Brett is still in my apartment when I wake up the next morning. He's there three mornings later, too, brewing coffee for me as I step out of the shower. He knows how I like it, which terrifies me at first, but I quickly grow used to waking up to a ready-made mug.
We'd fallen into something easy, a type of comfort we were both careful not to discuss too thoroughly. Overanalyzing it would only escalate it, and right now we were apparently keen on keeping things slow and steady.
Early the following week, I step out of my apartment and bump right into Sean. His strawberry hair is slick with sweat and a heavily taped cardboard box occupies his hands. PLANTS is written on it in dark Sharpie. He makes a vague sound upon seeing me, his face lighting up with glee, and he hastily sets the box down so we can communicate.
I feel insecurity wash over me. As if it wasn't bad enough watching him pursue his dreams while I was stuck in the endless loop of a dead end career, I'm now unemployed and very leisurely looking for my next move. His future is so promising, so clear, and mine is so murky.
The moment the box hits the ground, I'm enveloped in one of his sincere hugs, tight and punctuated with the feeling of his breath in my hair. I can't help but smile against him; the severity to which he loves others will never not be endearing.
When we pull away, he gestures to the box. It's my last day, he signs. I haven't seen you in weeks.
A sheepish grin paints my face, my cheeks likely tinged rogue. I've been going through a lot.
He laughs. I didn't expect you to fall in love with Brett of all people!
My eyes narrow into slits. Who said I'm in love with him?
At this, Sean gives me an are you kidding? kind of look, cocking his head to one side to challenge me. When I only blink in expectant response, he finally sighs. I'm Deaf, not blind. He drove you crazy, but I'm glad you could find your person.
You too! I reply, hoping to brush over any remaining conversation about Brett. R-E-B-E-C-C-A, right? Very pretty. I wink at him.
Sean blushes and a smile takes over him, brightening his demeanor tenfold. She's my costar.
I raise my eyebrows, egging him to continue on.
We've only gone on a few dates, he admits. He nervously fingers the hem of his old shirt, a navy blue number I'd seen a dozen times before. It reads HOWIE'S HOTDOGS - HOT AND FRESH, and, fittingly, there's a mustard stain just above a cartoon dog wearing a hotdog costume.
In all my time knowing Sean, he'd never been anything but calm. Scatterbrained, perhaps, and a touch unpredictable, but always down to earth. Seeing him anxiously twiddling his fingers was brand new to me, and it filled me with joy.
I hope that it works out for you, I tell him, and I mean it. Not just with your girlfriend, but with your movie. I'll be the first person to watch it at the box office.
Sean rolls his eyes. When? You never have time!
I purse my lips, hoping my humiliation isn't apparent on my face. This could be it - we could part ways here and his memory of me could remain the previous Mia, the cutthroat PR agent with a killer sense of business casual style and a caffeine addiction. But the Mia who stood before him was in cotton shorts from Target and hadn't washed her hair in six days. The Mia who stood before him had been fundamentally changed by him, and he deserved to know.
I have lots of time now, since I quit my job.
Sean's eyes widen in disbelief, his mouth falling open. I watch him process this information slowly, churning it through the beautiful labyrinth of his mind. No, you didn't, he signs.
I would never lie to you. I shoot him a closed-lip smile so he knows it's okay. I was inspired by you, honestly. Hearing about your movie - how it ties your passion for acting together with Deaf culture - made me realize I wasn't half as passionate about anything I was doing at work. I was just doing it to have a job. So I quit.
Sean doesn't respond for a long time.
Or I may have been fired, I add. But it's fine.
You sure? he asks, and I can sense his tentativeness. Sean's expressions softens into something like pity, which curdles my blood.
I've never been better. I smile. So Georgia, right?
Brett beams, his teeth so white they're nearly reflective, and he nods excitedly. Tomorrow morning. I'm driving!
I feel my heart swell for him - this man who'd been nothing but kind, compassionate, and patient with me, even when I couldn't reciprocate. The universe will hand his goodness back to him, that I am sure of. If anyone deserves happiness, it's Sean.
My eyes sting with tears of joy, something extremely unfamiliar to me, but equally as welcome. Don't forget me when you're famous, I joke, nudging him slightly. I'm so proud of you.
Instead of signing anything back, he grabs me by my elbow and pulls me into another hug. There's a finality to it that I can feel, cool and heavy as stone in my palm, and I think to myself that this is probably the last time we'll see each other. It's the nature of us.
Or, it's the nature of myself, I realize. My old self, who put her career first and couldn't prioritize interpersonal relationships. That's what our friendship was built upon, and that's what stilted it in the first place.
So, as I inhale his heady cologne and the faint smell of sugar cookies clinging to his shirt collar, I tell myself that maybe things will be different. Maybe this friendship will die here, rotting into something shallow that exists purely through liking each other's Instagram posts and maybe commenting a series of encouraging emojis. But maybe, in the spirit of emerging from my sickly PR cocoon, I will keep in touch. Maybe I'll video call him regularly, and actually attend a showing of his movie. Maybe we'll give biannual updates, or connect for a coffee every few years.
