Page 52 of Yours, Unexpectedly

We have about a three hour drive into the city so I plug my phone into the cord that is attached to an honest to God cassette tape to play my road trip playlist.

“So, what’s with the ancient car? I’m guessing you could afford something else if you wanted it,” I say, testing the waters as Ben Rector starts to serenade us through the speakers.

He immediately bristles, as if this is one of his least favorite topics.

“I bought this car when I was seventeen with my own money. It’s been with me for almost ten years,” he rubs the dashboard affectionately.

“You actually had a job as a teenager?” I bump him lightly with my elbow to show him that I’m teasing and he relaxes slightly with the movement.

“I’m guessing you looked up the gala?” he asks instead.

My cheeks heat. “I might have. I just wanted an idea of what to wear. And imagine my surprise when I saw the ‘hotel’ we have a room at is none other than The freaking Plaza. Like I’m Eloise for goodness sake. And after a little more scrolling, I realized that a striking redheaded woman named Alice Olsson was not only on the board of Kids in the City, but that she and her husband fund the entire gala each year.”

“Ah yes, that’s mother and father dearest.”

“How did I not know this?! You don’t act like you are worth millions of dollars.”

“Because I’m not. My parents are. And it’s billions, actually.”

Holy shit.

“I ran from that life a long time ago, Bex. And confirmed what a great choice that was two years ago when I left home for good. I don’t see them often, but I do understand there are certain… obligations that come with our family name. So I go to this gala each year, because it is actually a good cause. But I haven’t taken a dime from them in years. And this car is the first big purchase I made on my own, without my father breathing down my neck, and I’m proud of it. If you are looking for the ritzy life that comes with being an Olsson, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

His words sting like a slap. I can tell there’s obvious resentment here, so I try not to take it personally, but damn. “You know that’s not why we’re… friends.” I whisper, feeling freshly chastened.

He takes a deep inhale and slows the car to pull over on a side street. He parks and then turns completely to me.

“God, I know. I’m sorry.” He scrubs his hand down his face before hooking both hands behind his neck. “I spent years around people who knew my family. They looked at me and saw dollar signs. But my parents, they—” He hesitates. “They’re not good people, Bex. And I don’t want that life. And yes, I did have an actual job as a teenager. My theater teacher worked at an after school program, bringing the arts to local New York public schools. He wrangled me into helping with a production one time, and then I was hooked. I had so much fun with these kids who had nothing. Who had parents that were trying so hard to keep food on the table and the lights on in their apartment. It was such a stark contrast to the life I was living.”

He runs his hands through his hair, mussing it up in a way that makes him look even more adorable.

“Can I touch you?” he asks suddenly.

I nod, and grab his hand, bringing it up to my heart. He leans his forehead against mine before nuzzling his cheek against my cheek. The rough scrape of his beard sends a tingling feeling right between my thighs, just like it always does.

“I’m sorry for bringing up a tough topic, but you can talk to me about it, you know?”

I can feel him smile as he presses his lips against my neck. “I know,” he says right into the sensitive skin.

“Look, I’m terribly nervous about introducing you to my parents this weekend, but I selfishly want you by my side because you make things easier, lighter somehow. You need to know that my family is nothing like your family. My parents are not warm and inviting like Elaine and Hugo. I am terrified that my dad will say something to scare you away. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you, it’s normal for you to have questions, and I should have been upfront from the beginning about this weekend.”

I nod, unsure of how to respond to that.

“What I really want is to get dressed up with you, dance the night away, and enjoy a weekend where we can just be with each other without worrying about someone seeing us. Can we do that, Baby Bardot?”

“Whatever you want, killer.” And I mean that.

We pull up in front of The Plaza a few hours later, looking wildly out of place in the worn down Jeep, both of us sporting some variation of loungewear; in fact, my sweatshirt says “Villain Era” in all caps across my chest, and we’re both carrying overnight bags that have seen better days.

There isn’t anyone I’d rather be out of place with, though.

Anders walks in like he owns the place, which he probably could if he wanted to. The concierge doesn’t even look up from the desk as we walk in, and I notice that not a single bellhop offers to take our bags.

I self-consciously touch the messy bun on top of my head and run my hands under my eyes, trying to remove any mascara splotches left after passing the fuck out in the car.

“Name?” the concierge, Jessica, based on her name tag, asks.

“It’s under Erik Olsson,” Anders replies gruffly.

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