*
one month later
I got my first paycheck yesterday and I was just waiting for my bank to call me about fraudulent activity on my account because I don't think I've ever had so much money in there at once. Even though I know my salary, even though I spent hours pouring over the math to figure out how much I'd be taking home each month and how much I can afford to spend, it still shocked me to see four figures rather than two.
Storie doesn't know all the details yet, but tonight we're celebrating. My first month in a proper job. My first month of feeling like I'm in the right place, like everything's going right; my first month of being able to pay the bills and treat my girlfriend to more than a homemade meal. I wanted to mark the occasion, so I've booked us a little treat.
It's not a total surprise to Storie – I'm not stupid. She hates surprises, hates being out of the loop, so last week I offered her the choice between a 'controlled surprise' or knowing every detail. She thought it over for a while before deciding to go for a controlled surprise and trust me about the rest, so I asked if she would be up for a trip that involves a Friday evening flight and a Sunday night train. The minute she said yes, I booked everything with the last of the money in my checking account.
Everything's already packed so when she gets home from work – hopefully in about fifteen minutes – we're going to take an Uber to the airport with plenty of time to spare before our flight at six fifteen. We should be there no later than five if traffic is decent, with plenty of time to spare if it's not, which gives us time to go through security and grab a snack before it's time to board our flight to Chicago.
It's high time Storie and I took a trip together, and I figured, what better (and easier) than the windy city? The flight is less than two hours and with the time difference, it's basically an hour, and we're flying into Midway rather than O'Hare, which pretty much cuts our airport-to-city transfer time in half. If everything goes to plan, we'll be in the heart of the city by seven thirty at the latest. Perfect time for a spot of dinner. I've reserved tables at a few different places, so we have options – deep dish pizza by the water or a hidden gem of a Korean restaurant tucked down a side street; a rooftop place with stunning views and a menu that made my mouth water, or an English-style gastropub. Whatever Storie is in the mood for – if all she wants is to grab a McDonald's and take it to our hotel room, then I'd love nothing more than exactly that.
When it came to booking a hotel, I consulted Kris. He spends a lot of time travelling for work, and Chicago is probably his most frequented city – I went to him for advice about a place with great views and comfortable beds for less than two hundred dollars a night, expecting nothing more than a list of suggestions, but it turned out he has contacts. Lots of contacts. He told me to leave it with him, and within an hour he called me back to let me know he'd secured us two nights at a five-star hotel right on the river, breakfast included.
When I asked how much I owed him, already wincing at the mention of five fucking stars, he told me it was a favor from a friend. Ten years ago he gave a helping hand to a guy who now owns a chain of luxury hotels – and this weekend, Storie and I will be reaping the rewards. I actually choked when I checked how much we'd be paying if this stay wasn't comped – eleven hundred dollars for two nights. The breakfast better be incredible.
Then, after two days in Chicago, we'll have dinner on Sunday night and make our way to Union Station where we'll get the overnight Amtrak back to Cleveland, in our own private berth. We'll make it to Tower City by six a.m. if the train's on time – which, apparently, is never – and we both have Monday off work to recuperate.
I'm pretty proud of my plan, if I may say so myself. I just hope Storie enjoys it. I don't want to overwhelm her, but it feels so fucking good to be able to do something like this and not have to worry that I'm going to drain my account. I mean, I kinda did drain it when I booked the plane and train, but it's been replenished now, and I can't wait to treat Storie to the weekend she deserves.
*
"I'm slightly nervous," Storie says as we get in the Uber, each with a backpack that will fit under the plane seat. She pulls her hair out from under the collar of her coat, and then out from under her seatbelt once it's buckled up. It's ten to five and when I checked Google Maps five minutes ago, the journey was green all the way to the airport – a fifteen minute drive. So far, so good.
"Do you want to know where we're going?"
"No, no." She shakes her head firmly. "No, I trust you." A smile breaks out when she looks at me. "These are very natural nerves. Very low-key. I'm always nervous when it comes to catching flights. It'll be fine once we're through security."
I take her hand and squeeze it, leaning across the empty seat between us to press my lips to her cheek. "I love you," I murmur as the driver pulls onto East 9th. Storie smiles. I feel the dip of her dimple against my lips.
"I love you too," she whispers. No matter how many times she's said those words in the last six weeks, it doesn't get any less magical.
We're on the freeway within minutes. Soon the I-90 becomes the I-71, the road that will carry us almost all the way to the airport. The universe treats us kindly and fifteen minutes later, we're on the Berea Freeway, following the signs for the airport. It's getting dark out already but the sky is aglow with the bright lights surrounding the runways, and we're close enough that I can hear the roar of planes taking off and coming in to land.
I gotta admit, I'm a bit nervous too. I can't remember the last time I flew anywhere; it's been years since I travelled for leisure, years since I felt free enough to do something for fun. I'm all out of practice. It's too easy to slip into the pessimism that has hung around my neck like a noose for four years, until I feel Storie's hand in mine and my pulse settles down.
