“I was going to ask if you wanted to stay the night,” she says, still managing a teasing smile despite not feeling well.
“This bed is comfy,” I admit, and she giggles.
“You just like it because I’m in it,” she teases. This girl is going to have to lower the heat if she doesn’t want this to go any further. Just the cute banter is enough to get me hard.
Mila rolls onto her back and holds her hand up. The facets of the diamond catch the light of the moon outside, and it casts sparkles all over the room like a disco ball.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“It’s beautiful. I promise I won’t get attached,” she says, tucking her arm back under the blanket. I study her after that comment, and she can feel it, and her eyes flash up to mine. “What? It doesn’t matter if I like the ring. It’s not real.”
“Oh, I can assure you it’s real,” I tell her. “It was my mother’s. And my grandmother’s.”
“I mean, the proposal isn’t real. Because the marriage isn’t going to be real. Wait. This ring was your mother’s?” she asks, looking at it again.
“It is. Was,” I nod, propping my head up on my elbow.
“You could have just given me something from a department store. A blue light special. No one would have known the difference,” she says.
“I would have. And so would my father,” I tell her.
“And how does your father feel about me wearing your mother’s ring?” she asks.
“It was his idea,” I say, and Mila looks at me.
“Really?”
“Really,” I answer.
Mila rolls onto her side so we are facing each other. “I thought he hated me.”
“I thought he hated me,” I say, and she laughs. I smile, loving the sound. I wish I could bottle that sound up and keep it for the days I feel alone.
“He doesn’t hate you,” I say, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “I don’t think anyone could hate you.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s people who aren’t fond of me,” she says.
“Crazy people,” I say.
“I’m nothing special. I think that’s why we have to sell this so hard, you know?”
My brow furrows, and I frown. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m just a waitress. A maid. I used to have money, or so I thought. I also had dreams and talent.”
“You still have talent. And the dreams part is up to you. They only die if you let them,” I insist.
“They die when your circumstances change beyond repair and you have to stop following them because the only thing that matters is survival. You know, the first month after my parents were gone, I lived in my car?” she asks, and my stomach bottoms out.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. I took my twin mattress from my parent’s house and put it in the back of my old Jeep. I parked by the river, sometimes near schools,” she says, her voice relaxed. Her story has me anything but relaxed right now.
“You must have been so afraid,” I tell her.
“Not really, honestly. We used to camp a lot when I was little. I kind of just told myself every night that’s what I was doing,” she says. I feel an intense urge to kiss her. To hold her against me and tell her she’ll never live like that again. But I don’t. I can’t. Because I don’t know what she’s feeling and I’m too afraid to ask. I’m still sorting out what I’m feeling. Whatever it is, it’s overwhelming.
“You’re not just a waitress,” I tell her after a long pause. “And you’re definitely not just a maid.”
