Make a Move

by Meika Usher

  “Who said anything about crazy?” I yanked my gaze from his and turned back to my desk. “We fucked around a little. That’s it.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, disbelieving. “Keep telling yourself that.” Then, he turned back to his own desk and left me in peace.

  Well, peace was subjective.

  I refocused on the drawing in front of me and ignored the prickle Julian’s words had caused.

  “I don’t know,” Jamie said to Veronica, bringing my attention back to them. “That doesn’t really feel like my Gram.”

  I shot a glance over from the corner of my eye. Jamie’s hand was on her hip, her lips pursed, as Veronica rotated her tablet to give her a better angle at...an infinity symbol.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard I worried they’d stick.

  Silence fell over the room. My skin tingled like someone was watching me and I straightened, lifting my head to look around.

  All eyes were, indeed, on me. Veronica and Jamie and Julian, as well as a handful of people in the lobby. “What?” I asked, not really sure what I’d done that was so interesting.

  “You got something to say?”

  The question came from Veronica, who’d dropped her arms to her sides and fastened a death stare on my face.

  Her death stare did nothing for me anymore, though. Straightening in my seat, I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, maybe.”

  She stalked closer and hovered over me, trying her best to be intimidating. “Maybe you should enlighten us, then.”

  Pushing to my feet, I towered over her. “I think your design is shit.” I waved a hand at the tablet still in her grip. “It’s cliché and boring and—”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her voice had dropped low, but her eyes widened in surprise. This wasn’t A Thing in Veronica’s universe. No one stood up to her. I knew that because I never did. Not even while we were dating.

  “So, the tattoo virgin is going to criticize my ideas?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How...interesting.”

  I ignored the jab and turned away, picking my sketchbook up from my desk. “I was working on something while you two were talking,” I said to Jamie, stepping around Veronica. “Something you said about your grandma gave me an idea.”

  I held the sketchbook out to her, and she took it. I could feel the claws of Veronica’s glare across my back, but I did not turn around. I didn’t even flinch. Instead, I watched Jamie’s eyes rove over the drawing. I watched the smile curve her lips. And I watched as she took a deep, shaky breath and looked up to meet my eye. Hers were filled with tears.

  “This is perfect,” she breathed, tracing a fingertip over the lattice-topped pie I’d drawn. “Gram would have loved this.”

  I smiled, taking the book back. “When you said you would spend every Sunday in the kitchen with her, baking,” I said with a lift of my shoulder, “I thought this seemed fitting.”

  Jamie grinned back. “Her apple pies were the best in three counties,” she said, looking at the drawing again. “Do you mind if we tweak this a little before we get started?”

  “Sure,” I said, ignoring the death lasers Veronica was aiming my way. “Let’s head to my desk and we’ll talk.”

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Jamie left with a fresh, adorable tattoo of an apple pie on her inner forearm and a huge smile on her face. I stood and stretched, a feeling of satisfaction coursing through me. The best part of my job was working with someone on a piece of art that resonated with them, and that little pie definitely resonated with Jamie. More and more lately, I had days like this, and it was just...so good.

  “Looking a little smug, aren’t we?”

  I didn’t have to turn to know Veronica was standing behind me. So I didn’t. “There’s a difference between smugness and satisfaction,” I said as I began cleaning up my station. “You tend to err on the side of smugness.”

  Stepping into my line of vision, she waited until I looked up. Fire blazed in her eyes. Oh, she was pissed. And, weirdly, I was proud as hell of being the one to piss her off. “I don’t recommend making a habit of poaching my clients,” she said, her voice like stone.

  I straightened and met her eye dead-on. “I don’t recommend feeding your clients tired ideas.”

  She arched a brow. “Ooh. Listen to that. Did Miss Predictable finally find her spine?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I muttered, itching to get back to work. I didn’t have time for Veronica and her—

  “Just that you’ve always been real good at blindly doing what’s expected of you,” Veronica purred, reaching up to touch my chin. “It was always one of my favorite things about you.”