This doesn't have to be the end.
When we pull away, we are both smiling through our grief. It might not be a loss of each other - and we might not have been made for each other in the first place - but it signifies the end of an era. And that is sad enough.
I help Sean move a few of his boxes down to his sedan and even surprise myself with my own strength when I manage to support one half of his mattress down to the moving truck.
Don't be a stranger, I sign to him, and he laughs before promising he couldn't be.
* * *
I am sprawled across my couch shouting ridiculously incorrect Jeopardy answers when Brett suggests that he's going to sell his house.
"I think I want to move back home," he says, as casually as acknowledging that it's started to rain outside.
I shoot up, turning to face him as he pours himself a glass of orange juice from the jug in my fridge. He meets my gaze just as he tilts the cup up for his first sip.
"Come again?" I say in surprise.
"I believe I have," Brett answers, clicking his tongue and pointing finger guns at me. I could break those fingers clean off his hands, I think.
He comes around the island to join me on the couch, setting the glass down on the coffee table before placing both hands on my bare knee. His skin is cool against mine, and it raises goosebumps down my legs.
"Being there with my family was like finally turning my brain off," he says finally. "I moved here to further my career, but I think it's quite far enough. I want to go home."
I blink rapidly, as if trying to dislodge the fog of sleep from this moment. Nothing is computing. "When?"
He shrugs. "That depends on a lot of factors. I'm going to sell my house and edge myself out of all my contracts. But once all of that is up, probably in the next year or two, I'm going to make the move."
Something about the news turns my stomach in a selfish way. I swallow before opening my mouth to say something, but Brett beats me to it.
"I want to consider you in this decision," he whispers, leaning forward to gather my hands in his. "It won't be today. It won't even be this calendar year. But I want to keep you in mind for all my life moves going forward."
My eyebrows jump up. "So you'll consult me before making any more deals with shady politicians?"
He shoots me a lopsided grin and my heart tumbles into my throat. "If I ever find myself with the pleasure of reliving that, you will be consulted promptly."
"Mhm," I hum, rolling my eyes dramatically. "Sure would've been nice the first time."
"We all make mistakes."
"Some more than others."
Brett plants a kiss on my forehead, an affection he's become less sparing with over the last week. He squeezes my fingers once, then twice. "I'm being serious, Mi. I want your input on everything."
"As a PR agent?" I joke.
But Brett doesn't laugh. "As my partner."
The air stills between us - I realize, with embarrassment, it was just the air conditioning turning off and not any movie magic. Regardless, we stay holding one another, our breath mingling in the few inches between our faces. I take in the sight of him before me, his tousled hair, his chocolate eyes, the way his face is all angles.
"Partner like -"
"Like partner. Doesn't have to be girlfriend. Just partnership."
It's clear he's rehearsed this conversation, checking behind every nook and cranny before proceeding. I'm hesitant about relationships as I've never been in one, much less a successful one. The term girlfriend intimidates me to a degree that is, frankly, quite shameful for a woman in her mid-twenties.
It's a small step in the direction of romance, one that he's taking while somehow still accounting for my hesitancy.
"Partnership," I repeat back to him, skepticism coloring my voice.
He nods back. "No titles, no anniversaries, no expectations. I just want to be involved with you, and you with me. Can we agree on that?"
"This isn't very romantic," I mumble jokingly, dropping my gaze as I pretend to be unimpressed.
"Mia, I think you'd bully me into tears if I tried to be romantic," he says, deathly serious. "Say yes so I can kiss you."
This elicits a real laugh from me, and the sound is still jarring even after several weeks of becoming accustomed to it. "My god, whatever. We can be partners. Does that mean we have to hold hands when we cross the street?"
Brett doesn't bother with replying; his lips are on mine just as I've finished my sentence. He kisses me with a fervor that can only be compared to someone who knows this kiss may be the last. It is tender and passionate, gentle yet intense. His hand reaches up to cup the slant of my jaw, and my head tilts back instinctively to allow the kiss to deepen.
On the TV, vaguely, someone wins Jeopardy.
Out in LA, a few of the girls from Pure Publicity prepare for another day of work tomorrow.
On the road, somewhere between California and Georgia, Sean is driving his beat up car down pavement hot enough to melt the soles of your shoes.
In cities I can't name, my mother prepares for my arrival in a few weeks, and Brett's mom and aunt bicker over whatever baked good is being iced on her kitchen counter.
And here, on this couch, I fall in love with a man who does not dare call me his girlfriend, who wouldn't undress me until I was physically and emotionally sober, who wants to upend his life but still involve me in it.
There is something beautiful to the rhythms of the world, as painful and sharp as they might be. It was a shame that I was blind to them before, so close to the problem that I couldn't see the bigger picture. But I vow to myself to recognize these moments, the way we all live out our simple lives.
So I kiss Brett back, and make fun of him for the entire evening for calling me his partner, and I thank the stars that this life is mine.
* * *
there shall be an epilogue, please stay tuned