by Piper Lennox
“Boys?” Mara drawls sarcastically.
“And ladies, if they’re so inclined,” he corrects. “I’m heading up now with Wallman and McCullough.”
Juliet shakes her head and thanks him; Mara pulls a vape from her jacket on the back of the chair and follows Cohen, Levi, and me as we trail Tim to the staircase in the lobby. The crowds have thinned now, just a few tourists snapping pictures in front of the small indoor displays.
A couple stops in front of Bourne’s portrait, idles a moment, then moves on. I stare at it as we climb, thinking of that pharmacy he purchased. He kicked his best friend out of his own job, just because he could.
But something else comes back to me: something I learned a long time ago, when I would comb books and the internet at the library, desperate for the information no one else would give me—where I came from, and what kind of family the Fairfields really were.
Bourne Fairfield had two children, in his lifetime. The first was his son, the heir to his empire-in-the-making.
Seventeen years later, Bourne had a daughter.
Her name was Elizabeth, Aunt Liz’s namesake. They only had one photo of her on file at the library, a grainy baby portrait. When I tried to find more of her, all that came up was a death certificate. She died two days before her second birthday, from pneumonia.
A year later, Bourne donated hundreds of thousands to St. Anthony’s, for the construction of its first-ever pediatrics wing.
When asked if he wanted to name the addition, he said he wanted it named after Elizabeth’s favorite flower.
The Rose Pediatrics Unit doesn’t have a single bit of Fairfield name or flash on it, to this day. Most people don’t know its story or source, assuming Rose is the last name of whoever donated the money.
I hate that I’d forgotten that, until now.
“Help yourselves,” Tim tells us, brandishing a cigar box when we get to the balcony. It’s divided in two, one half outdoors, overlooking the street; the other is inside the ballroom, currently used as a spotlight platform. I would dread getting the electric bill for this reception.
The scent of the cigar box takes me back to those truck rides with Grandpa McIntyre. Especially one afternoon, in particular.
“Tim?” I ask, when the others have long wandered back to the reception. It’s just us left up here, the city buzzing around us, wind kicking down the side of the building.
He sips his drink—brandy, of course—and glances at me. “Hmm?”
“Are the Fairfields happy?”
He laughs, like I’m joking. When another glance shows him that no, I’m serious, he quiets.
“We are tonight,” he says, finally, and sets his cigar on the broad, stone railing. “There’s a lot to celebrate. I always worried about Caitlin-Anne. She’s grown up a lot since Banner was born, but before that, she was...well, I’ll just say it: she was spoiled, growing up.”
I pretend I’m shocked. He laughs.
“Jeannie always said her biggest fear was that she’d end up with nothing, if we sent her off on her own without any help.”
“Was that your biggest fear?”
He shakes his head. “Mine was that she’d marry for money, instead of love. That we’d raised her to think....”
“That...money was all that mattered?”
He smiles, a little sheepish, then turns and rests his elbows on the railing behind him. I do the same, and we stare into the ballroom, the spinning lights and bobbing balloons, feeling the bass of the music in our shins.
“Knox is good for her,” he says, nodding to himself. “Good job, saves his money—I think their idea to open that...what is it?”
“Closet organizing business.”
“Right, right. I think that’s great. She’s never held down a job very long, because, to be frank, I never gave her any reason to. But now Knox can help teach her independence, the pride of working—all the things I just...didn’t.” He sighs, deep in his chest, and for a moment I see it: the unhappiness.
But it doesn’t look much different from anyone else’s. No heavier, no bigger. Just there.
“She’ll be fine,” I assure him. “And she is marrying for love. That’s what you wanted most for her, right?”
He nods, a little distractedly, and finishes his drink.
“So,” he says, after a beat, “think you and Camille will be planning a wedding, anytime soon?”
“Probably. Just waiting for the perfect moment to ask her.”
“There’s no such thing. You keep waiting for the perfect moment, you’ll never ask.”
