I hold her for a long moment after it’s over, her face buried in my neck. We’re both shaking, and it takes several minutes before I feel like I’ve even started the process of coming down. When we finally roll apart, she curls up at my side, reaching to twine one of her hands with mine.
“I...I have never come like that.” Her voice trembles. “Looking at someone.”
I squeeze her hand. “Me neither.”
“Zach?”
“Yeah?”
The post-sex stupor is setting in, and I let my eyes fall closed.
“I meant what I said on the pier. I want to be your girlfriend.”
My eyes fly back open. “You really want that?”
I rise up on my elbows and look at her.
“I do. I don’t want to hide this, not ever again. I want everyone to know about us. I want to be like one of those gross Instagram couples who’s always going on and on about how crazy in love they are. I want you to wake up every day and know that even if you can’t be sure about anything else in the world, you can be sure about us.” She pauses and chews on her lip for a second. “I mean, only if you want that too. It’s okay if you don’t. If you need—”
“DeeDee.” I release her hand and cup her cheek instead. “I want that more than I can say. I’d be the luckiest damn guy in the world to have you as my girlfriend.”
She kisses my palm like I did to her on the pier. “And I’d be the luckiest girl.”
Twenty-Eight
DeeDee
LACE: the last ingredient in a drink recipe, usually poured on top of the beverage
I was not supposedto work today. It’s the first of September, over a month since I became Zach’s girlfriend. I start classes at Cheveluxe on Wednesday. I asked for Monday and Tuesday off to get ready. I’m going down to part time at Taverne Toulouse, and we’re supposed to have enough staff to cover emergencies, but someconnarddidn’t show up for their shift and nobody else could replace them.
“It’s Monday,” I grumble to myself as I walk over to the bar. “It’s going to be so dead the customers could just pour their own drinks.”
Valérie and I were supposed to do a little spa night at home to help me chill out. I should just invite her to the bar so we can paint our nails and give free face masks to any customers who show up.
Oooh, spa night at Taverne Toulouse! I should tell Monroe about this idea.
When I get to the bar, all the lights are off and the door is locked. The opener was supposed to be in an hour ago.
“Tabarnak,” I mutter as I pull my key out.
If the opener doesn’t show either, I’m going to protest working tonight. Luckily I keep my bar key on the same ring as my house ones so I have it on me all the time.
I get the door open and take one step inside before all the lights flick on and the whole room explodes with people shouting “SURPRISE!”
My bag falls off my shoulder and hits the floor with a thud. I blink a few times, looking at all the faces staring back at me, waiting for my reaction. I’m pretty sure I know these people, but I’m too shocked for them to be anything but a blur.
“What the fuck?” I finally screech. “My birthday is in November, you idiots!”
The crowd bursts out laughing. There’s some kind of commotion at the back, and then people are moving aside so Monroe and Renee can come to the front, carrying a giant cake on a tray between them. There are a bunch of sparklers stuck in the top, making crackling noises and almost setting Renee’s frizzy hair on fire as they burn. Something is written in icing letters, but I can’t read the message until they bring the tray up to me.
When I see what the pink words spell out, a big lump forms in my throat:
One for the road?
There’s a shot glass balanced on the cake, filled with what has to be tequila, along with a lime wedge and a little pack of salt.
“We were going to do a haircutting theme,” Monroe explains, “but nobody was talented enough to draw scissors with icing, and anyway, this seemed like more of a Taverne Toulouse kind of thing.”
