Page 42

George’s expression was dubious as he squinted at the pair of figure skates I was currently holding. He eyed the toe pick—the almost star shaped grooves at the front—distrustfully. His nose scrunched.

“June only wore them once,” I promised, wiggling the black boots at him so he could familiarize himself with them. “And I sanitized them.”

I planned on buying him his own set, but those would need to be molded to his feet and we simply hadn’t had time for that. In the interim, these were better than rentals—far more support for him, and surprisingly a perfect fit, considering his size disparity with June.

“It’s not that—” George reached out, fingers closing around the toes so they’d stop swinging. “I just…the fronts look sharp. Are those the brakes?” His breaths were coming a little faster.

“Absolutely not.” I didn’t figure skate, but June did. And she’d made it clear over and over and over again—even though I already fucking knew—that the toe pick was for jumping, not stopping. “You won’t be using the toe pick today,” I promised. “I bet you won’t even notice it’s there.”

“Unless I stab myself in the leg with it,” George sighed. He took the boots from my hands and sat down on the bench inside the front end of the arena. Behind him, the ice rink was being resurfaced, the whir of the Zamboni filling the air. I could practically taste the ice—which was far preferable than the smell and musk that filled the locker room when I was back there getting ready for a game.

“You’re not going to stab yourself in the leg,” I promised, even though…now that he’d brought it up, I was kinda worried he would. “And even if you did—which you won’t—” I cut him off before he could stress, “I’d make sure you were fine. Trust me.”

George relaxed.

And fuck, wasn’t that a trip? That my reassurances were enough to make his loud mind quiet.

“Okay.” He put the boots on the ground, scrutinizing them like he’d never seen a pair of shoes in his life. “How am I supposed to?—”

I knelt on the floor. It wasn’t made of tile, but a softer substance. Something that wouldn’t damage the blades when you walked—aside from if you stepped on a wayward pebble or some shit. That’d never happened to me, but Roderick wasn’t nearly as lucky. He’d started wearing hard guards for that reason, always wary it was going to happen again.

“They’re a bit different than shoes,” I said, reaching for his foot. He didn’t protest as I cupped his ankle, gently sliding his foot free from his “casual loafers.” I never wore formal clothing outside of work. George was…his own specimen of man, that was for certain.

“How so?”

“They’re supposed to fit tighter, for one thing.” I fully intended on buying him his own pair but we hadn’t had time. Between apartment hunting, visiting with his family, returning to New York to pack things up—and then flying back here to await the arrival of his possessions, both of us had been swamped.

We’d come so far in such a short amount of time.

Just thinking about our trip to New York brought a smile to my face.

Partially because George’s roommate had been a goddamn riot, and twice as hilarious as I’d hoped, for obvious reasons. Also, because his apartment had been simultaneously nothing like I’d anticipated, and exactly like I’d expected.

It was far more cluttered than one would think, though clean. You could see a divide between George’s “common areas” and Missy’s, as anywhere George often occupied was perfectly organized without a speck of dust in sight. I couldn’t say the same for Missy, and was surprised that George not only put up with her messiness, but seemed to enjoy her.

They quipped back and forth the entire time we’d been packing.

She poked fun at him in a way that reminded me of his siblings. Like she was his other, grayer older sister. Her hair was a mess of curls, and the first time I’d seen her I’d been shocked into silence because she was wearing yarn.

An entire outfit made of yarn.

Head to toe.

Even her earrings were made of yarn—tangled balls dangling from her ears in colorful blobs.

She’d been friendly, an air of peace about her as she swung the apartment door open with a flourish and welcomed George home.

“Your baby has missed you,” she said in greeting. “And Lord-Ass-Face has been here six times since you called me to delay your trip home.” Then she’d enveloped George in a hug so snug I heard his back pop. “Welcome home, Bubba.”

“Hi, Missy,” George greeted, patting her back.

“Bubba?” I echoed, delighted. “ Bubba ?”

“Because of his bubble butt,” Missy released George, her voice a dreamy sigh—that I quickly learned was her default setting, not just because George’s ass was a thing of legend.

I liked her immediately .

“I’m stealing that.” I grinned unrepentantly, and Missy smiled beatifically back.

“No, you’re not,” George grunted, standing to the side to gesture between us. “Alex—the pain in the ass I told you about?—”

“The tall drink of water you’re head over heels for,” Missy corrected.

