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I’m unpacking my sister’s suitcase.
While I fold her jeans into a drawer, she’s on the edge of the bed next to Jack and showing off her music playlist. “You should add Emicida and Ludmilla to your joint playlist with Oscar. He probably just put a ton of pop and axé in there.”
My baby sis taking shots at my favorite music genres, and she’s been living with me for half-a-second. She just really loves funk.
Jack grins back at me. “What’s axé?”
He’s unaware he’s listened to it already on the playlist we made together. We keep adding songs for the two-hour rides between New York and Philly. “Axé sounds a little like reggae and calypso,” I explain. “It has African origins.” I look to Joana. “And I take offense to the attitude towards pop. Everyone loves Lady Gaga.”
“Hmm.” Joana squints with mock consideration. “Don’t think that’s true.”
I outstretch a hand towards Jack for back-up.
He smiles while he wets his lips, his sparkling eyes say he loves me more than Lady Gaga, which is why he tells Jo, “I like Lady Gaga. ‘Stupid Love’ is a cool track.” It’s the only song of hers he won’t skip halfway through.
When Jo focuses on her phone, Jack mouths to me knowing I can read lips, two peas in a pod. He motions to me and him. Not because we like the same music—we don’t always—but because he’ll join my lonely pea pod.
What the fuck, I sound like a twelve-year-old dork with a crush.
My mouth curves upward.
More and more every single day, I love the foundation of our relationship. Built on encouragement and love and support. Knowing that he’ll be my biggest fan and I’ll be his is a beautiful fucking thing.
Jack smiles a brighter smile.
Igniting my lungs.
If only Oslie stans could see this—maybe they’d get it. #FireJackHighland is still a hashtag they love to spread, but I’m hoping the longer I’m with Jack—the longer we’re seen out together in public—the more they’ll realize this isn’t short-term or a publicity stunt.
We’re here to stay.
I have to believe that too. Even when I’m screwing up left and fucking right.
“You’ll love this one,” Joana says, clicking into a new song. She plays “Levanta e Anda” by Emicida, a Brazilian rapper.
They bounce their head to the rhythm.
“You know who else would love this?” Jack says midway through. “Akara.”
I groan at the mention of the boss I fucked over.
Jack winces. “Still a sore subject?”
I push curls out of my lashes. “I still feel like the biggest jackass. Especially since Kitsuwon Securities is footing the therapy bill for me and Quinn.” Akara didn’t have to do that. “I need to send him about fifteen I’m so fucking sorry gift baskets. I won’t even eat the cookies out of them this time.”
Jack laughs.
But Joana shuts off the music too suddenly. “How was therapy this morning?” Her seriousness causes me to sit up straighter, one of her workout tees halfway folded in my hand. She eyes the welt on my cheekbone.
I’ve already told Jack the truth: therapy feels important, but it was ineffective today. Quinn stayed silent for the entire sixty-minutes. If a professional can’t help us resolve this, I’m starting to lose hope we’ll ever reach better ground.
It’s day one. Maybe everything is still too raw from last night’s fight.
“It went well,” I say, stretching the truth…a lot.
“Really?” She sounds hopeful.
I nod and take her inhaler out of a suitcase pocket. “Yeah.”
“So maybe you don’t need me to move in after all,” Joana says.
She finally agreed to live with me because she pitied my ass after the fistfight with Quinn. And to be perfectly clear, I purposefully made myself look pitiful. Best strategy I could think of.
And it worked.
I have no guilt over the tactic. Her next plan was to couch-surf on random sofas, and I’d much rather her be safe here. Even at the cost of being down the hall from Beckett.
Jack rehashed my sister’s run-in with Beckett Cobalt at the golf course, and I considered penning Beckett a letter entitled:
Flirting Etiquette 101:
Stop Flirting with Joana Oliveira
He keeps seeking her out when she wants to be a hundred-feet away from him, so I have a big issue. But I know my sister can hold her own too.
“I need you here, Jo.” I give her a look. “And you’re already unpacked.”
“Halfway, but you’re doing a great job.” She adds, “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Good.
I’m about to return to her suitcase.
I stop and assess them on the bed and me on the floor. “You’re over there sharing music with my boyfriend while I’m folding your tops. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“You should be hanging up the tops, not folding them,” Jo quips.
I clap loudly.
She applauds herself too. “Thanks for helping me with my things, really.” Her lips rise. “I like that I get to spend more time with Jack.” She tells him, “Oscar never brought home his college boyfriend, so I never got to grill him.”
