If all goes right, he’ll never work there.
I nod a couple times. “Yeah,” I say. “I think we can work something out.”
57
ROSE COBALT
Scott Van Wright (douchebag motherfucker) 0 – Rose & Connor Cobalt (brilliant) 1.
Using an iron poker, I stir the flames in our backyard fire pit, smoke billowing towards the star-canvassed sky. The fire and heat of May builds sweat beneath my blouse. But it’s the best sweat of my life.
“I’m ready,” I tell Connor, standing up and tossing the poker aside.
He holds a cardboard box filled with DVDs and USB ports, every device Scott recorded the tapes on. After their meeting this afternoon with a financial transaction and contracts signed, Connor now owns the digital and film rights of Princesses of Philly footage. He said that he made sure the contract was specific. Connor only wanted ownership of footage containing appearances by himself and me—our bedroom activities.
Anything else still legally belongs to Scott, but we were only after the sex tapes and now we have them.
Connor passes me a DVD case and sets the box at our feet. “Fifteen sex tapes,” he says, still in slight disbelief that Scott could’ve profited fifteen more times off us.
I thought there were two left, at most.
This is a big win, and I recognize what it took Connor to reach it. I open my mouth to thank him, but he puts a finger to my lips, to hush me. “We did it together.”
He said I was in his head again, keeping him grounded. I try not to smile at this proclamation, but surely he can feel my lips rise beneath his finger.
He grins and then nearly laughs as I plaster on a decent glare. His fingers drift to my chin.
I rest a hand on my hip. “You’re distracting me from our liberation.”
“We’ve already been liberated. Your fire is just ceremonial.”
“Our fire,” I amend.
His grin widens into a full-blown one. “Our fire,” he agrees.
I pop open the plastic case, Sharpie scrawled over the DVD: Rose’s room. 4/23/13 – tied to a chair, 43 minutes. My stomach overturns. I immediately chuck it into the pit, a growl escaping as I do so.
I pause.
I listen for a moment to the satisfying crackle and the melting plastic, my spirit igniting with each burst of sparks, orange embers glittering like celebratory fireworks.
Finally. I’m destroying the things that Scott used to hurt us.
Connor’s arm slides around my waist as the flames consume and eat these tapes.
“Now you.” I hand him a DVD case, not wanting to look inside.
Without hesitation, he throws the case in, and in less than five minutes, we’ve added each device onto the sizzling pile, along with the cardboard for good measure.
I spread a fleece blanket on the grass, and we both sit on the soft fabric, watching the darkest portion of our lives burn to ash.
I understand that the ones online will never disappear, but we’ve reclaimed fifteen intimate moments and they’ll forever be ours. I breathe cathartic breaths, expelling ugly grit that has clung to me for so long.
I exhale and exhale. Connor’s strong arm fits across my shoulders like extra security and warmth. I find myself leaning into him, my legs knocking into his, and it’s not long before we peel our gazes off the fire and onto each other.
Connor has always had these deep blue, austere eyes that flit between serenity and hard-pressed truths. It’s as though he contains the world’s knowledge and history, the dark ages and the light ones. Behind his own entitlement lies all of these grim and wonderful facts about millenniums of people: the first voyagers, the first philosophers, the very first scientists.
When I look into his eyes now, the millenniums shrink to a pool of two. Two people. Just us. The facts are swept with truths, and history is right now. Beside a fire.
He cups my jaw, his lungs expanding, his breath joining with my breath. “‘Dreams are true while they last,’” he recites in a whisper, “‘and do we not live in dreams?’”
I hear his heart beneath those words. “Tennyson,” I answer with a strong inhale.
A flood of emotion courses through his normally inexpressive features, reddening his eyes, drawing lines above his cinched brows. He tugs me closer, and all the sentiments that accompany love pull me to him and him to me.
He recites, “‘I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.’”
“Lewis Carroll,” I breathe, “Alice in Wonderland.” I cling to his shoulders, my hot gaze never leaving him.
I do feel mad with him, so swept in love that I can’t untangle my jumbled, encumbered thoughts.
His gaze journeys across my features, as though he’d like to extend his stay for one more minute, one more hour—anything that time will give him, he’d take. I touch his hand that holds my cheek, our lips aching to meet.
And he murmurs, “‘My drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.’”
Our clutch tightens to each other.
“Shakespeare,” I reply. “Henry VIII.”
He leans me back, guiding me to the blanket. His body hovers above mine, his forearms on either side of my head, his lips so close to my lips. My core heats the longer the silence encases us, the longer the fire crackles and our mistakes burn.
Connor combs my hair back and leans close to whisper, “So long as I may be living, I live with you.”
I lose it at this line, tears building and wetting my eyes. Not because it’s from a favorite play or a favorite piece of literature, but because these words belong solely to him.
I stood in a wedding dress.
I stood right across from him, from that rising grin, and he whispered, So long as I may be living, I live with you. The strength of his vows beats inside my veins.
I reply what I replied nearly three years ago, “In spirit and in mind, I live with you.”
He brushes my tears with his thumb, one kiss away from my lips, he breathes, “I live with you.”
He threads his fingers with mine, his eyes glassing, and he kisses me so soulfully that my body rises to meet his.
The strength of our vows beats inside my veins.
He breaks only once, his lips trailing to my ear, and I stare up at the night sky, burning alive with this love. “Forever is not nearly long enough,” he murmurs another line that belongs to him.
Forever is not nearly long enough.
I wholeheartedly, undoubtedly agree.
58
CONNOR COBALT
Every machine is occupied at the gym on a Saturday afternoon. We probably should’ve stayed at home, but Ryke and I were too cooped up in the house to workout in the basement. It didn’t help that when we left our neighborhood, three carloads of paparazzi tailed us and advertised our location to the public.
“MARRY ME, RYKE MEADOWS!” can be heard through the glass walls. Other men around the weights shoot us disgruntled looks for the disruption.
Ryke tries to ignore it, doing push-ups in the free-weight area. Loren performs sit-ups next to him, and I stand on the tops of his shoes to keep him stationary.
I sip my water and spot the posters outside along with shrieking girls and guys. I count the Team Ryke ones. “Five proposals for marriage, three to breed, and one to fuck,” I say. “Someone should inform them that dogs can’t read.”
Ryke takes his hand off the ground and gives me the middle finger for calling him an animal. Then he continues doing a one-handed push-up. I just finished a circuit workout, so I don’t join Ryke on the concrete floor to one-up him.