Boston

by Alexis Alvarez

  I hear footsteps behind me and my shoulders stiffen. Seriously? In this whole entire graveyard full of a million graves, someone has to encroach on my private moment? This is like the supermarket. There are a hundred cars, and the only other one that’s trying to pull out is the one just. Behind. Me. Never fails. Could they just visit a different dead body, one farther from my mom’s? Then I giggle, because that’s the kind of joke my mom would like. She was irreverent as hell, and so witty. She told me to keep laughing.

  I sigh as the steps come closer. I’m going to have to make awkward eye contact now and nod; cemetery etiquette. Fuck. Or at least step out of the way, if they have a huge armful of wreath or something.

  But when I turn, my heart skips a beat, because it’s Boston, his black coat open and flapping along his strong body. He’s still wearing the suit from the interview and he takes my breath away, even through my sadness and surprise. He has a plastic grocery bag in his hand and an uncertain look on his face.

  “Boston.”

  “Abby.” He hesitates. “I, ah, told you a while back that I’d go with you. I meant it. So here I am.” He stands a few feet away. “If you want me here, that is?” he adds.

  I nod and tear up. “I do. I do want you here.”

  “Okay.” He nods back, then comes closer and puts his arm around me and I lean into him. “Okay,” he repeats, and rubs my shoulder with his fingers. “Okay.”

  I rest my head against him, and feel a wave of nostalgia at his smell: Cologne and him, the smell I remember. Flashes of our night together blink in and out of my memory, my cries and his. Our bodies. But that’s not for now.

  Boston lets go of me and fumbles with his bag. “I remember you said about the blueberries, and I wanted to get you some. But all they had was frozen.” He pulls out a white and blue plastic bag and gives it to me. “Do you think your mom will mind?”

  I stare at the bag, feeling the hard marbles roll around in my fingers through the thick plastic. “You brought frozen blueberries to my mom’s grave?”

  He nods and shrugs. “I guess.”

  “I love that! That’s the best thing ever.” And suddenly I’m laughing, and his face lights up, his anxious expression turning to one of relief and then humor, and he laughs, too, and we’re both laughing so hard that I can’t catch my breath.

  “You—brought—frozen—blue—!” I can’t even finish. My stomach hurts from laughing, and it feels so good, and I think my mom would like this. She would like to still be part of the joke, part of the happiness.

  “But that’s not all.” He reached into the bag again. “Blue ribbon.”

  It’s the kind you wrap around presents and make curly with a scissors, and it’s still on its spool, and this also strikes me as very humorous, and I start laughing again. “Other people bring flowers, and we bring—blueberries and string!” I lean into his chest and hug him as hard as I can, squeezing with all my strength, hanging on, and my laughter is also sobs, and he drops the bag and holds me, just holds me, while I laugh and cry, safe in his arms.

  After a few minutes, I’m cried and laughed out, and I give a deep quivering sigh and look up at his face. “Let’s pour the berries out,” he suggests, “into those bushes over there. They can either be food for birds, or fertilizer for later. But if you leave the whole bag here it will end up being a mess if, like, a raccoon rips it open or something.”

  I agree, and he works quickly, and we scatter blueberries under the bushes, our fingers picking up purple lines and spirals, crazy modern art tattoos, from the melted berry juice. Then Boston finds a stick from somewhere and rips off a piece of the ribbon and makes a really sloppy bow with it, and plants it in the ground in front of the grave, and I start crying again, this time not from sadness, but from gratitude for this man who’s standing here, helping me survive this day. I don’t know what we are to each other but I am so very glad he’s here for me, with me.

  When we leave, he takes my hand in his and holds it, and I grip him back. I never want to let go. When we get back to the parking area, I don’t see his truck. There’s a sleek black car parked beside my hybrid, though.

  “Did you get a new ride?” I point.

  He nods. “Yeah. The truck was on her last legs, pretty much. I’m—Abby, we made a ton of money. I mean, I bought this and it wasn’t even a big deal.” His voice is quiet. “And I’m booked for the rest of the year, for shoots and book covers.”

