Chapter Thirty

Maeve Arko is standing at the other end of the movie theater, holding a bouquet of red, pink, and white roses. She tucks a hair behind her ear, fidgety. Dare I say nervous? She's really here. I keep blinking, waiting for the curtain to rise or to bolt awake from an altitude-altered dream and find out I'm still on the plane to the South of France. But I'm here. I'm here, Maeve's here, and she's—she's here.

I scrape my beaten and bruised heart up off the floor and make my way over to her. It feels like my body is moving on its own; I'm watching a movie where I bridge the distance between us. My chest swells, but there's no warmth. Not yet.

"Maeve…" I say, when what I'd fully intended to say was What are you doing here?

"Can we talk outside for a second?" she asks.

Maeve's in France. Maeve traveled thousands of miles and bought flowers and is in a lovely black dress all for me. This is…for me, right?

"Yeah, of course."

It feels like I'm seeing her for the first time in months. Maybe it's in the way she's standing. A little looser, like everything—down to her facial muscles—is a little more relaxed. She leads me just outside the door, stands next to a napkin dispenser and a popcorn butter container. There's a napkin that's not pulled out properly, and fixing that feels far more urgent than looking Maeve in the eye.

"You made it," I say.

"I did," Maeve says. "I can't thank you enough for the amazing lecture yesterday. And Ashlee mentioned what you did to recommend me for the grant." She exhales. "It means so much to me."

"Maeve, I—I'm so sorry." My lips tremble. "It was wrong of me to try to deflect when you were just trying to communicate about what was bothering you." I exhale, long and hard. A tremble goes through me as I glance around us; no one's looking, but I feel like I should be making a bigger gesture. "I'm glad the class went well, and that Ashlee and the department could see how wonderful you are."

She shakes her head. "I don't think I fully deserve ‘wonderful.'?" She sighs. "When I asked for that break, I was intending to get back in touch with you earlier. But you were acting so distant that I let my own doubts get the better of me," she says.

She takes my hand.

She takes my hand and it's like everything around us falls away. My stomach flips at the familiar feeling. I'm an addict whose craving has been satisfied once more. "But I could've and should've gotten past that feeling to reach out. You didn't need the extra stress added to your plate, especially given how new and monumental and probably scary this has all been for you. The scheduling conflict wasn't a huge deal, and I left you in the lurch. I'm so sorry."

I can't believe Maeve jumped on that plane thinking she was even this much a part of the problem with that fight. Still, there's the strangest sense of relief that she didn't go through with talking to me earlier. I don't know what would've happened if Rosalie and I hadn't finally breeched the medication conversation. Hell, I might've been a wreck tonight if Maeve hadn't waited.

The strangest smile spreads across my face as I run my thumb over her knuckles. "You don't have to apologize for reading the room. Truthfully, I think we needed all that space." Maeve looks up at me, her gaze soft if not a bit confused. I continue. "I wasn't listening to you. The truth is, Emily would've been so pissed at me for what I did to you. She would've broken up with me right then and there. I hadn't escaped my trauma enough to be in the moment and process your reaction, listen to your needs, work to fix the issue in front of us. But I think if we had that same fight now it'd be different. I'm ready to be with you. To try again and see each other as we are now."

Silence fills the tiny space between us. Too long, her expression unreadable as she processes. I let go of her hand out of necessity, yanking a couple of scratchy brown napkins out of the butter station and crumbling them in my hands as I wait for Maeve to say something, to move.

She smiles and hands me the flowers. "Then let's try again. If you'll have me."

I'm not used to having someone who would go through this effort to lie down and admit she was wrong even in a small way. It's so far removed from anything I could've imagined Emily doing. Fights used to make me feel unsteady, but right now I feel rock-solid in my resolve. We'll do better by each other next time. And I'll stop blaming Maeve for Emily's mistakes.

"You really want to?" I ask.

My heart explodes in a million colored pieces as she pulls me into a hug. "Yes," she says, a whisper caressing my skin. "A million times yes."

