Page 120 of Pierced

We stay like that for a few moments. Just enjoying this new thing we are.

Himself. Herself.

I smile at that.

Because that’s when I realize.

I’ve been Pierce-d.

EPILOGUE - MONSIEUR CHEVALIER

I like to win. Always have. Probably always will. Winning makes my blood pump. Gets my motor revving. Keeps me feeling sharp.

I know who I am.

But there is no part of me that feels like I “won” with Myrtle.

I mean, she is a prize. One that I’m lucky to have standing by my side here on the sidewalk of Rue Amelot in Paris’s Eleventh Arrondissement at almost midnight on New Year’s Eve. But I don’t feel like a winner in the way I have traditionally. Because, if I did, that would mean there would have to be a loser. And there isn’t. We both won. I mean, my prize is a little better than hers, but she seems relatively happy being here with me, so I won’t disabuse her of the notion that she’s getting something awesome in this bargain.

Because it’s not my place to tell her how she should feel.

We’re leaving tomorrow. Heading back to the TDH. New year, new us.

Or old us, in some ways. Myrtle’s coming back to her old life. Not her old, old life. And not her old life after that. And not even her old life after her old, old life and her old life after that, but her old life that she had before I screwed it up.

That train of thought seems unclear. I’m a little nervous right now.

What I mean is, she’s going back to being my assistant.

I tried to offer her the job running the Paris office but she said something like, “I was being sarcastic when I said that. Pierce…” And then she sighed. But the sigh sounded different than her usual sigh. There was a smile in it.

So I asked her what she wants. What she wants. And she said that she wants to revisit what it means to be my direct subordinate. That she feels like that’s the role where she’s most comfortable. Because, she says, she likes knowing that she can be of service but also knowing that she has influence.

I tried to say, “No, no, no. That’s not right. You should…”

But I stopped myself. Because telling her what she should do is some non-listening, mansplaining bullshit of the highest order. So I shut up and said, “Great.”

I made the choice to submit myself to her decision and trust that she’s doing the thing that gives her the greatest satisfaction. It’s the most balanced contract negotiation I think I’ve ever been a part of. In exchange, we have agreed that when we’re not in the office, we’ll continue my… training. I’ll keep learning how to submit to her. Properly.

Seems like a fair deal.

As for her current job, I suggested that we bring Eden in full-time again as the director of social media, but Myrtle said she’d never do it, and then went on to describe the phenomenal job Valerie did of helping take care of things while I was in New York. So, when we get back, Valerie will be surprised to find that she now has a private office with a two-thousand-dollar desk chair, an assistant called Bryce, and a fifty-thousand dollar raise. (I’m giving Josh Washington a twenty-one-thousand-dollar raise so he doesn’t get freaked out that people keep getting promoted over him. He did go back and convince DogCo to keep advertising with us, so…)

And that brings us to now.

New Year’s in Paris. One of the most romantic places in the world and one of the most romantic times to be in that place. For someone like Myrtle, who has previously claimed to be inured to the idea of romance, it might be uncomfortable. But she’s coming around. As we both now know, confronting things that make you uncomfortable can sometimes make you feel good in a way you didn’t expect.

So, as the clock strikes midnight, I lean into her and give her the softest kiss on the mouth I think I’ve ever offered anyone. She accepts, nervously. But willingly.

“How was that?” I ask, pulling away.

She smiles, her eyes still closed, and says, “I didn’t hate it.”

“Yeah?” She nods. “Does that mean you’re suddenly going to be into Halloween and all the other holidays too?”

“No. I still hate holidays. I just like the kissing part. But we can do that any time.”

Parisian revelers all around us cheer and fire off streamers. We’re not in front of L’arc de Triomphe, or at the Moulin Rouge, or any of the traditional places one might look to find lovers on New Year’s Eve. We’re on a lesser-known street in front of a lesser-known place, about to enjoy a less conventional way of celebrating the new year. Or, at least, it’s less conventional to me.