chapter sixteen

The week ends with another three-day mock meet at Washington State, and by the time Crosbie and I stumble off the bus Sunday evening we’re exhausted and too hungry to contemplate fending for ourselves. We’d texted Nora and Andi half an hour earlier to see if they wanted to meet us at Marvin’s, and when I get there I’m surprised to see Nate and Marcela in the booth as well.

Everyone says hello as we slide onto the benches. Nate and Marcela sit opposite each other on the inside, and Andi and Nora make up the middle. Crosbie exaggeratedly clutches Nora and kisses her like he’s sending her off to war, and everyone laughs, though I know he’s not faking his enthusiasm. As tired as I am, I’d like to do that—and more—with Andi, but despite the kiss at the Student Union last week, I know she’s not one for public displays so I give her a formal nod. “Greetings.”

She rolls her eyes. “Good evening.”

I slip my hand under the table and find her thigh with one hand while I pick up a menu with the other and pretend to study it. “Have you ordered yet?”

“Five minutes ago,” she says, a very satisfying hitch in her voice as I move my hand higher.

“Hmm. I’m starving.”

“Anyway,” Marcela says, continuing a story from earlier. “Then she pulls out a ball of vegan turkey—a ball. It looked like putty. And she has like, half a cranberry—”

Nora’s cracking up. “And she kept asking for Perrier—”

“She was a nice woman!” Nate interjects defensively, and I know they’re talking about the date he brought to last year’s failed Chrisgiving dinner.

“And it was an excellent meal,” I pitch in, also defensively. And a bit stupidly, since that night is also when Crosbie learned that Nora and I had drunkenly hooked up the year prior and it sort of broke his heart.

“Superb gravy,” Nora says, trying to keep a straight face while giving a thumbs up.

I look between the girls, suddenly paranoid. “How long have you been here? Are you guys friends now? No. Andi. You can’t trust anything they say about me.”

“We haven’t said anything,” Marcela replies. “Andi’s been telling us stories about you.”

“You can’t trust anything Andi says. She lies all the time.”

Marcela sips her wine. “Is it true that Andi came to your sixth birthday party dressed as Spiderman and you got so upset you peed your pants?”

I gape at Andi. “How dare you!” To the others I add, “The invitation clearly said it was a Star Wars theme!”

Everyone laughs, none sympathetically, but I’m not really mad. I was totally over the incident by high school.

The server comes by to take our orders, and I get a clubhouse and a side salad. She leaves and Marcela frowns at me. “Salad? Really?”

I pat my flat stomach. “You think this six-pack maintains itself?”

“Is this like when actresses starve themselves the month before an awards show? Are you trying to fit into your tux?”

It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the Sports Banquet. It’s been in the calendar for such a long time that I kind of ignored it, and now it’s just two weeks away.

“Did you convince Choo to take you?” Crosbie asks.

“Of course I did. Mostly.”

He leans past Nora to look at Nate. “And you’re okay with this?”

Nate shrugs. “An evening celebrating a bunch of guys like Kellan? Yeah, I’m cool with missing it. If she wants to suffer, let her.”

“I want to suffer so bad,” Marcela says. “And I really want the free steak.”

Everybody laughs.

“Did you get find a dress yet?” she asks Nora.

Nora shakes her head. “Still looking.” She glances at Andi. “What are you wearing?”

I feel the muscles in Andi’s thigh tighten under my palm as she stiffens uncomfortably. She doesn’t have a dress because she hasn’t been invited. I’ve had nine hundred opportunities to ask her and I haven’t seized a single one.

“I’m not going,” she says slowly, and a painful silence descends on the table. One that quickly turns into an accusatory silence as everyone but Andi glares at me. She’s stirring the ice in her drink like she’s desperate for it to melt.

“It slipped my mind!” I protest. “I just forgot. Andi...do you want to go?”

She glares at me from the corner of her eye. “Let’s not talk about this.”

Crosbie and Nate wince sympathetically.

