by Emily Henry
He tasted like the outdoors, like pine and dew and cinnamon and himself. We untwined long enough to get his pants and briefs off and then he was over me, his mouth skirting up the inside of my thigh as his hands twisted into my underwear and hitched them down my hips. His lips nestled into my stomach, scraped down the curve of it. I gasped as his mouth finally met me, and my hands found their way into his hair, onto his neck, as he cupped my hips to his mouth, every nerve in my body rushing to meet it, every sensation gathering in that one point.
I dragged him up the length of me, and his hands circled my breasts as I wrapped my thighs tight around his hips and moved against him, feeling him shiver. “Condom?” I whispered, and he leaned over to snatch his backpack, digging through it as I arched under him. He found the foil package and tore it open, and then within seconds, he was pushing into me, his mouth unraveling mine, his hands in my hair and on my skin, his breath against my ear, his name rolling through me like a tide, his voice murmuring mine into my neck as he rocked deeper, sending full-body pulses of bliss through me.
The rain fell all around us, and I let go of everything that wasn’t Gus, wasn’t this moment. I lost myself in him, and instead of trying to convince myself that someday everything would be okay, I focused on the fact that, right now, it already was.
Gus’s hands found mine as the mounting pressure shuddered through us, and we locked together, gasping and clutching and shivering. When we were finished, he didn’t let go. We lay beside each other, under the blanket he pulled out of his backpack, our hands knotted together and our heavy breath in sync.
We had sex twice more that night—an hour or so later when he interrupted our conversation about the event at Pete’s to kiss me, and then again later, in a dreamy daze, when we awoke still tangled together naked in the dark, me already arching, him already hard.
When we’d finished, he pulled a bag of tortilla chips and a couple of Clif Bars out of the pack along with the same two flasks he’d taken to line dancing.
I propped myself up on my elbow to watch him, and he turned one of the lanterns on, the light casting him in reds and golds. He held the chips out to me. “Just a precaution?” I said, nodding toward the provisions.
Gus’s dimple deepened. His hand skimmed up the side of my arm and down across my collarbone. “An optimistic one. I’m an optimist now.” His fingers drifted to my chin, and he tilted it up to kiss my throat again. His other hand came up and he caught both sides of my jaw as he kissed me deeply, slowly, drank me in. When he pulled back, his fingers threaded through my hair, his thumb roving over my bottom lip, he asked, “Are you happy, January?”
“Extremely,” I said. “Are you?”
He gathered me against him and kissed my temple. His voice crackled against my ear. “I’m so happy.”
* * *
—
In the morning, we pulled on our damp clothes, packed up, and walked back to the car. The skies were clear and bright, and Gus turned on the radio, then held my hand against the gearshift, the light dappling us through the trees and windshield.
I felt like I had the Gus of Pete’s house right then. And I felt a little more like the January of before too, the one who could fall fearlessly. I searched my stomach for that tight feeling, the sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I could find it, if I tried hard enough, but for once, I didn’t want to. This moment felt worth whatever pain it might bring later, and I tried to repeat that to myself until I was sure I’d be able to remember it if I needed to.
Gus lifted my hand from the gearshift and pressed it to his mouth without looking over at me.
Last night I’d known all this could slip away, dissolve around me. I’d half expected it to by the time the first cold streaks of morning light hit the tent and Gus realized what he’d done, and more importantly, everything he’d said. But instead, when his eyes opened, he’d given me a closed-mouthed smile and pulled me against him, nuzzling his face into the side of my head, kissing my hair.
Instead, here we were in the car, Gus Everett holding on to my hand and not letting go.
What happened two days ago in his study had seemed like an inevitability, a crash course we’d been set on since the beginning of the summer. This, however—this was something I hadn’t even let myself daydream about. I wouldn’t have known how to. He didn’t look like anyone from the story.
On the drive back, we stopped for breakfast at a greasy spoon diner along the highway, at which point I slipped away to call Shadi from the bathroom. The Haunted Hat’s (Ricky’s—we were going to have to start calling him by his name soon, if this kept up) little sisters were sharing their room with Shadi, at their mothers’ insistence, and she’d sneaked away to talk to me at the bottom of their cul-de-sac but was still whispering like the whole family was sleeping in a pile on top of her.
“Oh my God,” she hissed.
“I know,” I said.
“My GOOOOOOOD,” she repeated.
“Shad. I know.”
“Wow.”
“Wow,” I agreed.
“I can’t wait to visit and watch him be completely smitten with you,” she said.
The thought made my stomach feel like it was fizzing. “We’ll see.”
“No,” she said with finality. “How could he not be? Not even Sexy, Evil Gus could be that deranged, babe.” A lady was knocking on the bathroom door then, so we said our quick “I love you” and “Goodbye” and I went back to the sticky vinyl booth and the pile of pancakes and Gus. Sexy, disheveled, lazily smiling Gus, who gripped my knee beneath the table again and sent sparks down my belly and up my thighs.
I wanted to go back to the bathroom, him in tow.
