Page 67 of Collide
“I can’t wait. Do you like animals?”
“Yeah,” I grin. “So long as it’s not ferrets.”
He laughs, and it spills through the speaker like warm honey.
I close my eyes and let it wash over me. God, I’m in trouble.
A grin tugs at my lips as I bite down gently, my chest aching in that warm, dizzying way I thought I’d forgotten.
And just like that, I’m already counting the days until I can see him again.
Chapter 11
Rather Be
After days holed up in the studio, recording the songs I had written about Alex as last-minute additions to the album, the day had finally arrived. Philippa said she’d meet me after work, and I’d already sent Riley a quick text to come over.
I can hardly wait. Although hesitant at first to accept the apartment from my father, as the weeks went on, the need for my own space won out. Living with Philippa and Andrew was fine, but stifling.
Eventually, the idea of freedom—of distance—made the unwanted gift easier to swallow.
Now, excitement hums low and restless beneath my skin. After such an electric session, sitting still feels impossible.
When the key turns in the lock, a thrill sparks sharp and sweet through me.
My apartment.
Stepping inside, I kick off my shoes and take in the perfection of it all. Philippa has outdone herself. Every piece of furniture has been selected with a level of taste I wasn’t sure I deserved, but damn, do I love it.
The apartment is a beautiful blend of minimal vintage eclectic—modern simplicity with old-world charm. The livingroom has a warm, neutral palette, with a velvet sofa in forest green, my favorite color. Vintage brass floor lamps cast a soft glow, and a mid-century coffee table with delicate carvings sits in the center. A large, built-in bookshelf stretches across one wall, already stocked with some of my favorite novels and a few I know Philippa picked out. The bookshelf from the vintage store where I met Alex makes me smile.
I trail my fingers over the velvet cushions, marveling at how it all feels so…me.
The open-plan kitchen is sleek but has touches of character—marble countertops, antique gold fixtures, and open wooden shelving lined with ceramics and delicate glassware. My father has clearly spared no expense. That thought alone both annoys and warms something in me. For all his faults, this was his way of showing he cares.
I move down the hall, peeking into the second bedroom—now a cozy music room, complete with an upright piano, a record player, and an impressive vinyl collection. My guitar rests on a stand beside the window, its polished wood gleaming in the golden light. The third bedroom, a spacious spare room, is decorated simply at the moment, but a thought comes to mind.
Stepping into my bedroom, my jaw drops. The centerpiece is an ornate, four-poster bed with billowing linen drapes, a perfect contrast to the minimalist nightstands and the soft, neutral-toned bedding. The walls hold framed artwork—some classic, some modern, all carefully chosen. A reading nook sits by the window, complete with a tufted armchair and a side table stacked with books.
It’s beautiful. Thoughtful. A mix of Philippa’s impeccable style and my father’s resources, but somehow, it still feels like mine.
This is it. My first home.
I drop my bag onto the kitchen island and pull out my phone to text my father, who is in Chicago for work.
Got the keys. Moved in. Thank you.
It feels too formal, too short. I sigh and delete it. Then try again.
Elena
Hey, just got into the apartment. It’s amazing. Thank you for this—really. Hope your trip is going well.
That’s better. I hit send, turning my attention to the champagne chilling in the fridge, courtesy of Philippa.
As if on cue, the front door bursts open.
“Let’s get this party started!” Riley sings, twirling in with a bottle of tequila raised above her head.
