I really love this woman who will tear into everyone but saves her tenderness for me. Though I know she doesn’t see it. She knows she bites. It’s her nature but she doesn’t want to hurt me. To her, I’m breakable when so many other people think I’m impervious.
My fingers hook under her wig and remove pins before pulling away the cap and allowing her red strands to tumble over her shoulders.
“Promise me something.” I wrap a strand around my finger.
“What?”
“That you’ll show me how you dye your hair one day.” It’s a part of her I’ve always loved, how she did it first for Mom and then never stopped.
“I’d like that.”
She scrubs at my face a moment longer to get the remainder of the makeup off, but the bathroom soap can only do so much.
Wordlessly, she grasps my hand and we return to the museum. We don’t make a show of it. No kisses that demand attention, just her hand in mine for everyone to see as we look at art. No performance for the other museum goers to devour. Still, we take pictures and sign autographs until there’s a crowd around us larger than the one for Monet’sWater Lilies.
The next day after we leave Chicago and arrive at our hotel in Indianapolis we’re given keys to the same room.
From Indianapolis we head to Nashville, where at the end of the show Avery kisses me in front of everyone, yet her lips on mine make the entire world shrink.
The next morning, we have breakfast with Mom, who smiles each time she sees our hands linked together.
“You’re welcome to come spend your holiday break with me, unless you have other plans,” Mom says casually.
I brace for Avery’s answer. I want to be back with her in Caper so badly I feel like I could burst, but I can’t force it.
“I’ve really missed Christmas there. It’s always the perfect type of snow,” Avery says as she cuts into an Eggs Benedict. “I’d love to come this year.”
I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back. In a few weeks I’ll get to take her home.
It’s all so good, so when my weekly therapy session comes around and Dr. Davis asks, “Anything else you want to talk about?”
“No. Is that a bad thing? I feel like I should have more to talk about, but I can’t think of anything.”
She shakes her head and gives a soft genuine smile. “That’s great. Good days, or even days that come easier, are important to acknowledge. Therapy isn’t just a fallback for bad days; it’s a tool and protective measure. I invite you to also tell me about the good days, you’ve worked hard for those.”
There are plenty of times I feel emotionally exhausted after talking to her, and it does make it feel like work, but it alsomakes me feel like I’ve accomplished something important. But today I’m energized.
The lock in the door thuds a second before Avery walks in, holding a coffee carrier and an envelope in one hand. A crease cut deep between her brows, and she cocks her head to the side as she flips the envelope over, causing a strand of hair to spring free from the loose bun flopping to one side on the top of her head.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She startles and nearly drops the coffee, ice cubes clacking together as she regains her grip on the carrier. “Shit! Sorry, I forgot you had a session today. I’ll wait out on the balcony until you’re done.” As she walks by, she hands me my coffee and plants a kiss on the top of my head, soft and out of habit. A special type of casual affection that is automatic.
The balcony door clicks shut, and Dr. Davis says, “Everything seems to be going well between you two. How are you doing with the media coverage?”
People have plenty to say, speculating on an expiration date and whether this is just for PR and fan service. We aren’t taking any interviews after what happened on the Ingrid Grant show, and really, we don’t need to—everyone is talking about us.
“Mostly avoiding it. But also, when I do see things, I care less than I thought I would. I think it’s easy to brush things off because I’m used to the media coverage getting things wrong about my life.”
We talk a little longer before scheduling our next session.
Coffee in hand, I go out to where Avery is sitting on the white latticed metal seat. The envelope is torn open and an embossed linen paper rests on top of it. Avery swivels her head from where she’s looking out over the street to me.
“What is that?” I ask, because it looks like a wedding invite.
She reaches out, running her finger over the soft edge of the paper. “It’s from my grandparents; they have an annual winter charity gala. They sent it originally to my place in Manhattan, so they sent it before the interview. I bet they wish they could take it back.”
“Do you want to go?”