She squeezes me tight; droplets of wetness fall onto my shoulder. She mumbles into me, but I can't hear her. "What's that, love?" I ask. A jolt of embarrassment passes through me, but then I remember. I can call her that again. I intend to call her that for a long, long time.

"Can I kiss you here?" she asks.

My heart leaps like I'm a teenager again. "Yes."

We kiss. We share a single, tender kiss that makes me want to reach out to that devastated teenager, that devastated adult, that little kid who never quite fit in and tell them that everything is going to be okay. That everything is going to be great.

"Is that Maeve Arko?" Charlie asks.

I bolt away from Maeve. I don't quite love her enough to be obnoxious.

Charlie's grinning.

In fact, Charlie, Mason, Romy, Luna, and my family are grinning.

"Whatever are you doing in Cannes?" Charlie continues, rocking on his heels. "I'm so glad you coincidentally made it out to France and coincidentally took my fleuriste recommendation."

I look around at my parents, at Gwyn and Dave, at Luna and Romy and Wyatt, and at Charlie as he and Maeve hug hello.

"Charlie, did you know about this?" I demand, my voice cracking.

Charlie puts his arm around Maeve. "I like her a lot. Wasn't gonna let you two give up on that."

Mason even throws in a smile. "Yeah, if Val gets dumped, it can only be in a slapstick misunderstanding, we-leaked-a-fake-cheating-scandal-to-the-tabloids-for-fun-and-someone-believed-it way."

I realize, in the moment that Maeve turns to Mason and her eyes go wide, that I…might have not introduced them before. I laugh. "Maeve, this is Mason Wu. She directed Goodbye, Richard!"

Maeve just keeps staring at Mason with that dumb expression. Nearly eight months knowing her and I've never seen her with this little control and dignity. She looks so human. "You know, you kept mentioning a Mason, and I knew you meant a director, but it's hitting me that you meant, like, the Mason Wu, who trail-blazed twenty-first-century queer indie cinema."

Mason points to Maeve. "And you're the girl Val abandoned me for at the Oscars to go properly bottom for the first time!" Mason, always the maverick torturing me in front of my parents, has done it again. Luna's buried herself into Romy's shoulder as my parents and Gwyn exchange a God, Mason look. And Maeve, newest member of the party, goes bright red. Bright red, but still dumbfounded, still in utter awe to be in Mason's presence.

"Come in for a hug, my dude," Mason says to Maeve.

Mason envelopes a board-stiff Maeve in an embrace.

"Mason Wu knows about my sex life," Maeve not-so-quietly whispers to me.

"Welcome to the club," Luna mutters, just low enough that only Romy laughs.

Gwyn and Charlie, of all people, exchange looks. Charlie puts a hand on Mason's shoulder.

"Well, we'll leave you two to go catch up before the after-party tonight," Charlie says. He shoots Gwyn and my parents a glance. "I believe the Sullivans invited me out to L'Affable to celebrate my movie premiering at Cannes."

I can't help but notice him wink as they walk off.

With only about three hours between the screening and the after-party, I tell myself I'll be subtle. Easygoing. Not ridiculous. But I still manage to drag Maeve to the most expensive, best-reviewed casual French restaurant in Cannes. We're both hesitant at first, but soon conversation flows as we find our natural easy rhythm. Within an hour and a half, I'm taking Maeve's hand, both of us wine-tipsy and scallop- and cassoulet-stuffed and leading her back to my suite. I kiss every patch of skin I can in the elevator. Her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck, her jawline, her forehead, remembering the scent and taste of her skin.

We open the hotel room door and fall onto the chaise by the bed, kicking off our shoes.

"So now that you have this research grant…" I say, smiling at her.

She smiles back, shaking her head. "I don't know I have it."

"But like"—I narrow my eyes—"you pretty much do. You prepping for your conference next?"

She drops her head onto my shoulder. "That and a research trip. The grind never ends, does it?"

I brush a hand through her hair. It's especially soft, the way hair only feels right after it's been washed. "Nope. We just get better and better at bouncing back into it."

