Page 89 of Tony

It’s about me.

It’s about us.

I kick my shoes off, slide my jeans down my legs, and climb on top of him, straddling his hips with my legs. And then I cup his face, lean down, and kiss him. Hard.

I kiss him like he kissed me yesterday in the lobby of Anna Ameci’s. Like he’s my best friend and my lost lover. I kiss Vann Vaughn like he’s cool, clear water and I’m dying of thirst.

And he kisses me back like a man who is seen for the very first time.

Like a man who is appreciated when before he wasn’t.

Like a man kissing a woman who finally realized his worth.

He pulls back. Just a little. Just enough so our noses are touching and our foreheads are bumping. And then his eyes lift up to mine and I feel like I need to hold my breath.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

That’s it. Just, Thank you. No explanation. But I don’t need an explanation. I know why he’s thanking me. I’m still holding his face when I sigh, “I have always seen you, Vann. But up until today, I just didn’t see you with me. And I’m sorry for that. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am for that. I feel like an idiot for not realizing that we’re good together before now. I feel like I’ve wasted so much time and—”

“Shh,” he says, cutting me off. And then he pulls the elastic out of my braid and his fingertips begin unraveling my hair.

He does this in complete silence, looking me in the eyes. And it feels like a metaphor. It feels like he’s unraveling me as well as my braid. And when he’s done and my kinked-up pink hair is free, he arranges it so that it spills over my shoulders and contrasts against the black lace of my bra.

“Belinda,” he finally says. “I would wait until the end of time for you to see me. I would walk a thousand miles if you needed me. And maybe you don’t realize this yet, but this isn’t our first date.”

“No?” I ask.

“No. Our life together started eight years ago when you showed up at this very house looking to rent the apartment over the garage. I remember it—not like it was yesterday. Because for me, from the moment I first saw you, yesterday ceased to exist. From that second on, there was only the future of you and me. That’s it. That’s all that mattered. And I don’t even care that it took eight years to get here.” He shakes his head a little. “Why would I care? I spent the entire time with you sleeping thirty yards away every night. I spent the entire time walking you to and from work at least a couple times a week. I have spent countless days with you at my side. I don’t give a single fuck that we weren’t lovers through all that. That’s not what I was after. That was never the goal. I’m not thinking about missed opportunities. I’m not sorry that it took this long. I’m happy with who we are and how we got here. And maybe I got a little frustrated with you yesterday, but I didn’t lose faith in what I knew we had. That’s why I inked this tat on my arm. It was a declaration to myself that I would not give up. That I would keep going. That I would give you as much time as you needed. That I would be there through anything. As long as you let me, I will be here.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath and I let it out in a soft huff of air.

I don’t deserve him.

I don’t deserve his love, or his loyalty, or his faith and dedication.

“Shh,” he says again. “Stop it. Stop thinking about the past. There is no yesterday, remember? There is only now.”

I lean into him and press my lips against his. But I don’t kiss him and he doesn’t kiss me, either.

We just stay like that for a moment.

And then, with no words at all, we become something else.

Something new.

I place my hands on his shoulders and gently urge him to lie back. He smirks at me as he gives in, his hands sliding up to fondle my breasts. I lean down and my hair drags across his chest as I scoot back and kiss my way down his stomach as my hands trail behind. I stop and look up at him when I get to his zipper.

His expression is something between heated lust and unbelievable luck.

“Why are you looking at me that way?”

He reaches for the long strands of pink hair hovering over his stomach, playing with them. “You know why,” he says.

“Because you’ve been dreaming about this day for eight years”—he chuckles—“and now you’re not sure if this is real, or the ultimate sexual fantasy?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He says this through a smile.

“Well, let me clear it up for you, Vann Vaughn. This is real. This is going to be your ultimate sexual fantasy come true.”