“It was an honest mistake. I swear. I’ve just been...preoccupied.”

“Stop talking,” she says through her teeth. “And move your hand.”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can feel a headache coming and it’s with a heavy heart that I take away my hand. I don’t know how it is that years one and two were effortless, but three months into this school year feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. All of my future visions for what college would be like involved all the things my first year included: girls, parties, sports, friends. The gonnorhea was a mistake, but all the rest was awesome. At no point did I envision myself falling for Andi and having dinner with fucking Nate. I glower at him like this is somehow his fault.

And then, for some reason, he throws me a bone and changes the subject. Sure, he does it with an extremely boring story about a malfunctioning sanitizer at the coffee shop, but at least it takes the attention off me for a minute.

I study the busy bar, wondering how long Andi’s going to be mad. Crick and a couple of friends in matching Burnham jackets walk in with four pretty girls trailing behind. The girls wear short skirts and heels and have to be freezing in this miserable weather, and two years ago I never would have thought about any of that. That would have been me sliding into the corner booth, choosing the too-small seats so we’d have no choice but to be pressed up close to each other. It didn’t matter that we’d just met or we’d never meet again, I just wanted what I wanted in that moment, everything else be damned.

Crick looks over and catches my eye, then looks right past me to Andi. I see him nod and feel her return the gesture.

“Are you two still talking?” I ask, trying not to sound paranoid. Andi is the only girl I’ve ever been jealous about and it feels terrible.

She doesn’t answer, pretending to listen to Nate’s interminable story.

“Did he ask you to the banquet?”

Still nothing.

“Andi,” I say.

“Yes,” she says, and even though I asked the question I still nearly fall out of the booth in surprise at the answer.

“What? Yes?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you’re going? With him? After—”

“No, you idiot. I said no.” She looks at me and I see why she’s been avoiding my stare. She said no because she was waiting for me to ask, just like she’s spent so many nights and months and years waiting for me. And she hates it. That she keeps waiting for words that never come.

“I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my voice low so I’m not overheard. “Honestly. There’s no one else I would rather go with. Please believe me. Please come with me.” The request is a little late, but it’s sincere.

There’s a thunk on the table and I look over to see Marcela has plunked her elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand to watch the show. “I hate you so much,” I tell her.

She smiles, all red lips and bleached hair and pure evil. She’s exactly what Nate deserves.

“Come outside,” I say to Andi.

“We just ordered.”

“We’ll come back.”

“It’s rain—”

I’m not going to beg with all these witnesses, so I slip out of the booth, grab our jackets, and tug Andi after me. She gripes the whole way through the bar and out the front door. Fortunately the rain has let up, though the street is dark and damp as I lead her around the corner out of sight of any unwanted audience members.

“Kellan.” She tries to pull her fingers out of mine but I hold tight. We’re almost there. “Kellan. What the—Why are we in an alley? Do you think I’m going to have sex with you right now?”

She looks totally disbelieving.

“No,” I say, because I wasn’t thinking about that at all. “But would you?”

Her eyes narrow.

“This is where you ran,” I remind her before she can kick me. “The first night I saw you. In your chicken costume.”

She frowns at our surroundings. It’s just a dirty, dark alley, dimly lit by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, but I’m pretty sure it’s the right one.

“So?”

“So that night you said we were complicated, and you were right.”

“Obviously.”

“You said we were complicated instead of saying we were friends, but we’re both, Andi. And we’re more. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never—You know I’ve never been close to any girl that wasn’t you. You’re the only one that’s ever broken my heart. You’re the only one that could.”

“I know how that feels, Kellan.”

“I know. And—”

“You don’t know,” she interrupts. “Everyone else did, but you never had a clue. Do you know how much grief I got growing up? Everyone could see how I felt about you, but you never could. And every time you stomped on my heart you had no clue. When you took Missy Worthington to prom—it crushed me. Kissed Lacey at the baseball game? Devastating. I keep swearing to myself I’m not going to put myself in a position to do this again—”

“Andi, please—”

“But here I am. Admitting to table of your friends that you still have no clue about me.”

