Page 24 of This

The topic of conversation struts past, giving me the kitty side-eye on his way into the kitchen. He jumps onto the counter, and Steve absentmindedly reaches over to scruff up the fur on top of his head.

“I fished him out of a gutter when he was only a few weeks old,” he says. “He was so malnourished that I almost lost him a few times. Not that you’d know it, looking at him now.”

Little Stevie lets out a harsh yowl and jumps down, not a fan of being fat-shamed.

“He’syourcat?” I wander farther into the kitchen, my apprehension overruled by my latest realization.

Half of Steve’s face perks into a confused grin. “Yeah. Why?”

“You named the cat after yourself?”

“Of course not.” He tosses the dish towel from over his shoulder down and flips off the burner. “He named himself.”

“Oh,” I say, fighting off a smile.

He catches it and scrunches his face in response. “Yeah, it’s another thing Ari claims is adorable, but I’m pretty sure it’s weird as fuck.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Unconventional, maybe, but he really does seem like a Stephen.”

Steve points at me with the spatula. “Harmonious vibes, Bennett Ross. You and me, we’ve got harmonious vibes.”

No one has ever complimented my vibes before. But I think it means more to me than any other I’ve received.

Aria and Steve are theoddest coupling I’ve ever encountered. And the most beautiful pair I could imagine.

Most of the time, they seem mismatched in body and personality. Aria—with her sprite build, rainbow-tipped black hair, and sayings tattooed over her skin—wears a business suit nine-to-five, Monday through Saturday, and carpools to the daily grind. Steve—built like a weight lifter, most often found in gym shorts and a cutoff tee with bro quotes—spends his days locked away in an attic with a canvas and paint that always finds a way downstairs or at The Daily Grind—a coffee shop down the street where he listens to smooth jazz on a cassette player.

When they’re together, though, she pulls down her professional bun, letting her color show, and he talks about investing in a mutual fund to diversify their portfolio. They love each other madly, unapologetically. It’s raw and undiluted, and after a week of witnessing them together, I’m diggingDarkest Desiresout of the drawer I tucked it into, curious if Denton and Daphne could possibly compare.

I won’t let myself get caught up in the story like Marco, but I can understand the draw. Through the first few chapters, Denton watches her from afar. He smiles when she smiles, and when they finally meet and Daphne experiences the connection he has all along, a part of you smiles with them. You hate anyone who tries to keep them apart and wait for the second they’re reunited.

But good Lord, I can only handle so much throbbing and a certain number of body parts awakening before I have to set it down.

A few weeks after the Steve/Stevie/Stephen realization, Aria calls from work.

“You have the day off, right?” she asks, sounding much too busy with the tap of a keyboard and answering questions for other people before I can answer hers.

“Yeah. Why? What’s up?” I lay the book on my nightstand and sit up, embarrassed to have lounged around all day when she sounds so productive.

“I forgot to leave food out for Steve.”

“Stevie?” I ask.

“No—hold on.” She rattles off a bunch of numbers, then she’s back. “Steve’s up in his tower, tortured over a dream bridge he wants to re-create. I meant to set up a lunch for him in case he wanders down; otherwise, he won’t eat. Any chance you can run a sandwich up to him? If he doesn’t answer, you can leave it outside the door.”

“Sure,” I say. “Anything in particular he likes?”

“Honestly, he’d mindlessly chew on sand when he’s craving inspiration, so whatever you throw together will be great. Thank youso much, Bennett. I’ll bake you a cake or something.”

With a click, she’s gone, and I go to feed the human.

I’ve never been up the spiral staircase at the end of the catwalk. It ends at a small landing, the entire apartment visible beneath me.

I knock, and when Steve doesn’t answer, I start to set the plate down as instructed. But then the door swings open, and a hand reaches out, jerking me and the sandwich inside.

Steve secures the door behind me. “I’m so close,” he mumbles, taking the plate from me.

He walks back into the room. It’s all very dramatic with the abysmal lighting and him pacing back and forth in his pajama pants in front of an empty easel. I squint to see the paintings lining the walls, floor to ceiling. As I reach one side of the room, the overhead lights illuminate, and my jaw falls open.

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