Page 3 of Yours, Now and Always
OKAY BUT JUST ONE THING: What’s your vibe? Soft-glam? Vintage rock? Grunge-meets-Met-gala? We could do moody florals and black candles. Gage would thrive. Also, I will be wearing a velvet suit. This is not up for discussion.
Colin
Please do not overwhelm her. She probably hasn’t even eaten breakfast yet.
Tim
WHO NEEDS BREAKFAST WHEN THERE’S A DANGEROUS MAN TO WED? I HAVE BEEN MANIFESTING THIS FOR MONTHS. I AM INVESTED. I AM UNWELL.
Me
I am blocking this chat.
Tim
STOP IT. I’M TOO FRAGILE.
Tim
I’m sending the links to our new Pinterest board collaborations. One is titled “Gage Black Bridal Moodboard: Domesticated Edition.” The other is “Groom Thirst Trap Tux Inspo.” Pretty sure you’ll go feral over that one.
I toss my phone onto the couch because I cannot deal with their current level of overinvestment. Not when I’m hours behind, running on stress fumes, and my manifesting powers are working about as well as my glitchy-ass laptop, which is to say not at all.
Then, because this morning isn’t done with me, the building alarm goes off. The kind that screeches as if the universe is ending, and I have to evacuate with my laptop shoved under my arm like I’m saving my firstborn.
I stand on the sidewalk, no coat, coffee-stained leggings, arguing with my neighbor about whether her dog set it offagain, when a delivery truck flies by and soaks me in actual street water.
I don’t mean a light splash.
I mean a baptism of Manhattan road grime.
So now I’m freezing, dripping, and starting to emotionally dissociate.
Once we’re cleared to go back inside (false alarm, obviously), I take the world’s fastest shower so I can get this grime off me and get back to work. I’m now so far behind on the score I’m working on that I might just submit a rough piano demo with a voice memo that says,pretend it’s jazz,and pray no one notices. Or better—I’ll score the next scene in silence and call it an artistic statement. The sound of absence. Very chic. Very bold. Verysomeone save me.
Just as I’m towel-drying my hair and thinking I’ve maybe survived the worst of it, I get a call from Sarah’s school.
“Hi Amelia, sorry to bother you, but we do need that field trip form today or she won’t be able to go. Can you drop it in before noon?”
Before. Noon.
It’s 11:41.
So now I’m throwing on the least wrinkled thing I own, sprinting out the door with the form and the granola bar I didn’t get to finish this morning. I speed walk into the school looking like a walking anxiety attack in a midi skirt and a T-shirt that saysFeeling Fineeven though I am not, in fact, fine. The lies are printed in glitter. The cardigan I found on my way out is likely dirty and probably thrown on inside out. And my hair is still not dry, tossed up into the most unbothered fuck-it bun in recorded history.
I hand the form in and then fly back to my condo, not bothering to manifest and not bothering to pray, because that kind of energy only works when your day hasn’t already been personally sabotaged by the universe. At this point, I’m contemplating straight-up bartering with the devil. Or firebombing my to-do list and pretending I’ve transcended earthly responsibilities.
I’ve been home two and a half whole minutes and am still panting when my elevator dings and Gage strides in like he owns the building, the city, and my rapidly deteriorating willpower. He’s in a three-piece suit that screams foreplay. No tie. Top buttons undone. And right there, resting against his chest, is his silver chain. The one that keeps my collar key safe under his shirt.
He looks like he came here to bankrupt my resistance.
Like he’s the final boss between me and productivity.
And I immediately know I’m not getting anything else done today. Because this man has the audacity to stand there, silent, looking at me like I’m the next thing he’s going to ruin slowly and withintention.
My brain: Don’t do this. Don’t climb him. You have files.
My body: We have chosen chaos and Gage Black.