“Only Crosbie’s my friend, if you think about it. I mean, Nora’s okay, but I really hate Nate. And don’t get me started on Marcela.”

She doesn’t laugh, just blinks away tears. The sight of Andi crying even a tiny bit is terrifying. It’s just not a thing she does. “You have no idea what you have,” she says. “How lucky you are. They’re your friends and they’d do anything for you. Dane and Choo, too.”

“I—”

“And me, Kellan. Waiting around like an idiot for you to see what’s been in front of you your whole life. But you just keep looking for something better.”

“I have always seen you, Andi. Don’t confuse things. Maybe I didn’t always know what I was seeing—and maybe I didn’t always know how I felt about it—but I see you. I recognized you in a fucking chicken costume. I watched you flirting with Crick from inside a coffin.”

“What?”

“I see you in class and I see you at my place and your place and every time I close my eyes. I’m trying to figure this out and I’m going to get it right. I nailed that film class essay, by the way. I can do anything if I try. I hate asking you to wait anymore, but just give me a chance. I’m getting there, I swear.”

She takes a shaky breath. “What’s the hold up?”

My life in Avilla flashes before my eyes. That claustrophobic fear that my entire future may have been decided for me before I even got to live. But then an even bigger fear casts its shadow, and it’s the worry that I might not get that life. That maybe I don’t get this girl.

“I’m scared,” I admit. “And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

“What could you possibly be afraid of?”

“You! And I’ll deny that, too.”

“Is this because of the rat thing? I’m sorry, okay? I caught a rat and I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Putting it inside someone’s duvet cover is not the behavior of a normal person.”

“Do you really think—” Her gaze skitters away like she’s embarrassed to be asking if I could like her. If I could love her.

“No question, Andi.”

“Then why can’t you just say it?”

It starts to rain then, the skies opening up and drenching us in the span of two heartbeats. It plasters Andi’s hair to her scalp, rivulets running down her cheeks as she wraps her arms around her middle like that will keep her dry. I feel water trickling along the back of my neck, past my collar and straight down my spine. But I’ll stand out here until she’s convinced. It would be so easy to tell her what she wants to hear—what she deserves to hear—but I know it’s not the right moment. I’ve said all the right things to all the wrong women in the past, but with Andi I want to be sure. I don’t want to be my dad, telling the wrong woman he loves her and forcing both of them to live half a life, convinced it’s the right thing to do. I want everything. I want to say the words she needs, but I want to say them when I know without question that it’s time.

I see her sigh, resigned to more waiting. And I know I don’t have much longer. I’m not the only guy who sees her, who wants her.

“I don’t know,” I say, the only honest thing I can say. “I don’t know.” I’m waiting too, I want to add. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, holding me back, a way of protecting itself. Saying wait wait wait until the opportunity passes, the risk passes, and we’ll be safe again.

Andi sighs and shivers. “I’m going home.”

“Do you want to get the food to go?”

Water sluices down her cheek. “I’m not hungry.”

She doesn’t invite me but I follow anyway, back through town and across campus to the McKinley dorms. She hesitates at the entrance before swiping her ID card to open the door, glancing up at me through spiky lashes. This time I do wait for the invitation, five seconds that feel like a lifetime. Then she tilts her head and we leave muddy footprints in the lobby and in the stairwell, on the hall floor as we stop at her room for towels then proceed straight to the bathroom. There’s someone brushing their teeth but we don’t stop, just go straight to the last shower stall and step inside, closing the door and turning on the water as hot as we can stand it. We strip out of our sodden clothes, dropping them in a heavy pile at our feet.

I look at her. The first girl I ever saw naked, and maybe the last one. Definitely the only one I’ve never forgotten. And then I kiss her, showing her everything I can’t say.

* * *

“Just say it.”

“I can’t.”