Our breakfast stop turned into a trip to the bookstore in town, where they had none of my books in stock except the first, and no special display for their two copies of The Revelatories, and that turned into a stop at a bar with an outdoor patio.
“What’s your favorite bad review?” I asked him.
He smiled to himself as he thought, stirring the whiskey and ginger ale in front of him. “Like in a magazine or from a reader?”
“Reader first.”
“I’ve got it,” he said. “It was on Amazon. One star: ‘Did not order book.’”
I threw my head back, laughing. “I love the ones where they accidentally ordered the wrong book, then review based on how different it was from the book they meant to order.”
Gus’s laugh rattled. He touched my knee beneath the table. “I like the ones that explain what I was trying to do. Like, ‘The author was trying to write Franzen, but he’s no Franzen.’”
I pantomimed gagging myself and Gus covered his eyes until I stopped. “But were you?”
“Trying to write Franzen?” He laughed. “No, January. I’m just trying to write good books. That sound like Salinger.”
I erupted into laughter, and he grinned back. We fell into easy silence again as we sipped on our drinks. “Can I ask you something?” I said, after a minute.
“No,” Gus answered, deadpan.
“Great,” I said. “Why did you try to keep me away from New Eden? I mean, I know you said you didn’t want me to have to see it, and I get that. Except that the whole point of this bet was for you to convince me the world was how you said it was, right? And that was the perfect opportunity.”
He was quiet for a long moment. He ran his hand through his messy hair. “Do you really think that was what this was about?”
“I mean, I hope it was at least partially an elaborate ruse to sleep with me,” I teased, but the expression on his face was serious, even a little anxious. He shook his head and glanced toward the window.
“I never wanted you to see the world like I see it,” he said.
“But the bet . . .” I said, trying to work it out.
“The bet was your idea,” he reminded me. “I j
ust thought maybe if you tried to write what I write—I don’t know, I guess I hoped you’d realize it wasn’t right for you.” He hurried to add, “Not because you’re not capable! But because it’s not you. The way you think about things, it’s not like that. I always thought the way you saw the world was . . . incredible.” A faint flush crept into his olive cheeks and he shook his head. “I never wanted to see you lose that.”
A jumble of emotion caught in my throat. “Even if what I’m seeing isn’t real?”
Gus’s brow and mouth softened. “When you love someone,” he said haltingly, “. . . you want to make this world look different for them. To give all the ugly stuff meaning, and amplify the good. That’s what you do. For your readers. For me. You make beautiful things, because you love the world, and maybe the world doesn’t always look how it does in your books, but . . . I think putting them out there, that changes the world a little bit. And the world can’t afford to lose that.”
He scratched a hand through his hair. “I’ve always admired that. The way your writing always makes the world seem brighter, and the people in it a little braver.”
My chest felt warm and liquidy, like the block of ice that had been lodged there since Dad died was breaking up, just a little, its hunks melting down. Because the truth was, learning the truth about my dad had made the world seem dark and unfamiliar, but discovering Gus bit by bit had done the opposite. “Or maybe I’m just right,” I said quietly. “And sometimes people are brighter and braver than they know.”
A faint smile flickered across his lips, then fell as he thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved the world like you do. I remember being afraid of it. And then angry with it. And then just—deciding not to feel too strongly about it. But I don’t know. Maybe when I do this shit, when I talk to people like Dave and walk through burned buildings, there’s a part of me that’s hoping I’m going to find something.”
“Like what?” It came out as a whisper.
He put his elbows on the table. “Like the kind of world you write about. Like proof. That it isn’t as bad as it looks. Or it’s more good than bad. Like if we added up all the—all the shit and all the wildflowers, the world would come out positive.”
I reached for his hand and he let me take it, his dark eyes soft and open. “When I first found out about my dad’s affair, I tried to do that kind of math,” I admitted. “How much lying and cheating could he have done and still have been a good father? How deep could he have gotten himself in with That Woman and still loved my mom? Still liked his life. I tried to figure out how happy he could’ve been, how much he could’ve missed us when he was away, and when I was feeling particularly bad, how much he must’ve hated us to be willing to do what he did. And I never got my answers.
“And sometimes I still want them, and other times I’m terrified of what I’d find out. But people aren’t math problems.” I gave a heavy shrug. “I can miss my dad and hate him at the same time. I can be worried about this book and torn up about my family and sick over the house I’m living in, and still look out at Lake Michigan and feel overwhelmed by how big it is. I spent all last summer thinking I’d never be happy again, and now, a year later, I still feel sick and worried and angry, but at moments, I’m also happy. Bad things don’t dig down through your life until the pit’s so deep that nothing good will ever be big enough to make you happy again. No matter how much shit, there will always be wildflowers. There will always be Petes and Maggies and rainstorms in forests and sun on waves.”
Gus smiled. “And sex on bookshelves and in tents.”
“Ideally,” I said. “Unless the world freezes over in a second ice age. And in that case, there will at least be snowflakes, until the bitter end.”
Gus touched the side of my face. “I don’t need snowflakes.” He kissed me. “As long as there’s January.”