“Missy, my gremlin-asshole-roommate.” Then, now that introductions were over, he stalked off into his apartment to go find his cat.

“He’s so fucking cute,” I murmured without meaning to, to which Missy just nodded, her long gray hair swaying.

“Like a cat,” she agreed. “A big, grouchy, snarky cat.”

“You and I are going to get along swimmingly.” I offered Missy my arm, and she took it with grace, her yarn-covered mittens tucked inside my elbow.

“I already like you better than the other one,” she cooed, leading me into the apartment and shutting the door behind me.

“I should hope so,” I said. “I’m not an ass-face.”

“Depends on who you talk to,” George quipped from the kitchen.

The apartment was smaller than I’d expected but I kept my opinions to myself, absorbing the energy of the room—the plants dangling from the ceiling, the exposed brick wall, and the framed pictures of George’s family that hung perfectly spaced upon it.

George re-entered the room, his eyes bright, a giant grin on his face. Not because of me. No. Because of the cat he was currently wearing like a scarf. A huge, fluffy white monstrosity with bug eyes. The creature was purring, his paws covered in yarn mittens I assumed were handmade by Missy herself.

“You look so handsome,” George cooed at his hairy baby. “Look at you, you precious, perfect, beautiful thing. Daddy missed you. Yes he did. He missed you so, so much.” He kissed the cat’s head, continuing to shower it in praise as he made his way across the living room, dodged around the leather sofa, and stood in front of me.

I was suddenly jealous of Mr. Pickles .

As ridiculous as that was.

“Do you like the mittens?” Missy asked, her grip on my elbow light.

“Do I like the—” George pulled his face out of Mr. Pickles fur. “Of course I like the mittens. They’re brilliant.” He picked up one of the cat’s paws and gave it a wave. “So itty bitty, tiny?—”

“So this is Mr. Pickles,” I cocked my head, staring into the creature’s eyes curiously. I liked cats. I liked all animals. But that didn’t mean I’d really…interacted with them. Mom had one—but I hadn’t been to her villa in Italy in probably a decade? And I genuinely couldn’t recall if she’d had a cat the last time I was there, or if that was a more recent development.

“It sure is,” George’s smile was blinding. He wiggled his grip around, fingers sinking beneath the armpits of the beast as he held him up to me—our faces inches apart.

He smelled like…fur.

And his eyes…

His eyes, I swear to god, could see inside my soul.

“Mr. Pickles, meet your new dad,” George said.

And suddenly—I was no longer jealous of the cat.

Happiness flooded my chest, bubbly and effervescent.

“He’s annoying sometimes but he means well,” George said, his dark blue eyes blinking at me from behind the plume of fluff. “You better be nice to him?—”

I wasn’t sure if the threat was aimed at me or Mr. Pickles, but either way, I figured it was fair.

“Here.” George blinked, waiting.

What was he?—

Oh.

Was I supposed to hold the cat?

I blinked, startled into action as I latched on to the animal, and George let go. Then suddenly, I was holding the purring beast, all his fluffy white fur clutched to my chest as I arranged his limbs so he could comfortably curl against me.

“His pecs make good pillows,” George whispered conspiratorially. “Enjoy.”

And then he abandoned me, stalking off toward his bedroom to pack. Missy laughed at the shell-shocked look on my face, patted the arm she’d abandoned so I could hold my current arm full of fur, and headed off to grab the boxes she’d gathered to help George.

I felt like I was missing something.

Something crucial.

Like in my haste to make a good impression on George’s roommate and pet—and take in his home as greedily as he’d taken in mine, I’d forgotten something I really shouldn’t have.

A fact that was only proven to be true when seven hours into our group packing project, the doorbell rang.

We were expecting pizza, so none of us were surprised. George was the first to rise, all his long, skinny limbs straightening as he shuffled past where I was huddled on the floor, packing his manga—not mongooses.

That had been a fight in itself.

The whole collection was hidden in his closet behind rows of clothing—and when I’d offered to help pack them he’d immediately shut me down at first.

“Absolutely not,” George had said, yanking me out of the closet like I’d just discovered a bomb about to go off. “Those are for my eyes and my eyes only.”

“How am I supposed to build you a library if I’m never allowed to even look at the books inside it?” I asked, amused by his dramatics. He shut me out of the closet without reply. I could hear him rustling around in there. And I waited to see what he’d do next.

