After dinner, she curled in my chair with a pen and a pad and stared out the window. I knew this was her process. She said her stories played out like a movie and she wrote what she saw. She wrote some, then she stood at my windows, staring at the river, and I stared at her. I stared at her when she wasn’t watching. Every time I passed her, I touched her. A hip. A shoulder. The back of her neck. My dick stayed hard, but I was sticking with my no-sex rule until after Valentine’s.
Eventually, we ended up on the sofa, scrolling our phones, her back against my chest.
It wasn’t much different from what we did at her place when she wasn’t paying attention.
I broke the spell. I had to. But I waited until after midnight.
“Valentine’s Day is two days away.”
I felt her stiffen against me.
She stood up.
I sat up.
She started to pace.
“Oh, God. Why do you have to be one of those Valentine’s Day people?”
“Valentine’s people?”
“You know,” she gestured at the air, “the commercialized people who believe in a capitalist performance of affection. It’s for people who don't know how to love each other the other 364 days of the year. It’s performative. It’s for high schoolers and people who need Instagram content. We don't need that, Zio. We're beyond that. I’m not partaking.” She said all haughty like.
I ignored her.
“I have a reservation,” I said. “At The Rowan. Eight o’clock. You’re going. I brought you a dress and shoes. They were expensive.”
She froze.
“You did what?”
“I brought you a dress. And shoes.”
She stared at me. “Did you hear a word I just said? I said I’m not going.”
I didn't blink. “I heard you. I just chose to ignore you.” I stood.
“Zio!” She followed me into the kitchen, her voice rising. “Why don’t you ever listen to me? I’m telling you my boundaries.”
I turned, lifted her onto the counter, hands on her waist. Looked at her fully.
“I don't listen to you because you’re nuts, Sky,” I said, an amused smile tugging at my lips.
She gasped, her eyes going wide. “I am not nuts! I am a creative…!”
“You’re a brat who’s scared of a day,” I countered. “We’ve spent three Christmases together. Three New Year’s. Every other holiday in between. But Valentine’s Day is where you draw the line? Something’s wrong with you.”
She grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at me. I caught it, laughing.
“You’re mean.”
“I’m not the mean one.”
She narrowed her eyes, then tilted her head.
“How expensive are the dress and shoes you mentioned?”
Chapter Thirteen