“You know you want to.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“We’ll say it together. On three... One, two...three!”

There’s a long pause, then neither of us speaks.

“Oh, come on!” Crosbie protests. He returns the barbell to its rack and sits up on the weight bench, looking deeply unhappy. It’s one o’clock in the morning and we’ve been at the campus gym for three hours. One hour was rehearsal, one was waiting for the other late night users to clear out, and one has been this ridiculous video Crosbie insisted I help shoot to get him “camera ready” for the auditions next week.

I’ve watched his one-minute monologue no fewer than forty-seven times and I’ve said the tagline “Weight for it!” forty-six times. Enough is enough.

“Remind me why Nora couldn’t do this?” I ask tiredly. Watching Crosbie work out has been exhausting.

He takes a swig from his water bottle. “She has to open Beans tomorrow.”

“Dane? Choo? Marcela? Nate?”

He ticks up his fingers. “Will sabotage my idea, will steal my idea, will just film herself, couldn’t find a gym if his life depended on it.”

I sigh because those are all true.

“Seriously,” he says. “Do you think this is any good?”

“Yeah. You really started to loosen up around take forty-one. Is it just water in that bottle?”

He takes another drink. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He continues to wait for my honest answer, and eventually I tell him the truth.

“The more comfortable you were, the better it got. The less scripted it felt. And the first twenty times I pitched in with ‘Weight for it!’ I liked it. You just have to figure out a way to show up to the audition with the first forty takes out of the way.”

“I’m going to need you to hang out with me the whole morning of the audition.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

He smirks. “Have you decided on your pitch yet?”

“I’m just going to wing it.”

“Sh—”

“Shirt on.”

“I wish I had your confidence, man. This is a huge opportunity—I heard like five thousand people applied and only a few hundred get to audition.”

I remember Ivanka at my doorstep, telling me the numbers. It seems like so long ago. So much time to prepare and somehow I still don’t know what to say. Not when it matters.

“Then you should feel confident,” I tell him. “I’m only winging it because I still have no idea what I’m going to do and I’m hoping inspiration strikes when I get there.”

He looks unconvinced. “You’re winging it because you’re Kellan McVey and everything you touch turns to gold.”

“That’s King Midas, and that’s not true. This has been the hardest year of my life.”

“Why? Because you had to take a film class? Because a girl you like didn’t like you back right away? Most people would kill for those ‘problems.’”

I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Of course I know my “problems” aren’t a big deal. I’m not dying. Everyone I know is happy and healthy. I have a scholarship to an Ivy League school and I’m on track to graduate. I have a good thing going with Andi, even if I don’t know exactly what it is yet. And I have a best friend who helps keep me in line, even when I wish he’d just smile and nod and tell me I’m so right.

“Shut up,” I say.

Crosbie grins and lies back down on the bench. “One more time. And this time, don’t miss your cue. Say it so I know you know the line.”

“Of course I know the line. It’s three words.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Go for it?” I guess.

He throws his water bottle at my head.

* * *

I do my best to brainstorm something for my monologue, but unlike my inspiration for the film essay, my mind remains steadfastly blank. Ivanka sends me an email that wishes me luck and tells me she’s looking forward to my audition tomorrow, but instead of encouragement it feels like a noose tightening around my neck, strangling me with her impending disappointment.

I watch the end of a hockey game, then the hour-long sports analysis that follows, then devote another hour to reading sports blogs. The World Series has wrapped up, but even though his team won, all anyone can talk about is Marco Hewlett’s dismal post-season performance. It’s like they’ll never get sick of analyzing the countless ways their hero has been less than heroic.

“You don’t sign a seven-year, ninety-nine million dollar deal and go three for twenty-eight...” is a common refrain.

“They may have won the World Series, but let’s not forget the throwing error in game two that cost them that win. For ninety-nine million dollars, I want a guy that can keep a ball out of the dirt...”

“In three years with the Cardinals he batted .310 with a hundred-plus batted in each season. In his first season in L.A. he had a disappointing sixty RBIs and an OBP of...”