The departures drop-off is busy – it's Friday evening, after all, the place full of people going home for the weekend, going away for the weekend – but our driver finds the last space and deposits us with tons of time to spare. I give him a five star rating and a forty percent tip because all week I've been preparing for a horrendous hour-long drive, and that took less than twenty minutes from our apartment to the terminal.
It's almost laughable how much of a breeze the next few stages of the trip are. We make it through security with ease, no extra wanding or patting down needed, and Storie beams when she realizes we're going to Chicago – I think most of that beam is the satisfaction that she probably guessed it right. No doubt her brain has been working on overdrive trying to guess every detail of the trip that she didn't want me to tell her.
"Still nervous?" I ask as I pass her a caramel hot chocolate and take a seat next to her. Our gate is within sight, and we have more than enough time before boarding begins to enjoy a hot drink.
"Nope," she says with a smile, popping off the lid to let her drink cool. "Well. A bit. But a lot less than I was." She leans over and presses her lips to my cheek. "I can't believe you did all this."
"It's not much."
"It's a lot, Liam," she says, her voice laced with sincerity, her hand on my thigh. "Hey, this is our first proper trip together. Big step."
Every step feels like a big step when it comes to our relationship, the way my heart gallops in my chest like a racehorse on the loose. I can't get rid of the nagging feeling that lingers between my ribs, telling me I'm bound to fuck it up sooner or later like I fucked it up before. Except before, our relationship was built on deception. Now, every card is on the table and I am raw and exposed and hers are the only eyes I want on me.
*
Somehow, every step of my plan works without a hitch. We board the plane on time and we have a row of two to ourselves, no other passengers to worry about, no chance of a dreaded middle seat. The winds are in our favour and we land fifteen minutes earlier than expected, and after thirty minutes on the Orange Line from Midway to State/Lake, we're halfway across DuSable Bridge as the clock strikes seven. Storie stops to lean against the railing, staring out towards the lake. We can't see it from here, a couple other bridges in the way, not to mention the fact that seven p.m. in February is dark as fuck, but the city is so bright and alive, and I don't care that the bitter cold is biting my cheeks.
She pulls me in, wrapping her arm around my waist, and rearranges her scarf and woolly hat before holding out her phone to take a selfie. I don't have to dig deep to find a smile for once: it bursts onto my lips the moment I catch sight of us together on the screen, wrapped up in our winter clothes. We look good together. Damn, we look so fucking good together. Storie snaps a few pictures. In the last one, I turn to kiss her cheek as she turns to kiss mine, and we end up with a surprisingly good photo mid-kiss. The wind off the river is blowing her hair across our faces but you can see the dimples in her cheeks and the smile that I can't hide.
We end up at the rooftop place for dinner, looking over Grant Park and the black lake beyond, and once we're stuffed full of incredible food and wine and dessert that we couldn't resist even though we were already full, we end up walking the twenty minutes to the hotel. It may be cold, but it's such a clear night and I want to relish every moment we get to spend here.
"Where're we staying?" Storie asks, huddling close to me as we walk hand in hand. Her breath fogs in the air
"You'll see," I say, mentally reciting the directions that I checked while she was in the bathroom so I don't have to whip my phone out again. "Can't I have a little mystery?"
"As long as we're not sharing a room with strangers. Promise me that," she says, lowering her voice. She does that when she's trying to sound serious. It always makes me smile. I squeeze her hand tighter.
"Only, like, four other people."
"Liam, you better be joking." She pulls me to a stop and gives me a hard stare with those dark, enticing eyes, and I can't do anything but melt and forget my joke.
"It's just us. One big bed, all to ourselves." I tap my lip and add, "Maybe two little beds? It might be a twin room."
She laughs and pushes me away. "As long as we're not in bunkbeds with backpacking strangers, I don't care. I am not a hostel girl."
It's so cold that the tip of her nose is turning red and I want to kiss it, want to rub my nose against hers, want to cup her face in my hands and feel the heat of her cheeks against my palms. We can't get to the hotel quick enough. It's after nine and I'm exhausted after a day of work followed by travel and too much dinner, my body craving a shower and a bed.
"No way," Storie says when I slow her down outside the entrance to one of Chicago's most expensive hotels on the other side of the river. "No way!"
"Yes way."
"Liam! Please tell me you did not pay for a night here."
"Two nights," I correct, and when she blanches in horror at the thought of the cost, I say, "I asked Kris for advice and he has a lot of friends in high places. We're not paying a dime."
"Holy shit," she breathes, eyes wide as we step into the ridiculously glitzy lobby. I mean, there's a chandelier. This is no Holiday Inn Express. This is the real deal. There are people in suits and evening dresses, high heels and leather shoes and expensive jewelry. Storie and I are way out of place in our comfortable plane clothes but I don't give a shit because we're here together in this incredible hotel and we're about to have a room to ourselves with room service and a minibar.
