Page 82 of Tony

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Are we going to sit in the car?”

“No. We’re getting out. But I have one question.”

“You want to know my intentions with you before I take you upstairs and fuck you into Sunday?”

She points at me. “Sure. That’s good too. But no. My question is… should we go and tell Belinda and Vann what we know first?”

I look in the direction of Sick Boyz. I can’t see it from here because the theater building is in the way. But I can picture it just fine all the same.

The thought of seeing and talking to them right now… well, that’s just a great big no. Actually, it’s not Vann who bothers me. It’s Rosalinda. Every time I think about her I get that sick feeling. For some reason I still don’t understand, Rosalinda feels like a crisis waiting to happen and I’d actually like to pretend she doesn’t exist anymore.

I open my door, get out, walk around the car, and open up Soshee’s door. Then I extend my hand to her and say, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

She smiles and shakes her head.

“Come on,” I say, beckoning her by wiggling my fingertips. “Sunday isn’t going to wait forever.”

“What?”

“For me to fuck you into it.”

“Oh, my God.”

I take her hand and pull her out of the car, kick the door closed with my foot, and then start leading her toward the apartments.

But just as we’re about to walk inside, the loud rumble of a motorcycle makes us both look towards the street. The bike pulls up in front of Sick Boyz and the engine cuts off.

“Well,” Soshee says, “I don’t know what to think of their timing.”

Their timing is a reference to the riders of said bike.

Vann and Belinda.

I look at Soshee, searching her face for torment over the fact that her guy was never hers to begin with.

But there’s no torment there. Just a wide grin. “Hello? Sunday called. Said time’s a-wasting.”

I decide to learn a lesson today about living in the moment.

I grab the door and hold it open for the only girl who matters. “We don’t want to disappoint Sunday.”

She walks through and I follow her. I hold her hand all the way up to the fourth floor.

There is no discussion about whether we’re going to my place or hers. My rental was never even a possibility, let alone a question.

And when she finally opens the door and waves me inside, I step across her threshold like a man entering a new life. Like a guy who finally understands the meaning of home.

And really, it’s not about her apartment—even though it’s the warmest, most welcoming space I’ve ever been in. We’re not staying here. This place is just where we’ve landed in this moment. Whatever happens in the weeks and months to come, it’s not going to happen here.

This is the first step towards a new day.

She closes the door quietly and suddenly there’s a lot of emptiness in the room.

No words. No noise seems to leak in from the city down below. No music or even the sound of our own breathing.

I walk over to her massive wall of windows and even though looking down would be natural, I don’t look down. Looking down is like looking back. Instead I look at the rays of sunshine filtering their way around and through the amber beads of her Bohemian curtains.