Leaning against the wall, I watched the door for a few minutes, unsure if I should give up and move on to another section of the house, or wait him out.

My patience was rewarded because only a few minutes later, the closet door creaked open and one of George’s cute eyes peeked out from the gap. “If I let you help—” he hesitated, “ If .” I nodded. “You are not permitted to open any of the books.”

“Why?” I couldn’t help but push. “Are they porn?”

George’s cheeks went bright red and he slammed the door on me again.

Oops.

Another few seconds passed before it opened again, only a crack once more. “I’m not ashamed,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with liking what I do.”

“Yes,” I agreed, because there wasn’t.

And that was why I was being so pushy. I didn’t want him to think there was a single thing he had to hide from me. Especially not stuff he loved.

“I just…haven’t ever…let anyone else touch them.” The door creaked open a smidge wider, revealing his nose and the corner of his mouth. “And some of the things I read are…”

“Creative,” I finished for him, throwing him a bone.

“Yes.” George waited for a beat.

“Baby, the first time we met I told you my favorite genre to read is erotica,” I pointed out, wiggling closer to him. Just a bit. Not enough to spook him. “Besides, you know I like anime. I promise you that I’m more likely to become obsessed with your mongooses than I am to judge you. ”

“Mangas,” George corrected. “Mahn.” He enunciated slowly. “Gahs.”

“Mangas,” I echoed, pleased when the door pushed open more. Now I could see his whole cute face, in all its anxious glory.

“Okay…” George waited. “You can help.”

I was tempted to fist pump, but through sheer strength of will managed not to. “Thank you.”

Which was why I was knees-deep in a box full of Japanese comics. Some of these covers were wild. I could see why he’d been a bit nervous for me to see. The most memorable had been one with a man totally covered in bondage gear, tear-streaked face, a tall stranger behind him smirking like he’d put the beefy bottom exactly in his place.

Some of them were on the cuter side. Adorable little anime-men snuggled up together. Some with ears, and tails. Some smooching. Some simply leaning into each other’s sides innocently—hiding the filth that populated the last quarter of the book’s pages.

Okay, yes, I definitely skimmed a lot of the volumes as I put them in the boxes.

But who could blame me?

The art was cute and I was curious.

I was certainly not disappointed, and made a mental note to ask George to recommend me his favorites when we got home.

Anyway—I was distracted by censored penis illustrations, and cute twinks getting railed—which was why George was quicker than I was, and made it to the door first.

“I’m surprised he let you touch those,” Missy said from the back corner of the room where she was messily folding George’s casual wardrobe. Neither of us were “permitted” to touch his suits. It was a rule.

“Oh, me too,” I agreed, flipping to the end of another book and whistling. “Jesus this dude’s dick is huge. Like. The size of his forearm.”

Missy tittered.

“I’m not complaining,” I shut the volume before George could catch me. Looking at it reminded me of how much I liked to stick my very own massive cock inside George’s tight little—nope. Nope. Do not get a boner right now, Alex.

It’s pizza time.

Not boner time.

Only…I could still hear George talking—and there was no pizza.

I swear to god, if the delivery man was hitting on him, I was not going to be happy. Mangas abandoned, I rose from my seat with a groan, and headed out of his bedroom and into the main room to defend my territory.

I froze, frowning, when I spotted what was most definitely not a pizza delivery man standing in the open doorway. His hand was on George’s wrist. His brown hair was immaculately styled, and his dark eyes were dead, steely, as he stared at George like he was his property.

“Get your hands off me,” George’s voice was clipped. “I’m serious, Brendon.”

Brendon.

Brendon.

Bren—

I was across the room in seconds. I even leapt over the fucking couch in my haste to get between them. Through a red haze, I recognized how my own behavior might’ve been frightening to George—but…when he turned and saw my approach, the only look on his face was relief.

Relief.

Not fear.

Because while I knew George could fight his own battles—and he had, for over a fucking year, Jesus.

He shouldn’t have to.

“Please tell me I can punch him,” I begged the second I was close enough for him to hear. Brendon’s eyes widened but I barely noticed, all my attention on George. “ Please .”

He laughed, this soft, airy sound.

Then he yanked his wrist out of Brendon’s grip and stepped to the side.

I grinned, wide and unrepentant.

“Fuck yes. I have been dying to do this since the day I heard your name, Brandon with an E.” I cracked my knuckles, hopping from side to side as I revved myself up. “You’ve got three seconds.”