“Huh.” I lean on the railing and turn this truth over in my head until it fits. This happens a lot, actually: in the two years Tim and I have gotten to know each other, he frequently spits out phrases that, in retrospect, are prime fatherly advice. It takes me a minute to recognize it; I still don’t fully think of him as a father. Maybe I never will.
But when he gives advice like this—things Grandpa McIntyre would’ve told me, too—I do feel some kind of shift, our man-to-man talks moving just slightly toward father-and-son. It might take a decade before it gets there, if it ever does. But we’re closer than we were two years ago. That’s something to stay positive about.
“You’d better get back to your girl,” Tim tells me, nodding into the ballroom.
I turn for the stairs, greeted by the sight of Jeannie in the doorway. Another brandy is in one hand, a martini in the other.
I smile over my shoulder as we pass each other. “You, too,” I call to him, just when he notices Jeannie and smiles.
“Dance with me.” I grab Silas’s tie and pull a little, until he bends down to kiss me. “I’m tipsy enough to dance, not so drunk I’m falling over—that’s a twenty-minute window, at best.”
He laughs and follows me onto the packed dance floor, ducking his head. With his mouth by my ear, he whispers, “You look so damn good in that dress.”
“You,” I call back, my voice swallowed in the music, “look so damn good in that suit.”
“We should go home. Get out of these nice clothes and into something better.”
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess: like...nothing?”
The lights from the dance floor cast a dreamlike glow on his face, lit from underneath instead of above. He stares at me, smirking as his teeth sink into his bottom lip the smallest bit.
Instantly, I’m breathless. And, as always, I have no clue how he does it.
Our house is small, nestled just outside the city in an up-and-coming neighborhood. It’s filled with old widowers and young families. Everyone has a yard. It’s quiet.
“We’ve been here an entire year,” he says, when we get out of the ride-share and half-stumble over the exposed roots in the yard, “and we still haven’t gotten that tree removed. Wasn’t that first on our list?”
“Yes,” I remind him, “but then the bathroom sink fell off the wall.”
He thinks a minute, laughs, then rubs his jaw. “Yeah...that wasn’t the best place to have sex, come to think of it.”
I laugh, too, kissing him so hard we almost fall into the house as soon as he gets the door open. His hands catch my hips before I can lose my balance.
“What should we break tonight?” he asks, mouth pressed to my neck.
“Hmm...I really hate your recliner.”
He tickles me until my knees weaken, then picks me up and walks me to the recliner. “This thing is older than we are,” he warns, as he sets me into it and kisses me. “We could have sex in it every single night for a decade, and it wouldn’t break. It’s strong.”
“You thought the same thing about the sink.”
Instead of replying, Silas narrows his eyes and runs his hand between my legs. The silk fabric of my dress against my dampening, sensitive sex is the best comeback he could possibly deliver; I shut right up, whimpering.
But when he slips his hand under the hem of my dress, he’s the one left speechless.
“You weren’t wearing underwear,” h
e manages, finally, “this entire night—and you didn’t tell me?”
I laugh, the sound dissolving into a gasp as he pushes his fingers inside. “Surprising you is so much more fun.”
While his mouth and tongue plant a steady, light rhythm along my neck and collarbone, his fingers work an unstoppable whirlwind inside me. When I buck my hips up from the chair, pinned by the weight of him, I beg for more.
Effortlessly, he slides his body into the space beside mine on the chair, fingers still buried deep, wringing every whine and plea from my mouth. The wetter I get, the faster and harder he moves his fingers.
“Silas,” I gasp, pushing my face into his chest, “I’m so close, baby.”
He stops, suddenly, and eases his fingers out of me, leaving me aching for more and fighting to catch the breath he stole. The only consolation I have is that, right away, he undoes his pants.
“Get on top,” he whispers, drawing my bottom lip into his mouth when he kisses me. I feel my wetness on his fingers as he grabs my hips to steady me. My thighs are already shaking when I straddle him.
