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“Hell yeah,” Sasha says.
I look at Laila. “You’re not gonna rat me out to the producers for breaching the sobriety clause in my contract, are you, babysitter?”
“Dude, fiancée trumps babysitter.”
Smiling, I pull Laila to me and plant a little peck on her lips, and, to my relief, she puckers and returns my kiss. With a deep exhale, I rise along with Laila, and accept a big hug from my cousin. When Sasha releases me, I walk out of the room with her, my arm around my cousin’s shoulders, and with Laila trailing behind. As we head down the grand staircase, I tell Sasha how much I’ve missed her. I thank her for taking such good care of our grandmother and apologize for my initial reaction when I first heard the news about Mimi’s decline.
“It was a lot to process,” Sasha replies. She squeezes my trapezius muscle, the one near my neck that always tightens up the most, and says, “Ooph. You’re knotted-up like crazy.”
“This is the worst I’ve been in forever. The show is killing me.”
“Well, let me at that famous body!” Sasha says, like she always does. “And I’ll fix you right up!”
I chuckle and reply the way I always do: “Knock yourself out, Sasha.”
When we get to the base of the staircase, I turn around to say something to Laila. But she’s not there. On the contrary, she’s frozen in the middle of the staircase, looking like she’s just seen a ghost.
“Laila?” I say, my heart in my throat. “What’s wrong?”
Laila’s mouth is hanging open. Her face is pale. For a long moment, she doesn’t reply. “Sasha,” she finally whispers. “It was Sasha.”
“What?” I say.
“Sasha is a massage therapist,” she murmurs.
“Right,” I say. “I told you that.”
“I’d be happy to massage you first,” Sasha says. “Fuck Adrian. He gets enough attention, right?”
“You’ll be in good hands,” I say. “Sasha is the best.”
Laila remains frozen and pale on the staircase, not moving a muscle.
“I know it’s weird,” Sasha says, filling the awkward silence, “but my favorite thing in the world is working out knots.”
Laila blinks a few times in rapid succession, exhales, and slowly begins descending the steps. As she walks, I disengage from Sasha to meet her in the middle, perplexed by the expression of pure shock on her face.
“What is it?” I ask.
Rather than replying to my question, Laila takes my face in her hands, pulls me to her, and kisses me deeply. Passionately. Without holding back. Like she’s kissing her actual fiancé. The great love of her life.
I have no idea what’s prompted this reaction, especially on a day when Laila has barely spoken to me. Was it something Mimi said? Maybe that thing about me tending to fuck up once, but not twice? Or did Mimi’s frail condition remind Laila that life is short—that we’re all mortal and imperfect and flawed—and should therefore not sweat the small stuff, but, instead, grab happiness, wherever we can find it?
There’s no way to know, in this moment, what’s inspired Laila to kiss me like she forgives me. Like she loves me. And, honestly, I don’t need to know. All that matters is I’ve realized I’ve found the great love of my life, exactly as Mimi’s always wanted for me. And this kiss tells me Laila believes she’s found hers. And so, without asking why, or how long it’ll last, I take Laila, the woman I love, into my arms and kiss her in return with everything I’ve got. Everything I am. And everything I can’t wait to become, with her by my side.
Twenty-Five
Laila
Sasha blows out a plume of smoke from the joint she’s sharing with Savage and me and says, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
The three of us are chatting while smoking pot and drinking booze in Mimi’s comfortable family room. I’m sitting next to Savage on a couch, my legs draped across his lap, while Sasha is sprawled across a nearby armchair. And it’s blowing my mind to realize, the whole time I’d been certain Savage was some kind of sex addict player, his cousin was the “groupie” I saw him with that fateful day in Las Vegas. Sasha was the one walking arm-in-arm with Savage, saying she was thrilled to be there with him. Sasha was the girl who wanted to get her hands on his famous body. Because Sasha is a massage therapist. Holy hell. If I hadn’t seen Savage with his cousin that day, and hadn’t misinterpreted their conversation, where would I be right now? Would I be sitting here with Savage and his cousin, feeling swept away by my feelings for Savage? Or would our tour fling have ended when the tour did?
“So, tell me the truth, guys,” Sasha says, putting down her wine glass. “Are you two really engaged or did you tell Mimi a beautiful lie?”