  “I’m doing well, too. I actually got a deal with a huge publisher, like a real one, you know? For a three-book series. They gave me, I’m embarrassed to even say how much they offered me as an advance.” I still can’t believe the number, but when I asked, it was the correct number of zeros. Insane.

  He’s still holding my hand and we both talk at once.

  “That girl at the studio, she’s just a publicist—”

  And I’m saying, “I’m sorry about what happened back at the studio—”

  And then we both stop fumbling and just look at each other. I can’t believe how awkward I feel, but I know it’s because I care so much, too much, and I’m going to die if he doesn’t want to be with me, but I can’t live another minute without knowing.

  His voice is rough. “Tell me why you walked out on me that night at the bar, Abby. I need to hear why. Please be honest. We can’t move forward if we can’t get past this. I’ve given you a lot of time to think things over, and I’m done waiting. We need to figure this out now.”

  My eyes well up with tears. “At that moment, it just seemed that we… didn’t fit. I guess. I’m so sorry I didn’t talk about it. I was all tied up inside.”

  “You thought we’re not right for each other?” His eyes burn.

  I touch his arm. “I mean, when we’re alone together, I feel like everything is perfect. But then when other people mix in, I feel like I’m not right for you. Or that you think you’re not right for me. And Erik…”

  I’m going to say that Erik and Annalise were able to make something like us work, but he interrupts.

  He steps back. “So what you’re saying, what had you confused, is that you need someone like your ex? I’m fine to pose for your pictures and sell your book, I’m good enough for your bed for a quick fuck, but I’m not right for you.” His voice is harsh and he runs a hand through his hair, but his eyes are pained, pleading. “Abby. I thought we meant more to each other than that.”

  “Boston!” I’m shouting, all of my emotions surging to the surface and cracking me open, raw, letting my insides spill. “Don’t you dare put that on me. I don’t think that. I think you’re smart and fascinating and amazing and wonderful and clever, okay? You’re just as smart as Erik with his PhDs and whatevers, and I mean that, from my heart. You don’t get to where you are today without being smart.”

  I stifle a sob and continue. “What you said that one night, about being as good as Maxwell and the others? You’re right. You are. You’re better than they are! And I lo—that’s amazing.”

  I gesture up and down my body. “It’s about me, okay? I’m not like the girls you usually date. I’m not a fitness fiend who can lift weights and run four-minute miles and who loves healthy food. I’m not, and I never will be. What if you get tired of me someday and think I’m not enough for you? I’m happy with who I am, Boston, I finally am. But I was worried that you weren’t.”

  I break off and step away from him, my eyes filling with tears.

  He takes my arm. “No. You do not get to walk away this time. We need to finish this. Are you going to disrespect what we have together just like that? Again?”

  But when he sees my face, he softens and touches my cheek. “Seriously? You think I care that you can’t run a four-minute mile? Because I don’t fucking care. Is that what you really think?”

  I shrug. “At first, I did think that. You know, the Greeks had a motto, Sound Mind In A Sound Body. I’ve always been a perfectionist, Boston. And when I worked hard enough, I could do anything I wanted. I could get straight A�
��s, get a great job, write books, sell them. But I don’t have the same level of control over my exterior. I can eat better and maintain a healthy weight, I can work out and stay fit, but no matter what, I’m not going to be a cover girl. And even though that shouldn’t have bothered me, it always did. I thought, deep inside, that I wasn’t good enough, because I didn’t look like a Victoria’s Secret angel or something. Like an Annalise. And there are a lot of handsome guys in the world who only date the skinny, beautiful girls. You know that’s true.”

  He makes a noise. “Abby. Jesus. You know, yes. There are a lot of guys like that, it’s true. And. In the past, I used to date fitness models exclusively. I did think it was something that matched me. But you know what? I met you. And I realized I was goin’ about it the wrong way. I was trying to date a concept, not a person. And I finally met the person who I want to be with. I find you so fucking beautiful, and I do not care how you compare to Annalise or anyone else. When I look at you, I’m not thinking of anyone else but you. Understand? Just. You. And you know what? If you can just be honest with me, like you were just now, we can make anything work. I swear it. Because if we have truth between us, nothing else will matter.”