"You were amazing up there, by the way," Maeve says. "Did you have to plan out what you were going to say, or did you just speak from the heart?"

I think back to being up on that stage, seeing the film with an audience, the euphoria I felt throughout the experience. "It's the same way I approach our lectures, honestly. I know my main talking points, but the best answers come from passion. I love that movie. I hope they let me do more like it."

She runs a thumb over my inner wrist. It sends shivers through me. "How will you know if you can?"

"Depends on if this one sells. We'll know in a couple of weeks."

"You know, I always thought you were an exceptionally good teacher. I thought I was helping you find your passion by encouraging you to teach more and move away from movies. But seeing you up there, all the pieces of you finally fit together. The way you analyze film composition, the depth that you engage with theme and content, that passionate way you talk about making movies and TV. You were radiant at that screening. It would be such a crime for you to ever abandon that for anything." She brushes the back of her hand against mine. "Including me. You have the kind of talent I'd spend years studying to write about."

It's amazing how much loftier it sounds when she says it.

A lump rises in my throat. "Thank you."

"So…" She sighs. "Don't quit, okay."

I smile. "There's more to be done here, I think."

"Good." She shakes her head. "God, I'm going to be grading finals in the French Riviera because of you. You're a dream."

I run a finger along her jawline. "I literally dreamed of dating a professor since I was like seventeen and you're even better than my fantasy. So I think that honor belongs to you."

I look at her lips. It still doesn't feel like the right moment, though. It would be too easy to just fall back into our pattern. And yes, I'm medicated now and know what not to do. But I can't shake the feeling that I have to try my damnedest to make sure we don't fall into our old ways, seeing the other person through the lens of an ex.

Maeve smiles, though, tempting me. "What?"

I guess a new, better relationship starts with communication.

"What do we do this time? To keep each other as happy as possible, make this relationship as healthy as we can?" I say.

Maeve leans back, her head resting on the pillowy comforter behind us, her wavy hair forming a halo around her. I turn on my side and lay beside her. Watch as she looks up at the ceiling.

"What do you want from this, in the end?" she asks.

We're sitting in a luxury hotel room over six thousand miles away from our houses. The comforter is overstuffed, and the lighting is a little too bright, and one open window allows the rushing of the harbor waves to seep in. Yet my heart beats softly; my head's clear. I feel like I'm home. I'm home with Maeve. All I feel is pride at what Maeve has seen of me, what she will see, what I'll see from her when I go with her to her conference in a few months. I imagine us cuddling after the after-party tonight in ratty pajamas, taking turns showering tomorrow because the shower is too small, Maeve using her superior-to-mine French at a patisserie in the morning.

"I want each of us to be each other's solace amid the insanity of the careers and lives we've chosen," I say.

She inches closer to me. Close enough that I can hear her breathing. "I'll feel that way if you tell me when a worry comes up, if you ask me for help when you feel yourself spiraling. If you'd do the same for me. If you'd steady my breathing like you did at the Oscars during your more overwhelming public commitments and if you'd keep picking weird-ass date spots like the tar pits." She leans in closer still, kissing the tip of my nose. "What do you need from me?"

I exhale. "I'll feel at home if you remind me to take my meds even when I'm consistent, if you let me just cuddle with you after I go through grueling press tours. If you tell me when I'm picking shitty projects, if you befriend Dave so I don't have to. If you bring me cookies when I get huge rejections, and if you move out of your backhouse. Just…if you're gonna love me, love me for me. And I'll love you for you."

When I lean over to kiss her, I plant it on her lips. Soft at first, firm, then downright begging, digging my fingers into her hair and into the fabric of her shirt. Our bodies collapse into each other like a sigh of relief. She tastes like wine; she tastes like laughter; she tastes like home.

"I love you," I say against her lips.

"I love you too," she says back.

We hold each other, somewhere between peace and semiconsciousness, until Maeve finally passes out from jet lag and I have to get ready for the after-party. I don't mind that she's missing this one. I know she'll be around for plenty of other ones.