  I swatted her hand away and took a step back, her words rattling around in my brain like a hive full of bees. Real good at doing what’s expected of you.

  What’s expected.

  Expected.

  In a blink, my mind called up a memory I tried not to think about too often. Junior year at Sutcliffe. Life Drawing II. My favorite professor, Dr. Lennon, had called me into her office to review my midterm assignment, a pencil drawing of the seventy-year-old woman who’d modeled for us weeks earlier. It was perfect, down to the tiniest detail. I’d even captured the tiny wisps of hair escaping from her haphazard bun.

  So when Dr. Lennon had handed the portfolio back to me, a 2.0 scrawled across the cover page, I froze.

  “I...I don’t get it,” I’d said, looking up to meet her hazel eyes. “This is good. It’s really good. It’s—”

  “It’s perfect,” she agreed with a tilt of her head. “Too perfect.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, frowning. “How can it be too perfect?”

  “Your line work is amazing. Your shading flawless. But where’s the imperfection? The personality?” She took the portfolio from me and held up the drawing. “You drew Mrs. Joshi as you saw her, but not as you saw her.”

  At my confused look, she had continued. “There’s nothing of you in this piece. There’s nothing of you in any of your pieces. You—”

  “That’s not really the point of this, though,” I interrupted, irritation like ants in my veins. “I show up, do the assignments, go home. I don’t—”

  “You do what’s expected of you, yes.” Dr. Lennon sat back in her seat and closed the cover of my portfolio carefully. “Exactly what’s expected of you. But you’re holding back.”

  I sank back in my seat, my brain fighting to wrap itself around her words. When I didn’t speak, she had continued. “You have so much potential. But if you’re going to succeed in my class—or as an artist—you need more than talent. You need passion. You need fire.” Her eyes flashed on mine. “Where’s your fire, Bernadette?”

  She had leaned forward, her elbows on her desk, as she held my gaze. “Fuck expectations. Figure out who you want to be. Follow that fire.”

  I had flinched at her profanity, even as my brain latched onto her words. Fuck expectations.

  Now, in this moment, I took a step back and looked at Veronica. That word rang loud as bells in my head.

  Expectations.

  I’d told Nate I was afraid of becoming that girl again. The one who did what was expected of her. A fear that I’d held onto for all these years. A fear I’d let consume me for all these years.

  A fear I’d let control me.

  For years, I’d been rushing headlong into things that fell into the unexpected category. From wild parties and one-night stands to spontaneous trips across the world to...to avoiding contracts and tattoos and good guys who said they were falling for me.

  I blinked, something inside me cracking, then shattering to pieces.

  Fuck. Expectations.

  I was not defined by what others expected me to be. My passion, my fire, my life was not defined by them.

  It was goddamn time to define my own life.

  Starting right now. Starting with Veronica.

  Before she could spew more acid, I spoke, my voice steady, strong. “I actually listene
d to your client. I listened and I gave her what she wanted. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

  Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I couldn’t stop. “This isn’t about revenge. It wasn’t about being vindictive or backstabbing, or whatever you want it to be about. This is about which one of us produced better work.” I shrugged an unapologetic shoulder. “And, this time, that was me.”

  “This time,” Veronica repeated, her nostrils flaring with fury. “There won’t be a next time.”

  I smiled widely, unbothered by her rage. For once, unbothered. And, hell, that felt good. “We’ll see,” I said cheerily, sailing passed her toward Shelly’s office.

  I had a contract to renew.

  And, after that, I had a guy to get back.

  51: Nate

  “I’m sorry. I know I should have told you. I just...fuck.”

  I growled and turned on my heel to pace back toward the kitchen. Three hours. I’d been at this for three hours. But no matter which words I chose, everything sounded like an excuse. And, if there was one thing I did not want to do when I went to Birdie, it was make excuses. Because I knew there was no excuse.

