“What?”
“I paid for their shit anyway,” I say. “Behind their backs. I did what I had to do by getting them back on their feet before I gave up my half of the money.”
She looks deeply in thought.
“But finish what you were saying about finding yourself,” I tell her.
She reaches out and traces my eyebrow with the tips of her fingers.
“I’ve never really stopped long enough to think about what I want out of life—not a career, but life,” she says. “Of course, I’ve always been into photography. It’s my passion. But I’ve never let it go further than a hobby because … well, I guess I just never have time for it anymore. My job is demanding, but maybe I’m a little addicted to the ladder of success, too—do you know what I mean?” Her eyes harden with reflection, as if she’s going through all of the answers in her head for the first time, learning something more about herself that maybe she kind of always knew, deep down, but is finally admitting. “When I actually have a day off,” she continues, “I jump at the opportunity to fill in for someone else. I’m always on the go, looking ahead, wanting to prove not just to Cassandra, but to myself, that I have what it takes to be successful. I have this incessant drive, this need to climb higher and higher—but for what? What am I going to do when I get up there, y’know? Work some more and never have time to enjoy my life?” She pauses in thought, her eyes lit by self-realization, acceptance, even discouragement. Then she says, “I really admire Paige. She works hard even though financially she doesn’t have to, but she never lets work—or anything for that matter—get in the way of life. She always finds time for herself. And when something threatens to bring her down, she gets rid of it and moves on.”
We sit in silence for a moment, her expression hard and concentrating, her eyes looking at the wall behind my head, but probably seeing something entirely different than the dingy white paint.
“I just want something more out of my life,” she says distantly.
“We all do at some point,” I respond, reaching out and taking her hand into mine. “And when we realize that, we have to accept that some things have to change in order to get it. You have to be willing to take that first step to making it happen.” I press my lips to her knuckles. “And I think yah kinda have.”
Sienna’s smile is thoughtful and curious. She tilts her auburn head to one side. “How so?” she asks.
I grin and place her arm down on my chest, rubbing the palm of my hand over her smooth, warm skin.
“You finally used up that vacation time,” I say with the curve of my lips. “I have to say, I feel all special ’n’ stuff”—she giggles—“especially now, knowing about how you rarely ever take a day off. But here you are, spending two whole weeks with me. Either I’m a very convincing, charming, remarkable, and devilishly handsome guy”—I grin playfully at her, pursing my lips on one side while she tries to hold her laughter in—“or you know more about what you want than you think you do.” That last part I actually meant, and judging by the thoughtful smile in her eyes, she’s well aware.
She wants to be with me—we want to be together.
Sienna rises a little and moves closer, a teasing look lurking in her face.
“Nah,” she says, scrunching up her pink lips and freckled nose. “I’m just as clueless about all that as I was yesterday.”
“You don’t know anything you want?” I ask suggestively, trying to conceal the playfulness in my face and failing miserably.
I reach out with both hands, carefully hooking them underneath the backs of her upper arms, and I pull her toward me.
Sienna smiles faintly and close-lipped, then leans in and touches her lips to mine, her soft breasts pressing against my chest.
“No,” she whispers. “I do know one thing I want.”