Page 101 of King of Hollywood
We didn’t push for more, not because we didn’t want it, but because there was confidence now in our longevity. Confidence that there would be more opportunities for this. Which meant…for now, both of us were content to wait. This meant we were sustainable. That we wouldn’t fizzle out, brightly exploding like a supernova only to fade away into nothing.
No.
We would simmer, we would boil, evaporate, condense, then simmer again.
Forever, and ever, and ever.
Steady as the stars.
Unless Felix decided to kill me, of course—but I was seriously beginning to doubt he was going to do it. Not that I minded. I had found, as of late, that I rather liked being alive. I liked it a lot. I liked him a lot. Loved him, actually. (I know, I know, what was wrong with me, right?) Loved him more than pencil holders, sweater vests, chocolate chip cookies, and rhubarb pie.
Loved him more than I loved my car, his car, or the chihuahua I’d had growing up.
Loved him brighter, warmer, more brilliantly than the stars that hung fat and golden when we peered at them through his telescope.
Loved him more than my rituals. Loved him more than blood. Loved him more than the thrill I got from killing.
I was as happy to share silence with Felix as I was to share his bed.
I had ten identical glass containers lined up on the counter, a spatula in my hand, my bare feet chilly where Felix’s—even chillier—feet snuggled up atop them. Like he was trying to leech my warmth away like an overgrown koala.
Felix cuddled against my arm. His fingers bunched in the fabric of my frilly apron. I didn’t try to dislodge him, even though he was making it admittedly difficult to work. Perhaps that was love. Craving someone’s presence even though it should’ve been annoying. Even though realistically things would be easier alone. Never wanting to be alone again.
I’d never been much of a romantic.
But I decided, then and there, that I wanted Felix to annoy me for the rest of my life. Logic be damned.
Buzzing with happiness, I fed Vlad a few scraps of chicken fat, and then finished divvying my food into Tupperware containers. As the sweet crooning of our song danced through the air, Felix hummed along, his voice vibrating my arm.
I’d thought we were on the same page.
That we’d both just wanted a break that night.
But apparently…I’d been wrong.
Because the day of the party, shit hit the motherfucking fan.
Felix was not sated.
I just…hadn’t known that.
Hadn’t known that I wasn’t giving him everything he needed.
Hadn’t had the conversation with him about what exactly we were—at least…not yet. About the “rules” Winnie had said we needed if we were going to be happy. About expectations. I hated that she was right, but she was.
I should’ve communicated better.
Another box arrived for Felix the morning of the Summer Bash. I spotted it through my kitchen window, sitting on his doorstep, ready to spoil. And like a good soon-to-be-official boyfriend, I decided to store it in my fridge for him—confident that this time I would not forget.
I would’ve brought it into his house, but I worried about disturbing him. I’d woken him up once before, and I didn’t want to do it again. Besides, I’d been keeping him up rather late, for him, anyway, and he needed his beauty sleep before our social debut later that day.
I was…excited.
Yes, I could admit that.
I may have told the entire office.
I may have shown them all pictures of our matching suits, and the rings I’d bought us online.