Check-in is easy. I was slightly worried that Kris's friend might've forgotten to reserve us a room and we'd have to find ourselves somewhere last minute at vast expense, in which case we might well have ended up in a hostel, but there's no problem. The woman on the front desk greets us with a winning smile and hands over two keycards once she's checked my ID and she tells me, "Everything's taken care of, Mr Alexandrov. Your room is number 213, on the twenty-first floor. Enjoy your stay!"
We're the only ones in the elevator all the way to the top, only one floor above us, and by the fourth floor, Storie's resting her weary head on my shoulder, her hat bunched in her hands. I can't help being reminded of the first time we got in an elevator together back in December, back when we got trapped for hours and I bared my soul to her, and all of this was set in motion.
There's no breakdown here. This is probably a ten-million-dollar elevator. It's the smoothest ride to our floor, and the keycard works on the first attempt – another sign that this is an expensive place. I'm used to shitty motels where I have to try a hundred times to unlock my room with some five-year-old plastic card that's losing its magnetism.
"Oh my god," Storie says with a gasp as we step into the room. It's enormous. Some kind of Extra Mega Super Deluxe King, with a table and a couple of comfy chairs in front of an enormous window looking out over the river. The full-size bathroom has a huge tub with bubble jets and more complimentary creams and gels and soaps than we can possibly use in two days, and where hotels usually have free sachets of cheap coffee and basic tea, there's a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses.
"You have an incredibly useful brother," I say to Storie as we shed our layers and dump our backpacks on the sofa (yes, there's a whole freaking sofa in here), and I hold up the bottle. "Fancy a glass?"
She purses her lips, thinking hard, and then says, "You know what? Yeah, why not? Champagne in Chicago, bring it on." She's standing in front of the window, awe on her face as she gazes out over the city and the lights bounce off her cheeks, reflected in her shining eyes. I fill two glasses and pass her one, and we clink before taking a sip of bubbles.
"Here's to my first month in a new job, and many more months to come," I say, "and here's to us. You're my world, Astoria Sovany. You make my dreams come true."
When she kisses me, I taste the fizz on her tongue and I almost spill my glass when I lean into the moment, my free hand pressed against the small of her back to hold her against me.
I know this would be a good place to propose. The mood is right, the place is right, there's champagne and a king-size bed and a jacuzzi bath; this is the kind of place where I could probably call a concierge for rose petals. We both know I'm going to do it at some point, but not here. I already know where I want to be when I ask her to marry me, and that isn't what this trip is about. This is just a thank you. A small celebration.
"I love you, so much," I murmur, my hand on her jaw. I run my thumb over her bottom lip and pull it down, grazing her bottom teeth. She gently nips at the pad of my thumb and pushes my hand away to pull me in for another kiss.
"I love you," she whispers. "Thank you for this. This is ... wow."
"I can't wait to see the city with you." Then, laughing to myself, I add, "I kind of can't wait to try out the bed, too. I'm so tired."
"This is already shaping up to be the best weekend ever, and it's still Friday," she says. She takes another sip of champagne and puts it down to pull off her sweater. She's not trying to be sexy – she's literally just getting out of her clothes – but she is just so fucking hot and I can't tear my eyes from her as she sheds her bra and her jeans and pulls on one of the hotel's luxurious dressing gowns, twirling to show it off.
"Okay, this is the mark of a good hotel," she says, wrapping herself up in the gown. "This is a proper dressing gown. Not some skimpy little cotton thing that doesn't fit anyone bigger than a supermodel. You know what?"
"What?"
She looks down at herself and then looks back up at me through her thick eyelashes. "It might even be big enough for two."
I've never stripped so fast. I fling off my sweater and my t-shirt and struggle out of my jeans and she laughs as I trip over my feet in my efforts to kick off my socks, stripping down to my boxers. She opens the gown and pulls me in, and she's right. It wraps around both of us, cocooning us together.
"Mmm," she hums against my chest. "Perfect."
Suddenly I'm not so tired anymore.
*
you can now listen to all my books using the text to speech feature on wattpad, which is really exciting! i won't lie, i've been listening to some of my own stories, it's not perfect and there's only one english-speaking accent (american woman) but it's pretty cool!
i forgot to mention in my last update, but i've recently started a booktube account, where i post weekly reading vlogs, unboxings, and various other bookish content! i'd also love to post writing videos too, if i have any interest from readers. it'd mean the world to me if you could check out my channel and hit subscribe! my latest vlog is the video header for this chapter if you want a lil peek of my content!
this link won't be clickable but you can either copy this or search my name - it's the same on all my media!
https://www.youtube.com/c/LydiaHephzibah/videos