Thinking I could do a bit about grace under pressure or something, I scour social media for Hewlett’s response to the criticism, but he doesn’t seem to be acknowledging it. There are the standard messages of thanks to his teammates and the fans, photos of the smiling, champagne-covered players wearing their championship gear, and an inspirational quote about never giving up. No apologies, no explanations.

I mull that over for the rest of the day and the whole next morning. As I get dressed and walk over to the Arts quarter for my audition, I think I have something that might be, well, something. And I’m going to need something awesome. I’ve seen all my friends’ monologues, and they’re pretty amazing.

The film production building is a large glass structure with enormous framed posters of successful student works hanging in each of the windows, and when I arrive for my audition Ivanka’s standing next to the front door, smoking a cigarette. She looks super hot in tight red pants and a black leather jacket. “Hi, Kellan.”

“Hey, Ivanka.” I’ve been scheduled for the very last slot, which everyone tells me is the best spot to have because I’ll be the last thing the producers see and the first one they remember.

She stubs out the cigarette, offering me a vaguely apologetic smile. “Nervous habit. Don’t tell anyone.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?”

She blows out a stream of smoke. “Everything. Nothing. The problem with looking for the best is finding it—and realizing it’s not you anymore.”

“You couldn’t possibly get any better.”

She gives me a broad wink. “Flattery will get you nowhere. But don’t let that stop you.”

The building is quiet on a Sunday, just a few students fiddling with cameras on the grass out front and a couple more chatting nearby. It’s only four o’clock but the sun has already started its descent, watery rays of light washing through an atmosphere that’s just waiting to condense on us again. I’m wearing a navy suit and red tie and now I unzip my jacket as I follow Ivanka inside.

The building is dim and warm, and the first four doors we pass have QUIET PLEASE signs taped over the windows. The walls are lined with bulletin boards and more posters, and at the far end of the hall we come to a green room studio that’s been set up like a much cheaper version of Ivanka’s She Shoots, She Scores set. A large plywood news anchor desk has been arranged in front of the screen, a pair of plain white mugs and a blank notepad the only props.

Two huge cameras loom in front, glinting in the glare of what looks and feels like nine dozen stage lights. I’m twenty minutes early so I say goodbye to Ivanka as an assistant leads me to a tiny storage room at the side. The walls are lined with shelves overflowing with props ranging from fake knives to doll heads and treasure chests. There are four folding chairs set up, two of which are occupied by other guys in suits. I don’t know either one, but they exchange meaningful looks when I walk in.

“Hey,” I say, taking a seat.

“Hey,” they mutter, continuing to study their phones.

I nod and amuse myself by examining the contents of a toy toolbox.

The assistant appears at the door. “Greg,” she says. “You’re up.”

Greg stands and smoothes the front of his suit.

“Good luck,” the other guy says.

“Good luck,” I add.

Greg glares at me suspiciously, then strides out of the room. The other guy continues to ignore me, so I continue to ignore him. Low voices filter through the closed door, then Greg’s too-enthusiastic monologue begins, booming so loudly the toolbox falls to the floor. By the time I’ve collected the tools, Greg is finished and the assistant is back to collect his friend.

Finally alone, I take a second to pluck my too-tight collar away from my neck and inhale. It feels like I’m sweating so much it has to be showing through my jacket. I get up and pace, hearing the low murmurs of instruction through the door, then a more modestly toned performance. Even when I strain to hear I can’t make out most of what’s being said, so I give up on eavesdropping and repeat the opening lines of my own monologue so I don’t get up there and draw a blank. I didn’t write a full speech, hoping to avoid the robot-like qualities of Crosbie’s performance, but I made enough bullet points to feel like I have a minute’s worth of material and some semblance of flow.

I’ve almost convinced myself I’m calm and prepared when the assistant raps on the door and tugs it open. She leads me back to the stage where Ivanka sits at one of the two stools behind the cheap desk.

