The look on his face, he’s not defending himself. He’s used to not defending himself against her because this is what he always thought that she would do. This is Eric’s worst nightmare.
“Come on,” Leena says. “Show me what you’ve done with yourself now that you’re a failed musician heading up a camp for children, no doubt fucking the bottom of the trash pile as a substitute for a real woman.”
“That is enough.” The words fly out of me so hard that they echo off the trees. Every eye in the camp turns to me, and Leena is the last to turn.
“Excuse me?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She takes a step toward me and stands her ground. “What did you say?”
“You have no right to come here and hurl insults and lies at people. Especially at people who have nothing to do with you anymore. Eric is brilliant, kind, and talented. He is good to his friends and makes unfathomable sacrifices for his family with no thought about himself.
“You can’t throw stones in glass houses, Leena. You treated Eric like shit for years. While cheating on him. I can’t even list all the things that you’ve done that fall under the category of being a ‘worthless, spineless, piece of shit.’ So don’t come here spouting lies to people who know the truth.”
She looks livid, like she’s about to blow up again, so I keep going. “You were a shitty girlfriend. And even the bad things I saw—which I’m sure was only a fraction—I supported the two of you because I thought that Eric was happy. But I know the truth now. You’re not only a shitty girlfriend, you’re a shitty person for coming all the way here and trying to ruin his reputation.”
Leena rolls her eyes. “Jesus Christ. Why are you defending him? Are you in love with him or something?”
Straightening my spine, I stare at her straight on. “As a matter of fact, I am. And I have it on good authority that he loves me too.”
There’s sudden applause, and I realize that the campers are cheering the fact that Eric and I are together, and Eric looks more normal now. He’s looking at me with awe and love and gratitude.
Leena is as red as a tomato, and then someone in the crowd says. “Go home!” And just like kids do, others pick up the call. Until it’s an overwhelming chant. “Go! Home! Go! Home!”
Her face is white with rage, hands curled into fists. She stomps toward me and her car, and the whole camp cheers. She stops next to me, and if looks could kill, then I’d already be dead. A cruel smile before she speaks. “If you want him, you can have him. He’s my leftovers, and you’re just a pathetic scavenger.”
“You know that summer before you met, and the boy I fell madly in love with? That was Eric. I was his first everything. And his relationship with you was one giant misunderstanding and bad teenage communication, so if you want to talk about scavenging, look in a mirror.”
Leena goes pale and stiff like a corpse, before storming to the car and slamming the door so hard that I’m shocked she doesn’t break the windows. She peels out—as much as you can peel out of a dirt parking lot—to the roaring cheers of everyone in the camp, teens and counsellors alike.
I watch her until she’s out of sight, and when I turn around, Eric is right there. He sweeps me into a kiss, dipping me back in a show of romance that’s meant as a thank you and to publicly confirm everything that I just said. There are equal amounts of cheering and gagging noises from our audience, and it makes us break apart laughing.
“You’re something else, Seph,” he whispers. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I owed you.”
Eric frowns. “For what?”
“For saving my life in the lake.”
He laughs so loudly it echoes, and not caring who is watching, he kisses me again.
Epilogue
Eric
Three Months Later
“Eric, get in here!” Seph calls from the living room. Her voice is so frantic that I sprint from our bedroom in our new New York apartment and skid to a stop.
“What? What happened?”
She jumps into my arms and I barely catch her. “Listen!”
I suddenly focus on the threads of music floating through the room. “Holy shit.”
It’s our song. While we were finishing up at camp, Seph encouraged me to send the song that I wrote for her all those years ago to my agent. I wanted it to be only for her, but she claimed that it was too good to keep all to herself.
My agent agreed. And once I was finally able to be honest about my leave of absence, he was more than understanding. But the last month has been a whirlwind. As soon as we finished at Red Rock, Seph moved with me to New York. We found an apartment that’s a better size for the two of us, and my agent booked recording sessions for the song. He’s even offered to help Seph look for a literary agent when she’s ready.
That will be soon. She’s been writing almost non-stop since we arrived, filling pages and pages and pages with fiction. She’s going to be brilliant.
I’ve had more gigs than I can handle, and Seph has been at every single one, listening and singing along with my songs. It’s exactly how I dreamed it would be all those years ago when I asked if she would be with me. Because no matter how big the crowd, I get the biggest thrill out of performing for her.
Things have slowed down a little, and I’ve just started to show her the city. My city. Not the touristy parts. The little places that I love. But I’ll admit that it’s a little hard to leave the apartment when she’s here. Because there’s a lot of sex.
We have a lot to make up for, and I don’t think that I’ll ever get tired of sinking into her. Every time it’s a miracle that I do not take for granted.
The song sounds so good on the radio, and the response has been really positive. But this song will never not remind me of the reason that I wrote it. I carry Seph over to the couch and lay her down, pulling up the long, loose dress that she has on.
She laughs, but it’s breathless. “What are you doing? Your song is on the radio.”
“It’s our song,” I growl. “And it’s about me taking your virginity. I think this is entirely appropriate for hearing it for the first time.”
I don’t give her a chance to protest, licking her through the dainty lace thong that she’s wearing. Such a sexy little piece of fabric, and such an annoying barrier when I’m trying to get to my favorite flavor in the world. The only reason I don’t rip them off her is because I’ve destroyed too many pairs of her panties already. I’m tempted to do it anyway, just to hear the moan she makes when I do.
Shoving them down, I ravage her clit with my tongue, diving straight into the patterns that I know that she likes best. There are a few, and I choose the one that’s fast and swirling and never fails to make her come. Loudly. Today is no exception.
“Fuck, you’re too good at that,” she says, panting and arching underneath me.
“I don’t think that there is such a thing.”
Slipping a finger, and then two, inside her pussy, I fuck her with the beat of the song, curling my fingers up and back, thrusting directly across her G-spot. She’s going to come before the end of the song. I guarantee it.