Page 69 of Bitter Beats

He does.

By the following day,my heart is overflowing. We had fantastic blueberry pancakes, enjoyed a phenomenal performance ofHamilton, and walked until our feet ached. It was wonderful.

Taking a break from campus and Branson’s persistent presence is a necessary reprieve. It’s nice to celebrate the holidays after silently snubbing them for years. Mav fulfills his promise and takes me ice skating at Rockefeller Center, spinning me around the ice like he knows what he’s doing. On some level, he does because I trust him. The fact that I know he won’t let me fall is bone-deep, and I spend a full hour in fits of laughter.

We drink hot coffees and munch on bagels. I point out a brooch similar to one my grandmother—my dad’s mom—used to wear in a vintage store. She was a bright spot in my childhood, but she passed when I was only eight. Sometimes, I wonder if Dad would have done what he did if Grandma was still alive.

Mav takes me to a comic shop he learned about from his pop. Apparently, his nana and pop lived in Brooklyn for years before relocating to Boston when Jameson was born. We head out to Dyker Heights to take in the lavish Christmas lights. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the incredible lighting displays and fun decorations. We share more details of our childhoods; we soak up the city at Christmastime together, and the hours slip by.

“How do I look?” I ask, holding my arms out to the sides.

We’re staying in a suite at The Bowery Hotel, and the city skyline wraps around us like a hug.

Mav whistles, his eyes drinking me in slowly. Appreciation lightens his irises, and a crooked smile twists his lips. “Gorgeous.”

I grin, warmed by his words. I’m wearing a strapless, red gown with a sweetheart neckline and a chiffon skirt that flows around my legs and pools at my feet.

“Are you wearing these?” Mav bends to pick up the strappy silver heels I purchased with the shiny black credit card he gave me, for his label’s holiday party. His eyes glitter.

“I am,” I confirm, reaching for the shoes and sitting on the edge of the bed.

I pull my dress up to bend over and gasp in surprise when Mav kneels before me. “Let me help you,” he murmurs, his voice even. His eyebrows pull together in concentration, and he places the heel on my foot. As his big fingers fumble with the delicate clasp, his tongue slips through his teeth as he focuses on his task.

My fingers flex in the skirt of my dress as I watch him. Mav, this overbearing, larger-than-life party boy, helping me with my shoes. My chest squeezes at his thoughtfulness. In fact, he’s been nothing but generous and caring, sweet and playful, once we settled into our fake relationship.

Regarding boyfriends, my fake one may be the best I ever had.

The realization makes me giggle, and Mav peeks up, a soft smile playing over his lips.

“I like your hair like that,” he comments.

I run my hand over the low, braided bun held in place with a hundred bobby pins. I usually wear my hair down or in a ponytail. The classic updo is elegant and shows off my diamond drop earrings and the daring neckline of my gown. “Thank you, Mav. You look good, too.”

He beams and stands, towering over me in a well-cut, perfectly tailored black tuxedo. The sleeves are embellished with a pattern that would scream ostentatious on most men but looks sophisticated on Mav.

“We’ll make everyone jealous tonight,” he promises, reaching out a hand.

When I take it, he pulls me up. Mav helps me into my coat, and I grab the simple silver clutch I packed for the evening.

A black limousine takes us to the event. I spend the car ride people-watching outside the window and trying to tamp down the nerves and excitement that zip around my stomach.

My parents used to attend events like this. Was Mom ever giddy with excitement for the night? Did Dad tell her she looked gorgeous and help her into her coat?

I mentally search for examples of their love, but all I recall are barked demands and a fluttering rush. Everything was done in a hurry, constantly under pressure from other people’s expectations. There were never moments to pause and appreciate, never enough time to pose for a photo or kiss their daughter good night.

There was only that one Christmas and the skyscrapers of the city to witness it.

“We’re here.” Mav’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I turn to look at him.

“You okay?” he asks. “Do you need another minute? We can circle the block.”

His consideration causes a swell of emotion to rise behind my eyes. My fake boyfriend shows me more compassion and respect than my father ever showed my mother.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m great. Thanks, Mav.”

His eyes study mine for a beat as if to clock the sincerity of my words. “Okay,” he agrees. “I got the door,” he tells the driver. He pushes the door open and slips from the back seat.

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