  Yeah, there was the whole she never asked, and I wasn’t obligated to tell her, thing. Anya—and even Sunny—told me time and again that I hadn’t technically done anything wrong.

  But it felt wrong. And I knew why.

  Because she was right: I should have trusted her enough to tell her. I didn’t trust that she wouldn’t walk away. And I’d let that fear control me.

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, I exhaled and tried again. “You were right, Birdie,” I tried aloud. “I should have trus—”

  My words were cut off by a knock at the door. I glared at my watch. Eleven p.m. Anya had officially left this morning for Milwaukee, so who the hell else could be banging down my door at eleven p.m.?

  When I pulled the door open, my insides fell to my feet. Because there she was. Birdie. Standing on my doorstep, perfectly illuminated in the glow of the porch light. My eyes dragged over her, from the tips of her knee-high boots to the top of her snow-dusted head, and my heart ricocheted around my ribcage. She wasn’t supposed to be here. I was supposed to go to her. I was supposed to go to her and make things right. What was she...

  “Hey,” she said into my stunned silence, the word a white puff of fog in front of her face.

  “H-hey,” I replied, my mouth suddenly desert-dry. “It’s snowing.”

  She glanced behind her at the flurry-filled atmosphere then back to me. “Yep.”

  We stared at each other then, silent, for a long, stretched-out moment, me too surprised to see her here to function like an actual adult, her waiting for me to function. And shivering. She was shivering. Because it was snowing.

  Jesus, Nate, I thought, forcing myself to move. “It’s freezing out. Come in.” I stepped to the side, holding the door open. “I mean, if you want.”

  “I want,” she replied, stepping through the doorway. She shook her hair away from her face, fat, white snowflakes falling to the floor to melt against the hardwood in tiny puddles. Proof she was really here and not just a figment of my imagination.

  Clearing my throat, I asked, “You want anything? A drink? A snack?”

  Her lips curved in a barely-there smile, and my body hurt with the need to make her smile for real. There’d been no smiles the last time I saw her.

  “You always offer me snacks,” she said, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry. I...I came here to—”

  “No,” I said before she could finish. The hours and hours of rehearsed words buzzed in my brain, desperate to get out. If I let her talk, I might never get to say any of them. “My turn to talk. Yours to listen.”

  Her eyes shot to mine, surprise flickering in a bright flash of blue. Pressing her lips together, she nodded. “Okay.”

  I exhaled one large breath, anxiety zinging through my veins. I got this, I thought. One word at a time. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my virginity,” I started, suddenly feeling very naked. “I wanted to. So many times. But...”

  Ahh, hell.

  Oxygen. I needed oxygen. Oxygen and courage. I had to say the words. I had to make this right. Because if I didn’t, if I lost her, I’d regret it forever.

  I met her eye, and then I had all the courage I needed.

  Inhaling deeply, I forced myself to continue. “I was afraid.” The words tasted like freedom as they left my mouth. “I was afraid, and I didn’t want anything to change between us.”

  “Why would—”

  “Still talking,” I said, giving her half a smile to soften the words. “I am very aware that it’s a big deal, who you lose your virginity to. And I should have respected you—and trusted you—enough to give you that choice. I just...”

  Ahh, fuck. This was much harder than my rehearsed sorrys had been. Because now it was real. Now, she stood in front of me, and now I faced the very real possibility that this could all crash and burn.

  “I didn’t plan on being a thirty-two-year-old virgin,” I said, the words wringing from me like water from stone. I didn’t talk about this. Didn’t give people the whole Virgin Backstory. But, for the first time, I found myself wanting to share it with someone. With her. “I was engaged for a long time,” I started, folding my arms over my chest. “But my fiancée—”

  “Nate, you don’t owe me—”

  “I’m gonna tell you anyway,” I interrupted. “Because I want you to know.”