He was within the doorway still. On George’s property.

“You better get a head start,” George drawled, eyeing me with hunger. His eyes caught on my biceps, on my chest, and I flexed a little extra just to show off. “He’s faster than he looks.”

“You can’t punch me,” Brendon said, arms crossing. “I’ll sue. ”

“Please do,” I hummed, getting my stance ready. I wanted to make this count. “I’d like to see you try to win when you are currently trespassing—and you put your hands on my fucking boyfriend. From where I’m standing, anything I do to defend his home is fair game.”

And then I pulled my hand back, clenched my fist—and with a sickening, delightful, wonderful crack, pounded it directly against Brendon’s goddamn face.

He went flying back out into the hallway—far enough he smashed into the wall on the other side. My fist stung a bit, but I hardly noticed, a sick sort of satisfaction running through me as I smirked down at his crumpled form.

“I gave you a warning,” I shrugged, leaning against the doorway. “Not my fault you don’t know how to listen.” He groaned. “Now kindly see your ugly ass-face out. Please and thank you.” I slammed the door, locking it for good measure, before I turned back to George.

“You called him ass-face,” Missy’s voice was hysterical. “You called him—” She wouldn’t stop laughing. Apparently she’d followed me into the living room, because she was crumpled against the wall, wheezing her lungs out. Even Mr. Pickles had come out of wherever he’d been hiding to see what the fuss was about. “Oh, I like you,” Missy wiped a tear. “You got an older brother?”

“Sadly, no.” I smiled at her, but turned my attention back to George.

George, who was leaning against the wall, face turned away from me, shoulders shaking.

“Oh, baby.” Shit. I’d scared him. I’d?—

And then I heard it.

The squawking wheeze of his giggles.

“You scared the shit outta me!” I grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him around so I could see with my own eyes that he wasn’t upset. He wasn’t. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and his whole face was red as he choked on his laughter.

“Did you hear the sound he made when he h-hit the w-wall?” George wheezed. “Oh my god. I’m going to Hell. ”

It was impossible not to join in.

Impossible not to feel George’s amusement, the monolith that had been Brendon reduced to the butt end of a joke.

“I can’t b-breathe,” George snickered, falling against my chest as I wrapped my arms around him, breathing in his joy like it alone could sustain me. Hell, maybe it could.

The next time the doorbell rang it was actually the pizza delivery guy.

Which was good—even if I was a bit disappointed I wouldn’t get to acquaint Brendon’s face with my fist again.

Oh well.

So yeah.

Part of why just thinking about New York made me smile was because of Missy—and seeing George’s home up close and personal. But the biggest reason I’d enjoyed New York? Was because I’d gotten to rearrange Brendon’s goddamn teeth.

“Alex?” George’s voice broke through my reverie. I was grinning like a fool, probably worrying him—considering the fact I was supposed to be teaching him about ice skates.

“Sorry, sorry,” I shook my head.

“You were thinking about punching Brendon again, weren’t you?” he asked, amused and annoyed all at once.

“Guilty.”

He emitted a soft sound. It was one of my favorite noises. He only ever made it when he was trying to look grumpy, but was too pleased to be successful. Half sigh, half snort.

“While I understand—really, I do,” George grouched. “Can we focus on the problem at hand? I’d rather get my untimely death over with, please and thank you.”

“Okay, okay.” I helped him get his foot inside the boot, lacing it up. “Noted.”

There was no way in hell I was letting him get hurt .

He knew that, I knew that.

It was the only reason he’d agreed to come to the ice rink as our first Friday date night—considering the fact we were about to be walking around on “knife shoes”—his words, not mine. He trusted me. And fuck, that was the greatest gift of all.

Once he was all trussed up, I got to work on my own skates. I’d been worried they’d stink, and had pretty much soaked the insides with a can of Lysol in preparation. Which meant they smelled like fucking daisies as I slid my feet inside and laced up far quicker than I’d worked on George’s.

Muscle memory.

“Okay.” On my feet, I held a hand out for him. “You remember what I taught you?”

“Fall to your side,” George rolled his eyes but recited dutifully. “Bend your knees.”

“Right.”

“If I feel like I’m going to fall, bend more and put my hands on my knees.”

“That’s perfect, Duchess.”

George smiled, this soft tentative thing. Pleased that I was pleased with him, no doubt.

“Slow and steady, baby. We got this.”

