“I ruined your shirt,” she said.
“You ruined it hours ago. The button’s gone.”
“I meant with my face.” She wiped her cheek against my arm. “I got mascara on you.”
“I’ll survive.”
She turned in my arms to face me. Her eyes were swollen, her nose was red, her hair was a disaster, and she looked like everything I’d ever wanted and been too afraid to name.
“I cried during sex,” she said, like she was reporting a weather event. “That’s a new one.”
“You were perfect.”
“I was a mess.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” I brushed the hair from her face. “Rose, you spent six weeks being strong. You did an interview on live television and accused your best friend of a crime without a shred of proof. You flew across the country and rebuilt your life in a city you hate. You earned the right to fall apart.”
“In bed? While you were inside me?”
“Especially then.” I kissed her forehead. “That’s the whole point. Falling apart with someone who’s not going to let you hit the ground.”
Her eyes softened in a way I’d never seen before. Unguarded, unhidden, every wall down.
“Stay,” she whispered.
“Wild horses couldn’t move me.” I pressed my lips to the back of her neck. “Pun intended.”
She groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“You love me.”
“I do.” She turned in my arms to face me. “I really do.”
I kissed her forehead. Her nose. The salt-track on her cheek where the tears had dried.
“Then that’s enough,” I said. “That’s everything.”
Morning camein through the window, pale, tentative, the kind of New York light that looks like it’s asking permission.
Rose was propped against the headboard, wearing my shirt, the one she’d ripped a button off of, and drinking coffee from the room service tray I’d ordered while she was in the shower. Her hair was damp. Her feet were bare. She looked like everything I’d ever wanted and had been too afraid to name.
“We need to talk about the future,” she said.
“I know.”
“The channel. Your career. What you’re going to do now.” She sipped her coffee. “I watched some of the response to my interview last night while you were sleeping. Things are shifting. People are starting to defend you. Comments are changing.”
“I don’t care about the comments.”
“You should. It’s your livelihood.” She set the coffee down. “Graham, I didn’t go on camera to save your career. I did it because it was the right thing to do. But the result is that people are seeing you differently now. Not Fraser Kincaid, but the man underneath. And that man is worth building something around.”
I looked at her. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that when you go back to the channel, if you go back, do it as yourself. Honesty. That’s what people responded to. Not the stunts.” She pulled her knees up. “And I’m saying that I can handle being adjacent to fame. Not the subject of it. I don’t want cameras in my life. But I can handle knowing that the person I love has a public existence, as long as his private one belongs to us.”
“It does,” I said. “It always will.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay. But I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers. I’m going to be anxious about it. I’m going to have bad days where I want to hide. That’s who I am.”