  She tilted her head, and I continued. “Lucy—my fiancée—wanted to wait till marriage. And I was fine with that. I loved her, so I was okay. But then, we broke up before the wedding, and there I was, twenty-seven and a virgin.” I grimaced and shook my head. “It really weirds women out when you tell them that little factoid.”

  At that, Birdie’s lips tilted upward. She didn’t say anything, though, so I continued.

  “So there I was, going through life with this...thing. This thing I’d been saving for someone special. And then I wasn’t. I just wanted to get it over with. But the more time passed, the more I...” I trailed off, searching her face. This was it. This was me, laying it all out there. I could only hope she’d understand. “It came full circle. I’d gone so long, I didn’t want to have some meaningless fling to get it over with. I wanted it to matter.”

  I paused and took a step closer, waiting until our eyes met to continue. “And it did, Birdie. It mattered a hell of a lot. I-I’m glad it was you.”

  Her eyes went bright with an unreadable emotion. Fear, maybe? Doubt? Whatever it was, she blinked it away before she spoke. “Nate,” she started, her voice soft. “I—”

  “And that’s not my lack of experience talking,” I continued, words barreling from me like torpedoes for fear that her sentence would not end well. “In fact, after I left the bar that night, I had an orgy. Just to be sure.”

  Her lips tilted. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Like, ten women.” I nodded. “And you are, by far, my favorite.”

  She lifted a skeptical brow. “Ten?”

  “Well, okay. Maybe three.”

  A glare.

  “Fine, none.” I twisted my lips in a sardonic grimace. “I came home, watched Buffy, and wallowed, all the while kicking myself for fucking up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  The words fell to the floor between us and I silently begged her to pick them up. To hold them tight to her chest and tell me I hadn’t fucked this up.

  “Is it my turn to talk now?” she finally asked, her poker face unreadable.

  Here we go, I thought dropping my eyes to stare at the snowflake puddles. This was where she told me that it was over. Finished. Done-zo. That I’d royally fu—

  “You didn’t fuck it up,” she said, bringing a halt to my train of thought. I looked up, hope flaring bright. “I...” She exhaled and shook her hair away from her face. I could see her silent battle to get the words out, and I knew exactly how that felt.
Say more, I wanted to say. Say more about how I didn’t fuck this up.

  When she finally spoke, she took a sharp left turn in conversation. “I had an interesting night at work.” She brushed past me toward the living room and I turned to watch as she roamed the perimeter, randomly touching framed pictures and books. She didn’t speak at first. Just wandered through my space. I savored the sight, afraid to say anything, lest she revoke the you didn’t fuck it up, thing.

  After what felt like an hour, she turned to face me. “You ever get so used to doing something a certain way that you don’t realize you’re doing it anymore?”

  I tilted my head in agreement, but didn’t speak. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “I spent years avoiding the expected. Zigging when everyone thought I would zag. Jumping ship when something started to seem too predictable. Holding tight when people thought I would run.” She shook her head, gaze focused on something just over my shoulder. “It’s easy to lose sight of what you really want when you’re so worried about not being what everyone expects.”

  I shifted my stance, desperate to know where this was going but hesitant to interrupt.

  “Tonight, I realized something.” She pulled her gaze back to me, excitement lighting up her eyes. “I am so sick of living that way.”

  “That’s good,” I started, and I meant it. “I’m—”

  “I’m sorry.” She twisted her hands together in front of her. “For the way I reacted. I’m sorry.” Her wide eyes held mine, barely blinking. “I was mad and blindsided and...scared. So, so scared.”

  “What were you scared of?”

  “You,” she said simply. “And the way you make me feel things. Deep and sure and strong.” As she spoke, her fingers found the buttons on her coat. “You made me see that I’ve been only half living for a long time now.” She loosened her buttons, shrugging the coat off once she reached the last one. “Today, I realized that what others expect—or don’t expect—of me does not define me as a person. Only I can do that.” As she spoke, she pulled the hem of her t-shirt—was that Britney Spears?—out of her jeans.