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  “You were always such a good friend. I'm so sorry to have treated you poorly.” The man of the hour continues to blubber in the doorway, looking fairly goofy with the big ugly bear between his fists.

  “Wait, wait—so if our whole 'relationship' was a prop, why did you get so mad at me and Brendan?” Melora, who's been fluffing the pillows behind my greasy head this whole time, pauses in her ministrations for a second. I take it she's been wondering this as much as I have.

  To my mixed glee and surprise, Chase just shrugs. His eyes are bleary. Considering his prop, he looks like nothing so much as a toddler who's been separated from his family in a grocery store. I can't help but laugh a bit, though the task hurts my ribs.

  “I'm working on some anger issues,” he says, furrowing his brow at my guffaws. “And Brendan and I—we've always had this competitive thing going. He's this rock star musician, and he's smart, and all the girls like him...”

  “I like you!” Melora cries.

  “I liked you, too, come to think of it,” I echo. “That is, until I discovered you were a possessive, lying, violent sack of shit.”

  “I deserve that.”

  “Absolutely you do.”

  “But think about it, Avery. You never really liked me. You liked this jock-y idea of me. And that's always how it's been, everywhere I go—people fall for this Homecoming King notion of Chase Kelly. You know I'm not even that good at football?”

  “It's the hair.”

  “You laugh, but—I mean, I'm not witty. I'm not talented. What will I even have when college is over?” Melora, reading some cue, backs away from me. The two of them resume an eerily familiar American Gothic pose—him beside her, her beside him. It looks...right. Pathetic and a little sad, but right.

  “I'm not quite ready to forgive you, Chase,” I say finally, after a moment watching the couple-of-the-year coexist. My words seem to hurt him—he wrinkles up his face as if about to cry again—but Melora pats him swiftly on the back.

  “Not yet,” I amend. “Maybe soon, but...not yet.”

  “Sure,” Chase musters. “But Avery? Can I ask you one favor? I realize I'm in no position to ask favors.”

  “I haven't decided yet if I'm going to press charges, actually.”

  “Jesus! Not that, it's just—look. My brother's really in love with you. I think you deserve each other. Just, be good to him, okay?”

  I'm a little offended that he feels he has to ask, but Chase is making such a spectacle that I allow him one magnanimous nod. Some part of me knows that we're all young and resilient, and this is the time to be making mistakes. Maybe he'll change. Maybe I will.

  “Yes,” I say through a yawn, suddenly tired again. Suddenly lonely again. My body misses Brendan. “I'll be good to him.” Epilogue: Six Months Later San Diego, 2014

  “Wait! Mind the precious cargo!” In one daring leap, Brendan launches over the nubby, orange hand-me-down couch that an unenthusiastic duo of enlisted bandmates is currently hauling into our living room. His eyes are fixed on a guitar without its case. A.K.A.: an extreme no-no in our world.

  “You said to grab everything from the station wagon!” Tara whines, a half-smoked American Spirit dangling languidly from the corner of her mouth. “I'm just doing what I'm told, friend-o.”

  “My babies need their blankets,” Brendan says, taking the ragged red Fender from my friend's grasp and carrying it into the house like a queen on a chaise. I laugh at his affect, and he tosses his hair like a pony's mane in response. The shaggy blonde is getting a bit out of control. Brendan's hair now more-than grazes his shoulders.

  (The shoulders themselves, I should say, have only improved with time. Since we've both started taking ju-jitsu—“In case my brother comes for us again, har dee har”—the sinewy Kelly has added some considerable bulk. Not that I care about such things, but for what it’s worth.)

  When he returns from the house, looking content, Brendan takes a moment to regard our lawn. It's only a tiny adobe number within walking distance of SDU, but it's all ours. “I dub this love nest... loved!” my boyfriend pronounces, then looks over at me. The grin he cracks is the same one I've come to know well after all this time, but boy does it still get me. That slight dimple in his tan face. That crinkle of stubble. The glinting white teeth.

  “Get up here, Mrs!”

  “Mrs? Did I miss something?” This voice is Trevor's. He has been the least helpful of our “help you move in” friends, having taken up camp pretty early on this morning in our house's best feature: the hammock strung between two palms in the front yard.

  “Oh, he wishes,” I coo, in my best Southern Belle. I run to Brendan like we're in Born Free, relishing the moment I reach him and collapse giggling into his arms. He pivots me neatly by the hips, then begins to kiss my face. He begins at the crown of my forehead and continues the trail all the way to my chin. He kisses my eyelids. He kisses my earlobes. He kisses my neck, which is now bereft of my choppy blonde hair since this summer's pixie cut. That's right, world: I'm dating a guy with hair longer than mine. Welcome to SoCal.