* * *
—
Heyyyyy, babycakes. Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for a September 1 manuscript delivery. Sandy keeps checking in, and I will gladly be the human barricade that keeps her off your back, but she’s desperate to buy something from you and if I keep promising her a book . . . well, then there really does need to be a book in the end.
Gus had spent the night, and when I shifted away from him to reach for the phone, he rolled over, still asleep, to follow me, nestling his face into the side of my boob, his hand sprawled out across my bare stomach.
My heart began to race both from the still-new thrill of his body and from Anya’s text. I couldn’t send her the incomplete book. It was miraculous she hadn’t dumped me yet, and I couldn’t put her in a less-than-ideal situation with Sandy Lowe without something to soften the blow. I slid out from under Gus, ignoring his grumbles, and grabbed my robe as I headed into the kitchen, texting Anya as I went: I can do it. Promise.
September 1, she replied. Hard deadline this time.
I didn’t mess with the coffee. I was wide awake as it was.
I sat at the table and began to write. When Gus got up, he put the kettle on, then walked back to the table and took a swig from the beer bottle he’d left there last night.
I looked up at him. “That’s disgusting.”
He held it out to me. “Do you want some?”
I took a swig. “Even worse than I imagined.”
He smiled down at me. His hand grazed my clavicle and skimmed down me, parting my robe as he went. His fingers caught on the tie, and he tugged it loose, letting the fabric fall open. He reached through to touch my waist, drawing me onto my feet.
He turned me against the table and eased me onto it as he walked in between my legs. He caught the collar of my open robe and slid it down my arms, leaving me bare on the table. “I’m working,” I whispered.
He lifted one of my thighs against his hip as he pushed in closer. “Are you?” His other hand rolled across my breast, catching my nipple. “I know you have a bet to win. This can wait.”
I dragged him closer. “No. It can’t.”
* * *
—
Focus was a problem. Or rather, focusing on anything but Gus was a problem. We decided to go back to writing in our separate houses during the day, which might’ve been a more successful solution if either of us had enough self-control to not write notes back and forth all day.
I want you, he once wrote.
When did writing get so hard? I wrote back.
Hard, he wrote.
He wasn’t always the instigator. On Wednesday, after resisting as long as I possibly could, I wrote, Wish you were here and drew an arrow down toward myself.
You’re not the only one, he wrote back. Then, Write 2,000 words and then we can talk.
This proved to be the key to getting anything done. We changed the goalposts. Two thousand words and we could be in the same room. Four thousand words and we could touch.
Our whole arrangement was seeming less like a sprint and more like a three-legged race, full of teamwork and encouragement. Ultimately, I was still determined to win, though I was no longer sure what I was trying to prove, or to whom.
At night, we went out sometimes. To the Thai restaurant we’d ordered from so many times, a cute little place where everything was gilded and you sat on cushions on the floor and ordered from a menu whose cover was mock papyrus. To the pizza place we’d ordered from so many times, a less cute little place with plasticky red booths and interrogation-room lighting. We went to the Tipsy Fish, a bar in town, and when someone Gus knew from town walked in, he nodded hello without jerking his hand away from me.
Even as we played darts and, later, pool, we stayed connected, visibly together, Gus’s hand curled casually around my hips or resting gently under my shirt at the small of my back, my fingers laced through his or snagged on his belt loop.
The next night, when we were leaving Pizza My Heart, we walked past Pete’s Book Shop and saw her and Maggie
inside, having a glass of wine in the armchairs in the café.
“We should say hi,” Gus said, and so we ducked inside.
“It’s our anniversary,” Maggie explained airily.
“With North Bear,” Pete added. “The day we moved here. Not our anniversary—our anniversary’s January thirteenth.”
“No kidding,” I said. “That’s my birthday.”
“Really?!” Maggie seemed delighted. “Well, of course it is! The best day of the year—it only makes sense God would pull that.”
“A perfectly good day,” Pete agreed.
Maggie nodded. “And so is today.”
“I’d move here all over again,” Pete said. “Best thing we ever did, apart from falling in love.”
“And adopting the Labradors,” Maggie added thoughtfully.
“And extending a certain invitation to book club, which seems to have worked out all right,” Pete added with a wink.
“Tricking us, you mean,” Gus said, smiling.
He looked at me, and I wondered if we were thinking the same thing. It might not’ve been the best thing I ever did, moving here, showing up at Pete’s house that night for book club. But it was a good one. The best in a few years at least.
“Just stay for one quick glass, Gussy,” Maggie insisted, already pouring into the clear plastic cups they used for iced coffee.
One glass grew to two, two grew to three, and Gus pulled me onto his lap in the armchair across from them. Their hands were draped loosely between their chairs, knotted together, and Gus’s were rubbing idle circles on my back as we talked and laughed into the night.
We left at midnight, when Pete finally pronounced that they should be getting home to the Labradors and Maggie started whisking around to clean up, but we were too tipsy to drive, so we walked through the heat and mosquitoes.