“You got this,” George huffed. “Me, I’m not so sure about.”

He was worried for no reason.

An hour later, he was gliding around all on his own. Okay, maybe calling it “gliding” was a stretch. But he was definitely moving.

“Look at you go, you precious little cutie pie,” I purred from in front of him, watching him wiggle forward with a pinched brow, his lips pressed into a determined line.

“Stop flirting with me, I’m trying to concentrate.”

He was so full of shit. We both knew he loved when I flirted with him.

“Bend your knees more,” I encouraged. He bent, and I cheered. “Better. ”

“It’s so…slippery,” George complained, breathing through his nose as he focused on getting his feet to move.

“That would be because it’s ice,” I teased.

“Shut up.”

He was moving faster now. More confident. Way better than I’d done my first day on the ice when I’d been a kid.

“Alright, now glide,” I coached. “You got moving, now keep your feet shoulder-width apart and glide—” And he did it. He fucking— “Fuck yes! You’re doing it! Yes, yes, yes!”

George was beaming, this wide bright smile—the smile he reserved for me and Mr. Pickles, and no one else. “I’m doing it!” he said, still sliding on the ice. It was a snail’s crawl but it was enough.

“Again! Push your sexy lil feet and then gli—there you go.”

“I’m a fucking pro,” George said, gliding along. “Look at me!”

“I am looking!”

“I’m so—” And then he fell.

He hit the ice on his side like I’d told him to do, sliding for a few feet as his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what was about to happen. Worried his fear of appearing less than perfect would rise to the surface—that our night would be ruined right as it had begun. Even more, I worried that he’d be distressed. That falling would crush his already brittle ego to dust.

I skated close, terrified he was about to give up, or cry—or that he’d been hurt for real.

But as always, he surprised me.

Because he laughed .

“Too cocky,” he said, grumbling to himself as he shakily got back up onto his feet. “Just need to?—”

And then he was off again.

By the end of the night, George was a self-proclaimed “professional figure skater”. He’d seen a few people out on the ice for public skate, a teen most notably in the center of the rink performing tricks. Spins I didn’t know the names for—and a jump or two. George’s eyes had gone bright, this almost manic smile on his face as he’d stared and stared and stared.

I got the feeling we would be going ice skating together a lot more often.

Which was definitely surprising.

And fucking awesome.

I knelt at his feet to help him get his skates off. I figured he could do it on his own, but it was more fun this way.

“I want to do one of those things that girl did,” George told me, leaning back and letting me take care of him. “The…swirly things.”

“Spins?”

His cheeks flushed, embarrassed he hadn’t guessed the word. “That, yes.”

“We can get you lessons,” I promised, unlacing his second boot and pulling that one off too. I rubbed his feet, even though he kicked at me, grunting something about his socks being sweaty. I leveled him with a look, and he didn’t complain again.

“Can’t you teach me?” George asked.

“You want me to teach you how to spin?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“Baby, I play hockey, that isn’t the kinda shit I know how to do.” Some of the guys on the team got fancy with it and mimicked the figure skaters sometimes, but it was always far less graceful—and without toe picks on our skates, there wasn’t much I could do when it came to jumping.

George sighed, glaring at me like I’d planned this all along. Like I’d brought him here to get him obsessed with figure skating only to pull the rug right out from under him.

“How about I teach you all I can do, and then we go from there?” I offered, pressing my lips into a line so I wouldn’t laugh at his adorably disgruntled face.

“I suppose that’s acceptable. ”

“Glad to hear it.” Okay, I lost. Because then I laughed—unable to help myself, and George kicked at me with his free socked foot.

I was on cloud nine the rest of the night. I took him to the Italian place we’d never gotten to visit. He ate his spaghetti in the bitty bites I knew and loved—not because he was uncomfortable now, but because he hadn’t wanted to spill on his sexy little outfit.

We snarked and joked and kissed at every opportunity.

And life…life was good.

So fucking good.

I’d started seeing my therapist again. We’d only had one session, but already that had helped. George didn’t mind my “affirmations”—homework, that I’d been given between now and the next time I’d see my doctor to try and help me boost my self-esteem. George liked to listen. Liked to stand in the doorway to the bathroom as I stared at my own reflection and attempted to find good things to say. Confidence building.

When he was watching, it made it easier to be kind to myself.

Sometimes, when I’d draw a complete blank, he even stepped in.