  Nic and Drummer (I keep forgetting his name) emerge from the front door couch-less, arms swinging. The red eyesore is apparently placed, and so they are apparently finished for the day. Tara struggles to carry the last object from RA Jeff's borrowed Bimmer into the foyer: a human-sized canvas portrait of the love of my life, centered around the deep, thrilling green of his eyes.

  “Be careful with that one, too!” I holler—but Tara just shoots me a glare. We owe her (and Trev and Jeff) big time for the help today, though I've no doubt the favor will be repaid soon enough. So long as there are hot clubs opening up in San Diego, so long as Fuhgettaboutit lurks on the horizon—I will have favors to lend to Tara.

  “Don't forget about the Whiskey-a-Go Go!” Brendan hollers, as our friends make their final retreat. His band-mates holler, echoing the good news. And they have every right to be giddy assholes—a tiny but tasteful record producer has showed some interest in the band's breakout EP (Runaway, since you asked), and as a result they've been booked at some pretty hot places up and down the coast. But nothing too far away, yet. The guitarist has grown roots, after all.

  Together, we survey our new kingdom: four walls, a door, art and instruments galore. Jasmine in a vase on the mantel-piece. Preserved cards and well-wishes from our friends, family, Professor Chen. Even the big ugly bear from Melora and Chase has found a home—as a beanbag chair, in our den.

  With a soft incline of his head, Brendan indicates I lead the way inside. The screen door flutters behind us. I'm dizzy with the feeling of home, and even dizzier when he puts his rough hands on my waist.

  “Hello, lover,” he whispers into the crook of my neck, and I'm aware that for the first time in our entire courtship, we rightfully and entirely have the place to ourselves. I press my ass against the bulge in his jeans. He slips his fingers just below my pants, beginning to knead the soft flesh of my hips. He begins cautiously, as usual—now more than ever, since I have three pins in my left leg.

  Brendan begins to kiss along the back of my neck, tasting my salt from our day of moving. When he reaches the space where my shoulder blades join, he brings his palms around my body, coming to cup my heavy breasts. He massages my tits gently through my t-shirt, before shifting his attention down. He sinks, slowly, to his knees. His fingers find the bottom of my shirt and begin to snake up and under my nakedness, rediscovering my unbound breasts. (The scar on the side of my rib-cage has prevented me from comfortably wearing a bra for quite some time.)

  His lips, shrouded in stubble, find and dwell on a spot just above my hips—but ever insatiable, Brendan's kisses begin to probe further down. He moves his hands to my pants, unbuttoning with quick, deft strokes. His hands no longer shake with me. When the fabric binding my legs falls to a heap about my ankles, Brendan begins to kiss along my thighs. He kisses the places where the pins are, where the damage has been done and forgotten, absolving every trace of my wounds.


  “That's good,” I coo, encouraging—as if he needs any. Brendan's fingers slide down the band of my panties, coming to rest on my pubis. He probes me gently, until he lands light and quick on my clit. As usual, the man knows how to push exactly the right buttons—which is, of course, a key factor in true love, at least according to The Englightened Orgasm. I feel my knees weaken against his chest as he begins to rub me, making me wet.

  He starts to nibble at the surface of my ass, just as my jaw drops and I glance up to the ceiling that we now share. It is elegant white, painted over tin. I reach a hand behind myself and flutter my fingers across the damp expanse of his downy hair. Brendan gently pushes me forward, scooting his fingers up against my center. His mouth moves downward, toward the neat button of my ass. As he presses one digit inside of me, he begins to lap. I too grow hungry.

  “Baby, won't you take me on the couch?” I ask, after a few moments of approaching ecstasy. Brendan rises somewhat reluctantly, and helps me step out of my jeans. I drag his Jimi Hendrix t-shirt off as he walks, revealing the muscled expanse of his back, bringing my hands to pray at the altars of his pecs and abs. I rove across his torso, loving the feel of him below my fingers. I stand on tiptoe and incline myself upward, so I can kiss his sweaty neck.

  In one quick twist, Brendan lurches around and sweeps me up into his arms. It's such a surprise that I break out laughing, throwing my head back like a bride. He begins to kiss my breasts again, and I sit up in his arms so as to wiggle out of the t-shirt.

  “Alright, Prince Charming!” I snort. “Take me to my chambers! And have your way with me!”

  “You're ridiculous, Avery” Brendan replies, flopping me down on our couch and coming to frame my supine form. I find myself in his perfect eye. I know us both. “But that's why I love you so.”

  THE END

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