I pull her into a big hug and hold us there for an almost uncomfortably long time, her face squished against my boobs. Eventually, she smacks my arm like a wrestler trying to tap out of a fight. “Can’t…breathe…” she says in a raspy voice, and I laugh before letting go.
“Would you mind—?”
“Duh, of course I’ll stay the night.” She pulls out a stack of DVD cases from her bag. “I even brought all the classics.”
We watch old teen movies until our eyes cannot stay open anymore, and we fall asleep curled up on opposite ends of the couch.
When I hear music, at first I don’t think anything of it, assuming it’s part of a movie menu screen playing a song on repeat. But then Janae blinks her eyes open in the mostly dark room and asks where the hell that music is coming from. We look around the apartment for the source for a minute or two before I realize it’s coming from outside.
We peek out of the blinds and, there on the curb, leaningagainst a giant boat of a car, is Cupid.
“Ooh!” Janae exclaims. “He’scute.”
“He’s committing a noise violation,” I say, but I can’t stop a small smile from forming at the sight of him.
“Then you better go down there and stop him,” says Janae, shoving me toward the door.
22
Felicity
When I reach the sidewalk, where the song is no longer muffled by the building, I finally recognize what it is. That first love song he played for me—the one about fools rushing in.
I approach him slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of my oversized hoodie, shoulders tensed up to my earlobes. There’s no easy way for me to predict how this will go, and I hate that. There’s a reason I chose a career that means I spend more time talking with computers than with people. With code, I know where I stand. I pretty much control my destiny. With people, I don’t get the same luxury. There’s always the chance they’ll say or do something that defies logic.
Even from afar, Cupid looks sad. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I take a moment to observe him, this man who showed up in my life just days ago and upended everything I thought I believed in. His brows are knitted together, eyes half-lidded, fists shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. And then there’s the song, hanging over him like a dense fog.
Slow and almost mournful, although he insisted that it’s a love song. Not justalove song, butthelove song.
Despite my anger at him, I can’t shake how lovely he is. My flashbacks didn’t do him justice. It’s not just that he’s handsome—and he isdevastatingly handsome—it’s that I realize for the first time how vulnerable he is. That he doesn’t hide himself away, pretending to be something he’s not.
When I look at Cupid, I see someone exposed, who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who’s a little odd, yes, but doesn’t try to hide it.
Cupid told me that the anachronistic style choices are his armor. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. We all wear some kind of armor when we step out the door each day. But while Cupid’s armor might offer him protection, make him more capable of facing bad situations, he doesn’t use it to tuck himself away from the world.
I realize with sudden clarity thatmyarmor isn’t armor—not like his is. Mine is a mask, or a shield. Something I wield indiscriminately to keep people at arm’s length, to keep them from seeing me. The real me. If they can’t see me, they can’t hurt me. If they can’t hurt me, I must be safe.
When I think about it that way, it’s ridiculous, really. I’m notbravebecause I actively abstain from looking for love. It doesn’t make me special. It makes me a coward—too scared to open up to anyone new since the last guy broke my heart.
How many other beautiful people did I miss out on because I refused to drop my disguise and let someone know the real me? How many more times will I miss out?
In every moment I’ve known Cupid, he has shown me the real him and accepted the real me. Not the surface-level Felicity, but the Felicity hidden underneath. I never had reason to question him, until…
I squeeze my eyelids together. Shake my head to clear mythoughts. When I open my eyes, Cupid’s are boring into me—I’ve been caught in the open. No more hiding.
For several seconds, we just look at each other. He flashes a tight, unsure smile. The street is uncharacteristically silent except for the music coming from the car, acting as a disembodied DJ for our awkward block party of two.
Cupid doesn’t leave his post. I can tell he’s waiting for me to make the first move, and I know that this is the right thing to do—that he’s letting me have control in this situation. However, a cowardly part of me wishes he would relieve me of the burden.
I could turn around. I could ignore him and forget about this, about him. I could put up my shield and go back to the Felicity I was before I stepped into that bar the other night. Nothing would have to change.
That’s the problem, though. Nothing would have to change.
I haven’t felt as happy or as seen and understood by someone in years as I have by Cupid these past few days. Probably not since I met Janae, when we immediately fit together like two puzzle pieces. And she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.
It really comes down to this: I can’t spend the rest of my life wonderingwhat if?
I can’t enter every day knowing that an answerable question was left unanswered.