“You have a nice smile,” he’d say. “Maybe start with that.”

Or.

“You’re clever,” he’d say. “Begin there.”

It was the baby steps I needed, the small push, to see myself through his eyes that gave me the courage to keep going, even though it was difficult. Somedays, it felt impossible, really. Silly, to look at myself and try to see past all my flaws. Maybe one day, I’d believe the words I told the mirror. But until then, I was grateful to borrow George’s perspective.

He saw me as I was in my plainest form.

And he liked me.

Loved me.

Like my dad and June, he didn’t ask for anything in return. It was a pure kind of love. The kind of love I’d written off as a fairytale in my bitter youth .

The kind of love I was learning was there—if only you could look past your own self-loathing to see it.

George had bad days too. He’d become withdrawn sometimes. Especially right after we’d returned to Columbus, and his life had irrevocably changed. He didn’t do well with change. That was his explanation as he’d curled up in our bed, dressed in only my clothing, and shyly inquired if I might hold him till he felt better.

It was no hardship to love him when he was down.

A fact that certainly helped me be kinder to myself—as it was impossible not to see the parallels.

George was still on the hunt for an apartment, currently living with me until he found the perfect place—and his stuff was set to arrive the next morning. I’d offered to store all his boxes in my garage for the foreseeable future, and he’d accepted. Another thing that showed how far we’d come.

George accepted my help willingly, and all the time.

He looked to me for guidance and support.

For affection.

For strength.

And when I needed him—he was there, folding into my chest where he was meant to be so I could recharge.

We were laughing as we pulled into the driveway at home after our night on the town, distracted by each other—distracted enough neither of us noticed the package sitting in front of the garage until after we’d parked inside it.

“Weren’t my things supposed to arrive tomorrow?” George asked when he exited the car. I’d opened his door for him, and his pleased smile had morphed into confusion.

“They were.” I frowned, ducking around him and heading for the box to inspect it.

It was clearly addressed to him.

But it was a package—not from the movers .

“It’s from Missy,” I said, picking it up and bringing it toward him. The thing wasn’t all that big. It easily fit in my arms. In fact, it hardly weighed anything at all. “Maybe you forgot something?”

George frowned. “I’d never forget anything. I had a list, remember?”

“Right.”

He picked at the tape, pulling the box open with a grunt so he could see inside. On top of tissue paper was a note. George pulled that out first, unfolding it with a confused pinch between his brows. “It says…it’s a parting gift?”

“Awe, that was nice of her.”

“I told her not to get me anything.” George set the note aside, reaching for the tissue paper. He was voracious as he tore through it, overeager for his gift. I’d have to remember that—how much he liked presents—for the future.

While he made confetti out of the tissue paper, I glanced toward the note.

It read:

In case you ever get lonely, here’s a little parting gift to remember me by.

-Missy

George made a sound.

I tore my eyes away from the note and nearly dropped the package when I saw what was inside it.

“No fucking way,” I gawped, unable to help myself as George’s exuberance caused his gift to fly from the package and fall to the garage floor. A shiny silicone dildo rolled a few inches, tapping against my foot as it finally came to a stop.

George’s horror was soon replaced with good humor as he bent and grabbed the offending item.

“At least she didn’t put it in your backpack again,” I wheezed, trying to hold myself together even though I was currently dying.

“Small mercies,” George agreed, before he dissolved into giggles along with me.

We didn’t stop laughing for a long time.

And as reality set in, I couldn’t help but be grateful to Missy and her mischief—for June and her matchmaking. For Mrs. Milton, and George’s siblings—because they’d seen our potential and known we could bring each other bliss if only we let our guards down.

As George’s joy and mine mingled, that gaping black hole in my chest was missing.

I was full in a way I’d never been before.

Accepted in a way I hadn’t known was possible.

I knew life could be an uphill battle. That there would be twists and turns—unexpected events I couldn’t plan for—just like Missy’s package. But somehow, that felt exciting rather than intimidating.

Because I wasn’t facing things alone anymore.

I’d found the partner I’d always wanted.

My perfectly imperfect equal.

And I couldn’t help but come to the conclusion—good days or bad—that having George-Arthur Milton in my life made every day better than the last. He was my happy ending—my fussy, smothering, detail-oriented, high-maintenance, perfect happy ending.

Snorty laugh, and all.

And I had Neil-the-dildo to thank for that .

THE END