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My feelings about the ring itself are less complicated than my feelings about the surprise by-the-way-we’re-engaged at the party. I’ve had the weekend to panic, convince myself the world is ending, convince myself Apollo is just going through a hard time, and then re-panic.
Even if this thing with the Senator turns out to be nothing, and Apollo was freaked out for an unrelated reason, announcing a surprise engagement will smooth over any extra time Apollo and I need to spend together in the next…
However long.
A tiny voice inside of me insists, over and over, that if we had to spend forever together, that wouldn’t be so bad. A tiny part of me, which I have every intention of ignoring, wouldn’t mind being forced by circumstance to never leave Apollo’s side again.
I’m not supposed to be okay with that. I’m not supposed to think any part of this is right. But wouldn’t it be easier to go along with it? What’s the point in fighting fate?
Or, I guess, fighting Apollo’s suspicions about a Senator?
Apollo’s driver takes us from the storefront to a Park Avenue apartment building on the Upper East Side, where Daisy will be photographed for Vogue in a unit that has been restored to its 1920s heyday glory.
Apollo gets out onto the sidewalk with me, still holding my hand. He turns it over in his, his eyes on the ring and the tip of his thumb gently skimming the band as if he thinks it might disappear if he puts too much weight on it.
I should probably be looking at the ring, too, despite—no, since the ring feels…real. Not like a piece of a performance, like Daisy’s did. It feels like mine. From Apollo.
It feels like all these years of staying meticulously platonic with each other were the mask, and we’ve finally taken it off.
But, as per usual, I only have eyes for him. The height difference between us means I can look up at him. He’s not relaxed—who would be, if you had three intense, inexplicable fevers in one day and then revealed a secret fake engagement at a gala event?—but he is unguarded, and that’s one of my favorite looks on him.
“You could play hooky if you’re worried,” I suggest.
“I’m the boss.”
“Yeah. That’s why you can play hooky. When you’re the boss, you can do whatever you want.”
Apollo exhales, and I can feel in his touch how much he wants to follow me into this photo shoot and, presumably, hold my hand the entire time.
“Maybe other bosses.” He finally lifts his eyes from my ring and smiles at me. When I was younger, I had no idea how transparent his worry could be. He might’ve been better at hiding it then. Or I hadn’t noticed it yet. “Not this one.”
“Well.” I turn my hand and squeeze his. “You can always call me. With your cell phone. Mine will ring, and I’ll pick it up and, like, get in a car. Or whatever’s necessary.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I know.”
“Do you also know that you’re basically legally required to call me if something goes wrong?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “There’s a legal component?”
“It is if we’re engaged.”
Apollo spent most of the weekend sleeping. He spent most of Calliope and Orion’s party trying to keep his pinky wrapped around mine. I know he thinks we have to appear to be engaged in public for safety reasons—both his and mine—but we don’t have to pretend in private.
We can do what we’ve always done. Cuddle platonically.
He changes his grip again and holds my hand in front of my face.
“We’re engaged,” he says firmly, and then he leans in and kisses me.
It’s the first non-stolen-time kiss we’ve ever shared, and it’s on the sidewalk on Park Avenue with his driver all of six feet away.
I think, half-deliriously, my heart going like a bird in full flight, third time’s the charm.
Apollo does not kiss me like we’re parting ways to head to the office. He kisses me like he’s miserable to be leaving me and even more miserable that he didn’t spend every second up to now kissing me. His hand comes up to brace my chin, and then it’s way beyond a peck. It’s a kiss.