As soon as he rolls on the condom from his wallet, I guide Silas’s erection inside me. The orgasm he brought so close to the surface is still there, sharp and promising, but I take my time sinking onto him. I revel in the fullness and marvel at how much better it feels than the emptiness, and how he somehow manages to make every single time feel as incredible as the first.
When I’ve taken every inch of him, he rests his head against the seat and smiles. “I was wrong.”
Distantly, I plug my brain back in and find the words: “About the chair?”
“About getting you out of this dress.” His hands roam my body, pinching my nipples through the fabric. “Fucking you while you wear it is really doing something to me, I gotta say.”
“Really?” I pulse my muscles around him. It backfires a little, making me moan—but so does he, louder, which makes it worth it.
While I rock my body on top of his, faster as the pleasure grows, Silas lifts his head and pulls the top of my dress down. His mouth captures my nipples, switching between the two with unpredictable intensity and timing.
“I’m close again,” I warn, when one of his hands wanders between my legs, fingertips wet and sliding back and forth on my clitoris as easily as his tongue flits across my nipple. “Silas...baby, I’m coming, I’m coming, I—”
My release stutters through me, first: a staggered and shallow pleasure at the tips of my nerves. Then it deepens, a sweeping crash that makes me cry out into the darkness of our home.
He says my name when he comes, placing his hands back on my hips and pulling me onto him, filling me even more completely than before. His eyes close; I watch him bite his lip until it’s over.
I rise off him slowly, like it’s painful. In its own way, it is: I hate the emptiness most right after this.
He pulls the knit blanket out from behind his head and covers us with it. I put my ear against his chest.
Through the even in-and-out of our breathing, and the half-haze of sleep, I hear him whisper, “I love you.”
I think of the first time he said it: the day I came home from my new job and handed him the listing for what would become his. We went over his résumé together after dinner, and while I was sighing and lamenting the difficulties of formatting, I felt his stare from across the kitchen table. When I looked up, he blurted it. He blushed.
Then I smiled and said it back, shocked at how easy, as always, it was to tell him something I had never told a guy before.
And now I say it back again, press myself against him even more, and feel his arms encircle me through the blanket. We fall asleep together, his heartbeat a metronome against my ear.
It slows, then steadies, and this is the part that makes the ache of emptiness afterward worthwhile: being reminded of what Silas has done for me. He slowed down my life, beating faster everyday, so out of control that it hurt. He steadied me.
The funny thing is, I never notice my own heartbeat doing this—just his. But always, right before I fall asleep, I realize mine has synced and slowed, too. Just by having him near.
“Will you stop? You heard your mom—they’re fine.”
Camille looks down at her phone again, erases the massive text she was about to send her mom, and pockets it before following me along the path. “Canada. Why Canada? It’s winter. If it’s this cold down here, can you imagine all the snow they’re running into up there?”
“Your dad said the lot they’re renting is clear, the road out of the park is plowed and salted daily, and they’ve got all their emergency supplies. They’ll be fine. And it’s a big deal, celebrating her sixth year in remission. They deserve a trip like this.” I put my arm around her and kiss her temple. Reluctantly, she accepts.
“You think I’m being paranoid.”
“I think you’re being sweet. Everyone worries about their parents.” When the ice on the ground increases, I walk ahead and take her elbow, testing each spot with my boot before leading her through. When we’re back on clear ground, I add, “But they’ll be back in...what, two weeks? It’s just a vacation. Let them enjoy it. And you should enjoy yours.”
At the mention of this, Camille tilts her head up and groans. “God, I don’t want to go back to class.”
“Weren’t night classes your idea? You said, and I quote, ‘I’m going crazy having all these evenings free—I need to use them productively.’”
“Okay, I sound nothing like that,” she laughs, taking my hand when we cross another patch of ice. The bridge is in sight now, but I can tell getting to it will be more challenging than expected: a long stretch of ice, completely covering the path, glitters in the sunlight.
