I nod, taking the small glass from him as Nik holds his in mid-air between us.
“First things first.” He tilts his glass closer to mine. “Here is to deciding who sits at our table,” he says, then we cheers.
“Za Zdorovie,” I say, before drinking it back in one go.
“I’m happy you’re here, Milo,” Nik says, stepping off his barstool and patting my back as he walks around me with emptied glass in hand, heading toward the back of the bar. “It’d been too long.”
I hand him my glass when he reaches for it. “Thanks, man. Me too.” And I realize, as I say it, that there’s nowhere else I want to be.
Twenty-one
Prue
Mom’s had areally difficult few days, not wanting to leave bed much at all. I’ve been sitting with her, keeping her company whenever she wants me to, but otherwise I’ve kept myself busy with household tasks and filling more journal pages. Lately, I can’t seem tostopwriting.
That is, whenever Milo’s not distracting me. He had yesterday off and came by early. When I told him Mom wasn’t up for painting, he took it upon himself to fix one of Dad’s broken display tables out front. After that, he puttered around their house fixing whatever he found that needed fixing as I fetched things for Mom, washed dishes, and folded laundry. Now Mom and Dad’s bottom step doesn’t bend when stepped on—and he even made sure to paint the wood he replaced with the same matching blue as the rest of the staircase. Now the downstairs bathroom door can actually lock. And, most notably, the coat hooks by the back door are no longer upside down.
I kept telling him to stop, kept telling him to sit down or go home, but he never listened.
But tonight, he’s coming over just for me. Because I amfinallyready to check some more items off of our to-do list. Not beforeanother lesson he’s insisting I learn first, however. Which is, admittedly, proving difficult.
Who knew the art of sexting would be so hard? I don’t even know how or where to start. Milo’s instructions were clear: He’d come over only after I seduced him by text. Apparently, that is considered a type of foreplay for our generation.
I’ve typed the beginning of a hundred different messages at this point. So, instead, I opt for a picture. I make my way over to my full-length mirror, I angle my bodyjustso, opening my silk robe enough to reveal the thin, lacy fabric along my hip, and I taketwenty-twophotos before I findonethat doesn’t feel totally mortifying to send.
I hit send with a clenched jaw and squinted eyes. His response is immediate.
Milo: goddamn
Milo: hello killer
I smile at my phone like an idiot.
Prue: Hi you
Milo: would it offend you if I made that my background photo on my phone?
I roll my eyes at his question, but still find myself looking at my photo again with a newfound sense of pride.
Prue: Go for it. It’s pretty tame.
Milo: great, because I already did
Milo: you’re so sexy, Prue
Milo: send me one I wouldn’t want anyone else to see
Prue: Feeling possessive, are we?
Milo: over you? always
My heart jumps at that one little word from him.
Prue: Okay, one sec…
One sec is, in fact, many minutes later. That’s how long it took to get up the courage to send him a photo of me sitting at the end of my bed, my legs spread open, with my toes pointed to the floor. My phone is positioned in front of my face, angled to the side. My robe, now entirely opened, falls off my shoulders and pools along my thighs, not covering an inch of my bra, stomach, or panties.
Milo: I’m licking the phone
