her fury stalls. “Oh, hey.” It’s like the anger never existed, evaporating on a nonexistent wind, then her lips spread into a slow smile as her eyes meet mine.
“Hey yourself,” I answer, crowding into her. She leans back against the truck and licks her lips, inviting my kiss. We’ve got an audience, one I know Erica is still trying to be sensitive to, so I make the kiss a polite greeting, not a face-devouring precursor to something more. But still, I’m helping to yank at that Band-Aid on Reed’s sensitive little heart a bit too, so I weave my hands into her hair and whisper in her ear, “I missed you.”
