Page 82 of Here for a Good Time
I press a finger to his lips. “But that’s okay.” Lines form across his forehead. He tries to speak again, but I get ahead of him. “I’m okay if I don’t write any more international bestsellers for the rest of my life. I’m okay if none of my other books get turned into movies. Look, will it suck if my next bookdoesn’thit any of the bestseller lists? Yes, of course, and I’ll cry to you about it, and I’ll feel like a failure and like no one will ever want to publish another one of my books ever again. But you know what? Then I’ll get over it.
“Because you were right. I didn’t used to care about writing international bestsellers, I just wanted to write. I remember when I dreamt about getting to a point where I could spend my whole day writing. That’s all I wanted to do—write. I need to get back to that. Because as much as I love writing books, and Idowant to keep writing for as long as they’ll let me, at the end of the day, they’re just books. This is just a job. I’ll still be a writer even if my publisher drops me and no other publisher signs me. I can live with losing a job. But over the last forty-eight hours, I was petrified that I would loseyou,and that I’d never see my family again, that the last timewe saw them was thelasttime we saw them—and suddenly it didn’t matter at all that I didn’t know what my next book was going to be about. I couldn’t live with losing you.”
We’re both crying now, holding each other like two people who were moments away from tipping over the edge of the world. “You’ll always be my favorite author,” he tells me.
I nod. “That’s all I want,” I say. “Youare all I want. I’ve been so busy worrying about never writing anothergreatbook that I’m not even enjoying the rewards of this one. I mean, my book bought us our home. It bought my parentstheirnew home. It bought me a fancy last-minute holiday with my best friend, which, ‘armed intruders and nearly being burned to death’ hiccup aside, is pretty darn cool.”
“It is,” Zwe agrees. “You’re the coolest person I know.” Then, “Ask me again,” he says hoarsely.
I’m about to askAsk you what,but when his gaze drops to my lips, I don’t need to. I never want to reset again, because I see it now, how every single thing we’ve been through over the past two decades had to happen for us to arrive here.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask. I feel myself smiling so wide that my cheeks hurt, and I’m scared I’m smilingtoobig to be able to kiss him.
“Always,” he says.
In another very unromantic moment, the kiss starts off awkward. For one, we’re both too impatient for it and our teeth bash into one another, causing us to pull back with muffledOws.
“That was such a shit first kiss,” I laugh.
“Doesn’t count,” he says, shaking his head.
“You’re right.” I school my features into the most no-nonsense expression I can manage. “I need to start gathering material for a romance novel, so you’re going to have to be serious about this.”
“Okay, then tell me. How do you like to be kissed?”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out. A burning knot that had been too tangled for too long inside of me begins to unsnarl, a knot that had been braiding hope and desire and fear. “How about I show you instead?” I say.
I plant my lips on top of his responding smirk, and even though bursts ofHoly shit, you’re kissing Zwespark through my brain, they quickly settle, turning intoHoly shit, why haven’t you been kissing Zwe this whole time?Because I now know how I like to be kissed: like I am and always will be more than enough, like he would die of hunger if he’d had to go one more second without kissing me, like if it were up to him, kissing me would be all he ever did. Because that’s exactly how he’s kissing me, tongues and lips searching formore, more, more,making up for lost time even though we know we’ve got the rest of our lives. My spine arches up, his curves down, the heat between our bodies captured in a closed-loop circuit.
In the back of my mind, I’m faintly cognizant that the context of all of this—the ashes around us and traces of smoke still lingering in the air, the roaring wind, in the far distance, the ocean waves bellowing as they crash again and again into the shore—while dramatic, isn’t exactly the most romantic of settings. Not to mention, Leila and her cousins are still here.
But also, I don’t care. We’ve waitedsolong for this that, frankly, I’d keep doing this even if we were front and center onstage in a packed circus tent. It’s that relief of coming home after a long, long journey, every muscle in my body relaxing, settling back into the only place in this world I’ve ever truly belonged.
“I love you,” I say at last when we come up for air.
“I love you so fucking much.” His voice is wet and still a bit shaky. “So, so much you have no idea.”
And for several delicious moments, it’s just us, the way I always want it to be. Him bracing my upper body, one of my hands tangled in his hair, the other cupping his face. Both of us grinning like we’re kids who’ve just agreed to keepthebest secret of our lives to ourselves—which, I suppose in some ways, this is. Or at least, that’s how lovefeels,right? You’re giddy with glee because you’re convinced you’re the first people in the history of humankind to feel this way, to the point where you might positively burst.
A loud, loaded clearing of the throat pops our cocoon of obliviousness.
“Don’t get me wrong, we are very happy for you—” Leila makes a circular motion with both hands, and all of her cousins nod enthusiastically.
“You two aresocute!” Faith says.
“But, well, we’ve been talking and…” Leila looks at the women, who sheepishly drop their gazes to the ground. “I’ve asked them to leave. Obviously you’re allowed to do whatever you decide to do, but I wasn’t lying when I told you earlier that all of this was my idea. Please, please let my cousins leave.” Her eyes are shining, and it’s not just water that’s running down her face.
I turn to Zwe, whose shoulders move with an imperceptible shrug. “What do you think?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “On the one hand, we nearly died.” A dry laugh escapes out of me as the absurdity of that sentence hits. “But theydidcome back. They were willing to risk their lives to save us. Even if theywerethe ones who tied us up in the first place.”
“Yeah, we’rereallysorry about that,” Nita says, grimacing. “But like I said, we were terrified you’d escape and tell the police about us and describe my face, and—” She stops herself, takes a deepbreath, shakes her head. “But that’s no excuse. We’re sorry. You have to believe us, hurting people was never part of the original plan. We’resosorry.”
The thing is, I’m less concerned about them hurting me. When I look down at Zwe’s bloody knuckles, a new fit of anger flares through me. Iwantto say that them coming back to save us negates their initial actions, but then I’m transported back to that horrible moment where we couldn’t undo Zwe’s rope and I was silently begging the universe to let me switch places with him. It feels like I’m trying to shove forgiveness through a too-narrow doorway—even if Iwantedto, it just doesn’t fit. They hurt the person I loved more than anything in the world.
“What about you?” I ask Zwe. “What doyouthink?”
He looks at me, at them, then back at me. “I don’t think I could forgive anyone who tried to hurt you,” he tells me.