“I guess,” she says, after a minute, “it’s not the classes I mind. Part-time isn’t that stressful, after working so much as long as I did. And knowing I’ll be done by next Christmas really helps. I just miss my evenings with you. So now I’m kicking myself for...I don’t know, falling into old habits.”
“Not old habits,” I assure her. “Old habits would be you working non-stop, when you should be enjoying your life. And that’s exactly what finishing your degree is about, isn’t it? It’ll help raise your pay down the line, but it’s really just for you.”
Slowly, she nods. “Yeah. I just want to prove to myself that I can do it.” When we stop at the last clear spot on the path, she eyes the endless stretch of ice with me. “Remind me why you brought me here, again?”
“Getting out into nature seemed like a good idea. We’ve been inside all week.”
“Because it’s nasty out here,” she laughs, pulling her boot from the mud with a disgusting sound.
I look again at the bridge. There’s no way we can get there without slipping, and the planks of the bridge itself look even slicker. So much for the perfect place, helping set up the perfect moment.
I would call it bad luck—but maybe it’s just life.
Camille carefully makes her way to a bench off the path. I follow, struggling to think of when to do this. Maybe Tim was right: perfect moments don’t really exist.
But you can have almost-perfect moments. And as I turn to stare at the iced-over path and bridge again, my eyes wander to the view around that, instead: the river is low and tumbling softer than usual, and the sunlight on the rises of water, all the ice on the banks and rocks, makes me think this moment might be one of those.
“Your shoe’s untied, babe,” Camille tells me, reaching into her backpack for a soda. She offers me one, but I shake my head. I’m too busy realizing, as I get down on one knee to tie my boot, that this particular turn of events is incredibly lucky.
While she watches the water, I slip my hand into my pocket. The ring box I’ve kept there for days sends my pulse into a frenzy. I’m suddenly dying of thirst, but I know the time is finally right.
“Camille,” I start, and take a breath, the ring halfway out of my pocket.
“Oh, my God,” she says.
<
br /> And then something hits me from behind—hard—and sends me toppling, forehead smacking the edge of the bench.
“Shit,” I blurt, as whatever knocked me over now makes its way to Camille. When I look up, she’s squealing into the face of a wet, raggedy dog.
“Look at this little baby!” She laughs, scrunching up her face when he licks her chin. “Is this why you brought me out here? This was the big Christmas surprise you told me about, wasn’t it?”
“No, no, it’s not the....” Blinking what I’m sure is a concussion from my eyes, I right myself. I pat my pocket, but it’s empty. Great.
While I dig through the dead leaves and snow around the bench, Camille keeps up her baby-talk to the dog.
“He isn’t ours,” I tell her quickly. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Her face falls into confusion. “Where did he come from, then?”
I give up my search for a moment and study him. “No collar. And he’s pretty dirty—looks like a stray.”
“He’s shivering! Poor thing.” Without a second thought, Camille takes off her scarf and wraps it around him like a harness. Despite myself, I smile and take off my coat, handing it to her. She bundles him up.
“You swear this wasn’t your plan?”
“Trust me,” I laugh bitterly, kneeling again in the slush and mud, “this could not be further from my plan.” Much as it hurts, I take off my gloves and endure the ice to feel under the bench.
“Um...Silas?”
“Hang on,” I call to her. “Little busy.”
She pauses, then laughs. But it’s different than usual—a little choked up. A little breathless.
“Silas,” she says again. “Was this your plan?”
I lift my head. She’s crouched on the ground beside the dog. And in her hand is the ring box, coated in mud.
“Well,” I laugh, because I have no idea what else to do, “it was.”
We sit on the bench, the dog gnawing a toggle on my coat between us. I sigh. “You can open it, if you want. Plan’s out the window.” I look at the dog. “Thanks, dude. I kept trying to make it, like, this big, amazing moment.”