  I lift my eyes to his tentatively, afraid to check what lies there, but the spark of arousal gives me confidence. “Really?”

  He touches my face. “Abby. Is this why you’ve been running from me? Because you think that someday I might think that you’re not enough for me?”

  I nod, tears falling down my face.

  “But that’s insane!” His voice is frustrated. “You have a genius brain, and the cutest smile in the world, and I love your smart-ass comments, and in bed, I mean, holy Jesus! Abby, that was the best I ever had. I’m never gonna stop liking you, Abby. Never.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” He cups my cheek with his hand. “I haven’t been with any other women since that night you walked into that club and refused to dance with me. Oh, Abby, please, you gotta realize how much I care for you.”

  I blink at him. “You do?” I push my face into his touch. His hand is strong and warm, and a waft of his cologne drifts from his wrist, beaten out by his pulse.

  He sounds like he’s in pain. “It’s been only you since I met you, and it’s killing me that you keep running away from me, from us. I thought you were too good for me. Now that I’m over that, please don’t ruin this by thinking you’re not enough for me. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “I don’t know.” I touch his face with one finger. “Maybe just once more, so my heart understands.”

  “It does not matter one shit to me what anyone else thinks, and I need you to know that. But you need to be the same way, okay? Otherwise this is never going to work.”

  I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you need to realize that you’re fucking beautiful and you need to stop worrying so much about what everyone else might or might not be thinking. You need to believe in the person you are on the inside. Because it’s you living this life, not the nameless people whose opinion you worry about. Give yourself the chance that you gave me, okay? I’ll help, but you need to start.”

  I nod. I can do it. I smile. “Yes, I will do that. For you. For us.”

  He smiles back. “I guarantee that there are always going to be people who think I’m not smart enough to be with you. And maybe there will be people who say I should be dating a model. But if we want to be together, fuck all those people. We’ll spend our time with each other, and the friends who see us for what we’re really worth. Yeah?”

  He puts one hand on each cheek and looks into my eyes. “I like you, Abby. I like your smile and the way you get so absorbed in your writing that nothing else matters. I like that you bite your lip when you concentrate and that you tease me and make me crazy. I like that you’re smarter than I am, okay? It makes me proud. No, let me finish.” He puts a finger on my lips as I start to protest. “I mean it. I am so fucking proud that you can write like you do and go up there and win awards and talk like some Nobel literature winner. It makes my heart swell, okay? I’m smart in my own way. But you, you’ve got a real gift and I love that about you.”

  My heart is expanding at some crazy exponential speed, sending spires of affection and love through every part of my body. “Boston.” My voice is shaky.

  His voice is low now, but firm. “I love that about you.”

  Tears roll down my cheeks. “Well, I like that you’re so dedicated and driven and that you have the self-control and ambition to turn yourself into a fitness God. I like that you get so excited about healthy eating that you teach others and convince them to do the same. I like that you had the confidence to switch to a brand new career and start over from nothing. That you learn stuff on your own without going to school to do it. Do you have any idea how impressive that is?”

  He makes a noise in his throat and I see his eyes watering. I touch his jaw and feel it tremble. “Boston. I love—I love that you turned your life around and made it into something so beautiful. I get proud, too, when I see how many book covers you’re on, and how many of your pictures are in shows and magazines. I don’t mind that you’re prettier than I am in the eyes of the world, because I love your beauty, and I love that you think I’m beautiful just the way I am. I love—”

  I wipe at my face. “I’m so afraid to say it. I can’t say it. I’m afraid.”

  He wipes his eyes, too. “I’m fucking terrified, Abby. But I’ll go first.” He takes a deep breath, then takes both of my hands in both of his.