“Hello again,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You ready?”

“I hope so.”

She picks up a pen and flips back the top page of the notepad, which is now filled with scribbled notes. “What’s your piece called?”

I try not to look like a moron. “It has to have a name?” Shirts Off with Kellan McVey, I think. Stuff with Kellan McVey. “Um...” I rack my brain desperately. “The...People...”

A flicker of impatience crosses her face even as she nods encouragement.

“Behind...the...”

She’s actually writing these words down.

“Faces,” I finish.

She stops writing. “What?”

I clear my throat. I think I’m choking a little bit. “The People Behind the Faces,” I reluctantly repeat.

“The People Behind the Faces.”

“Yes.”

Tiny lines bracket her lips and I’ve seen the same look of disapproval on my mom’s face to know Ivanka does not think this is a killer title. She looks over at the cameramen, both of whom are studying their shoes and obviously trying not to laugh. The guy I assume is the director just looks tired. I’m the last audition. Surely they’ve heard worse.

“Right,” Ivanka says, crumpling her paper. “Got it.”

Or not.

“We’ll count you in,” the director calls, sounding bored. “Look right into this camera the whole time.” He points to the camera immediately in front of me and I stare at its giant glass eye like it’s a time machine and I can travel back three minutes to come up with a better segment title. But I can’t. I can barely remember my opening lines. Something about...about...

Oh shit.

“Five,” the director calls.

What am I supposed to say?

“Four.”

Shirts with Kellan McVey, I think. The lowest rated program on television!

“Three.”

I’m not just a guy with a sex list.

“Two.”

I’m not just a guy who—

“One.”

The red light turns on and everything goes blank.

I hear my own heartbeat, each thud feeling like a lifetime.

Ivanka shifts beside me, preparing to be disappointed some more.

I see the cameramen exchange knowing looks.

The People Behind the Faces.

“Marco Hewlett,” I say a little too loudly, making everyone jump. “He needs no introduction. Four years ago he took home the Rookie of the Year award as the starting shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals. In three years with the team he had an impressive .310 batting average, with twenty-nine homeruns in his first year and thirty-seven in his third. By the time his contract came up for renewal, every team with a serious shot at a post season title was lining up to sign him. He ultimately went to L.A., a choice that paid off when they won the World Series three weeks ago. But despite the ring, despite—or perhaps because of—his ninety-nine million dollar salary, Hewlett’s gotten a lot of grief. His numbers have dropped significantly in all the areas that count, and risen in all the wrong ones. He made twenty-one errors this season, more errors than he made in three seasons combined with the Cardinals. He hit .260—not an embarrassment, but certainly not what management—and fans—were hoping for. Did the pressure to perform get to him? Or did he just get lucky in St. Louis? Maybe he’s just human. Or maybe not—he did, after all, start 160 of 162 regular season games. Watch any Best Of list for the year and he’s got two plays in the top ten. But instead of celebrating what Hewlett’s done right, we’ve done what comes easiest and focused on what he’s done wrong: stopped being perfect. Sure, you can hold someone to a higher standard of perfection when they come with an eight-figure price tag. But maybe it’s time to look at the man behind the statistics—Hewlett hasn’t been the star on the field we saw in St. Louis, but off the field is a different story. He spends an extra hour each day at practice, working on his game. He volunteers his time with four different youth sports organizations, buying uniforms and equipment that keep kids on the field and off the streets. His teammates say the diva-like attitude that preceded him before his trade from St. Louis has yet to make an appearance. And while his hecklers keep heckling, Hewlett keeps his head down and doesn’t respond. Why not? Because he has better things to do, and he’s trying to do better at them. And that says a lot.”

The studio is dead silent. It’s meant to be, while I’m talking, but now I’m finished and it’s still quiet. I wonder if I’m supposed to say more. That felt like a minute, but what if it was only twenty seconds? Is this what they mean by dead air? You wish you were dead on the air?

