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“But I’d love to spoil you,” I reply, leaning in to kiss her. Surprisingly, she allows it. “Let me.”
A smirk appears on her lips. “Don’t let your mouth write checks that your butt can’t cash, Winter,” she warns.
“My butt can cash any check, Ridgeway,” I counter, making her smile again. “And thanks to you, my butt is going to be worth a hell of a lot more next year.”
“I hope you spend some of your earnings on a porch swing,” she muses with a yawn. “And more honey almonds. I ate the rest this morning.”
I squeeze her sides, which makes her squeal and try to shift away from me, but I don’t let her get far. “I’ll get a porch swing if you promise to sit on it with me.”
“I will,” she agrees, snuggling her head against my chest.
“Yeah? Because I’ll want to put my arm around you. Is that allowed?”
“Yes, August.”
“And we might have a glass of wine too,” I go on. “Would you agree to that?”
Julia opens her eyes. “I would. It all sounds perfect.”
We’re silent and staring at each other, and I’m not sure if we’re playing anymore.
“Are you…” I trail off, wondering if I dare toe the line and ask if she’s serious—if she would stay with me for a few more days, or at least come back to see me. Either way, the question is simple: Do we exist beyond tonight?
She smiles soft and sweet—gentle enough that I’m unsure if she even realizes she’s smiling at me.
I should ask her.
But how many times did Constance cry while we shared my pillow in my MIT dorm? How many times did she count the days until graduation, allegedly dreading the moment she would leave me? Countless. I asked her to stay. She told me to follow her.
I did. She didn’t mean it. She broke up with me anyway.
I should know better.
“I’ll lock up,” I say. “Get a fire going. Come downstairs when you’re ready. No rush.”
Too quickly, I leave her in the bed in a mess of cum and her wetness and wine and sweat. I head to the living room and look out the windows at the clear evening. Perfect flying conditions.
I build a fire, doing my best to make the place look cozy. I make coffee and I put on an Elvis record. Then I sit on the couch with a glass of bourbon and a book and I wait for her.
Half an hour later, freshly showered, Julia enters the room and pads over to me, where she surprises me by snuggling up next to me. The scent of floral shampoo surrounds us both. Her damp hair is draped over one shoulder, twisted meticulously around itself—revealing how it always has a perfect, slight curl.
“Mine,” she declares before she takes my glass. Reluctantly, I separate from her to pour another.
We stare into the fire in silence for a minute, music playing softly in the background. It’s dangerous for me to consider how right it feels to have my arm around her.
“What are you reading?” she asks.
I hold up the book. “Peter Thiel’s book. Trying to get inspired.”
Her face pinches. “For what? Now that you’ve sampled me, aren’t you selling your company and retiring?”
“I have every intention of founding a new company in a few years. In the meantime, I’m writing a book.”
“What kind of book?”
“Nonfiction. Business philosophy.”
“Like Malcolm Gladwell?”