  He looks at me, squeezing my fingers in his, wrapping his hands around mine. “Oh, Abby. I have been waitin’ to tell you this for such a long time, and I can’t wait any more. I love you so much and I want to be with you. Do you feel the same way?”

  His voice catches and I fall into his arms. “I love you, Boston. I want to be with you forever.”

  And his lips are on mine and his arms are around me, and we fit together perfectly. It’s perfect. And he kisses away my tears, and I kiss away his, and I’m finally home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We don’t go to my happy hour that night. We go back to my house and make love. It’s rough and tender and passionate and a little bit kinky, and he looks into my eyes when I come, and calls my name when he does, and I feel so close to him that it’s almost too much. But I don’t ever look away, I keep staring at his beautiful brown eyes, with those thick black lashes, because those eyes are full of love for me, and I never want to stop seeing that.

  After our passion has blown me away like fireworks in the night, like glaciers crashing into the ocean, we lay together, arms and legs entwined. He strokes my cheek up and down, a soothing gentle move that has me nearly purring. I have one hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart beating strong and even under my palm, and I keep my hand there so I can keep feeling that pulse. My other hand is on his arm, and I alternate between feeling his muscles and squeezing his shoulder. I don’t have a reason, really; it just feels good, and I like touching him this way. I don’t think I’m checking to see that he’s still here, still real, still mine—I just am addicted to the feel of his skin, his strength, his lean perfection.

  I also let my fingers stray to the slight indentation in his hip, then over the V of the muscles in his abdomen. I’ve never felt a body this toned, this fit, and it’s a delight to learn the braille of his person, the story of his flesh. And he seems to delight in learning me as well, because he flips me over and runs his tongue over my belly, pushing my hands away when I scream and squeal in laughter, growling at me, “Mine. Let me.” And the pride in his voice melts my grip away, and I thrust my hips up to meet his searching mouth, as he moves lower, lower, and then I moan as he finds a place that I want him to explore forever.

  “You’re mine,” he informs me, looking up from between my legs, his eyes blazing. “I’m going to do this to you every damn time I want.” Then he smiles, his wicked bad-boy smile, and m
urmurs, “But sometimes I’m going to make you beg for it first.”

  I gasp and grab his hair, trying to steer him, but he shakes his head. “Uh-uh, Abby. Keep those hands out of the way, babe. We’re doing this my way. I think I remember how much you like that.” He winks at me and I surge with new moisture; I can’t help it. He’s right—I like him in control of this dance between us.

  “Tell me,” he orders, his voice low, his eyes locked onto mine. “Tell me, Abby, that you want me in charge, like last time.”

  I make a little gasping sound because he’s touching me gently with the tip of one finger, but he’s also got me under his hands so I can’t move my thighs very much, and I wiggle in his strong grip.

  “I do like it, Boston,” I manage. “I want you in charge of me.”

  “Good,” he says, his voice harsh but also gentle, and full of satisfaction. He runs his hands up and down my body, lingering on my breasts, teasing the nipples with gentle tugs and flicks. Every time he flicks one with the tip of his finger, I moan and arch up. The sensation is so erotic and so tingly, the tiny spike of pain and the greater surge of arousal merging together.

  “You like that, huh?” He smiles down at me. “Tell me to tug on your tits with my mouth, Abby.”

  “Boston!” I redden. He slaps my hip, softly, but with a deliberate movement, and raises one eyebrow at me. “Who’s in charge here, again?”

  “You. You are.” I suck in my breath because he flicks my nipple harder, and the lingering after-burn seems connected to my pelvis. I writhe under his ministrations, frustrated, needy.

  He flicks the other one and I moan at the sharp bite. “Say it,” he murmurs, leaning down to rest his lips against my neck. “Say it and you get rewarded, Abs. Want your prize?”

  “Yes. Yes, I want my prize, please.” I pause. “Okay, fine. Boston, please…tug on my…tits. With your mouth. God.” I hide my face against his shoulder and feel his whole body shake with laughter.