Then the director starts clapping. It’s a significant, slow clap that the camera guys echo, and though it’s flattering, it’s also kind of weird since there’s only three of them.

“Wow,” Ivanka says, giving me an impressed nod. “Maybe there is something to The People Behind the Faces after all.”

“I made up that title on the spot.”

She sticks out her hand to shake. “No kidding. Thanks for coming in, Kellan. You’re facing some stiff competition, but you did a great job. I’ll see you at the banquet.”

Her manicured hand lingers in mine, and I grin at her inanely, relief making me limp and stupid. Eventually I get up, thank the director, and walk back out the way we’d come in.

The sky is already dark, a light drizzle falling. It hurts to run in these loafers, but Andi’s waiting at my place with dinner and I can’t wait to get back there. I can’t wait to tell her how fucking wonderful that was.

My hair is dripping when I step through the front door, cold droplets running down my forehead and off the tip of my nose. The house smells like warming pizza and I strip out of my wet shoes and coat and jog up the steps to find Andi dozing on the couch.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call, jolting her awake.

She sits up and rubs her hands over her face, then smiles as she sees my expression. “It went well?” she asks, pushing to her feet. “Wait—why’d I phrase that as a question? Of course it went well. You’re Kell—”

“I know who I am,” I say, pulling her in for a kiss.

“Ick,” she says, trying to pull away. “You’re so wet.”

“I’m not going to make the easy joke.”

“You’re just trying to think of one.”

“Am not.” I totally am. But I kiss her instead of arguing, a back-bending, tongue twisting kiss that makes her laugh even as she tries to kiss me back without falling down. We straighten and she plucks her now-damp T-shirt away from her stomach.

“Tell me about it,” she says.

“I forgot everything I was supposed to say,” I admit, loosening my tie. “I just stared at the camera like it was monster or something, but then I thought about everyone saying how I didn’t have to try, I’d just win for being myself, and I thought, that’s bullshit. I want to win for being awesome. And then I just...talked. I said everything I wanted to say—with my shirt on. They even applauded when it was over.”

Andi looks confused by the shirt comment, but says, “Wow. Applause?”

“I—Sorry. I mean, I don’t know who won. They were probably just being nice. I don’t want it to sound like I don’t think you did—”

“Kell.” She presses her fingers to my lips. “Stop. I know some people complain about you making everything look so easy, but I know you try. I’ve known you my whole life. Why do you think I work so hard?”

“Because you’re obsessive.”

“Because I always wanted to be better than you. Let them be intimidated. I’m going to be—”

“Inspired?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I was going to say motivated.”

I laugh and kiss her again. “Close enough.” I sniff. “When’s that pizza going to be ready? Massive success makes me hungry.”

“Twenty minutes. I just put it in.”

“Okay, cool. I’m going to take a shower.”

I start to leave, but she stops me. “Hang on,” she says. “Before you get clean...you should get a bit dirty. This humble new you is kind of appealing.”

“What? Really?”

She steps close and kisses me, her hands deftly undoing my pants and letting them pool around my feet. My boxers follow, then she’s wrapping those devious fingers around me, stroking hard and sure. She’s so fucking good at this. Why did it take me so long to understand?

“Sit down,” she murmurs, nudging me back until my knees bump the couch. I sit, parting my legs to make room for her between them. My pulse is racing, hoping this is what I think it is.

She holds my stare she kneels on the floor and slides her fingers over my calves, widening my stance. “I like the suit and tie,” she says, her mouth close enough I can feel the hot wash of her breath over my cock.

“I’ll wear them every day,” I force out.

She smiles. “Wear whatever you want. Wear nothing.”

I forget how to speak when she lowers her head and wraps those pouty lips around my cock, and coherent thought abandons me altogether when she starts to suck. All I know is that I don’t want this to end. And not just the blow job, though it’s amazing. This. Her. Us. I love it. I just have to tell her.

I close my eyes and slump against the cushions.

Later.

I’ll tell her later.