Sage

Four days before Christmas Eve.

“You ready?” I ask, staring at the mirror as I fasten my cufflinks. The crisp dress shirt is a Prada, and it’s weird to wear Prada. It’s weird to be able to afford Prada, and I constantly have to remind myself that this is a one-off. I bought this suit for the meeting I had with the Raiders in California because JoJo made me. She said I needed to dress the way I wanted to feel. Well, today I feel like I’m going to fulfill my dream and become a professional football player as of next spring.

That’s one of two dreams down, one more to go.

“Just a sec!” my girl calls out from the bathroom at the fancy hotel room. Even though I’ve known her ever since we were kids, there is a lot I’m finding out about her, now that we’re dating. Like how it takes her literally two hours to get ready to go out, even though she doesn’t need more than two minutes to get ready for school when we leave for campus every morning, or that she is really (ironically) horny when she’s on her period, which makes us hella creative in bed (I don’t mind a little blood on my sword), but she does. Or that she is not actually that sensitive or sweet when she has a reason not to be—like that time she came back home and told me how Amber goddamn tricked me into babying her. I still haven’t recovered from that shit.

Wait, that’s not true. I totally did. But still. What an asshole that girl is.

“Okay! Close your eyes,” she says. My tie is still loose around my neck, and I frown, turn around, lean a hip against the dresser, and shove my hands into my pockets.

“All right. Let’s see it.”

“That’s the whole point, Sage! You can’t see it! Eyes closed, remember?” she squeaks. Squeaks. I make her squeak these days. I never did that when we were friends. She also does a lot of huffing, especially when I ask her if we can have sex in insane places like the plane or the beach. I think she huffs to let me know that the idea is insane, but we still end up doing it all the same.

“Yeah, yeah, eyes as closed as your legs this evening,” I mutter, squeezing my eyelids together.

“That’s right, mister. No Christmas quickie in the bathroom.”

I hear her voice getting closer, and my cock jerks in appreciation. He always liked pretty things, and she is gorgeous eye candy. My girl, with the Chucks and the strawberry blonde hair who is not afraid to run in the rain for me.

“I’d like to negotiate this part.” I lick my lips, my eyes still closed. I feel her closer. Her heat. Her body. The clack of her heels, which I’ve yet to see.

“I’m sorry. I do not negotiate with terrorists.”

I smirk. “Oh, we’ll see about that by the end of the night.”

“Open,” she says, close enough to me that I can smell her flowery perfume, but not so close that I can feel her breath on my skin. I open my eyes, and she is standing there in a long red dress with a deep slit that exposes a shapely, milky leg. The dress is all velvet, prompting me to want to touch it. To tear it. To fucking eat her out on the floor. But I still want my balls intact when we get to the gala at the Met. She’s wearing minimal makeup—other than her red-hot lips—and a pair of heels where the soles are red. The expensive stuff. What I urged her to buy when I signed the deal with the Raiders, same day I got my suit. Her scarlet lips twitch into a timid smile.

“What do you think?”

“I think you look perfect, but there’s one thing that’s missing. Accessories. Turn around.”

Her eyes widen, but she does as I ask. She turns around, and I open the drawer behind me and produce my gifts for her. I pull her hair up to put her necklace on. Nothing too fancy. A pink gold necklace with one lonely pearl. It takes me a few seconds to fasten it—this is not the movies. It’s real life, and my hands are shaking like a motherfucker.

“Now back to me,” I say. My voice breaks. She turns around. Slowly. So slowly. Super slowly. Why is she so slow? Is this a sign? Shut up, asshole. Just do it.

Very nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal, like I’m not shitting myself, I slide the ring onto her engagement finger. Like the necklace, it is simple and elegant. Thin, with one diamond sparkling in the middle. Lonely and rare, just like my girl.

I don’t ask; I state.

Jolie Louis’s heart belongs to me. It will always belong to me. It belonged to me the minute she decided to open her rusty window and sneak out of her room to meet me, uninvited, but all the same needed.

She looks down at the ring, and I expect her to frown, maybe ask a question, but no. She doesn’t do any of those things. She looks back up, smiles, and uses her newly adorned left hand to cup my face and pull me close.

Outside, a storm is making the newspapers and trash on the streets of New York dance in circles. Inside, it’s warm. We kiss. Like friends. Like lovers. Like everything in-between.

“I love you, angry boy,” she says, and I answer her with the only thing that pops into my head.

“I love you, brave girl.”