She blinked a couple of times before blurting out, “No.” It wasn’t cold or cruel. She sounded surprised and a little confused. Still clutching the edges of the fiberglass door, covering it with paint, she elaborated. “It’s not a good idea, and you know it.”

“The fuck not?”

“Well, I have about five hundred reasons that come to mind, but let’s start with the obvious ones—you’re my boss and you refer to me as Help.”

“It’s a term of endearment,” I fired back. “Which I can drop, if you don’t like it. Go on.”

She let out a brittle laugh. “When you hired me, you promised you wanted to work together, nothing more.”

“Yeah?” I huffed, growing impatient. Did she realize she was turning down what no one else had ever before been offered? “And now I want you to come with me to grab some dinner. I plan to eat a steak, not your pussy.”

I may have overdone this one, because Help—fuck, Emilia—tried to slam the door on me at the exact same moment I slid my foot inside the gap. She smashed the door against my foot, but I didn’t care.

“Fine. We’ll order in. What’s your problem? You need to eat. Besides, Rosie’s here too, right? You don’t think I’ll try and bang you in front of your sister, do you?”

The look on her face told me that yes, in fact, she was quite certain I’d try to bang her in front of her sister.

I might have deserved that.

I lifted three fingers in the air and sloped my chin up. “Scout’s honor.”

Hesitantly, she cracked the door open, but not all the way. “We can order in, but that’s it.” She stepped aside, giving me permission to enter her little universe.

I bulldozed into her apartment, into her life. The walls and kitchen were minimalist white, the floor a light-colored wood, the design open with very little furniture, white as well. It looked like an insane asylum. There was an easel at the corner of the living room, next to the window overlooking the city, with a big stretched canvas of an in-progress painting. A cherry blossom tree overlooking a lake. It was vivid and sharp, like nature was within reach. Which was a beautiful lie, of course. We were in a concrete kingdom, imprisoned by skyscrapers. Industrial smoke and mirrors.

Interesting. So Help was an artist. It didn’t surprise me. She was actually talented. Her shit wasn’t tacky or good in a generic, mainstream kind of way. Her art was thought provoking. But not enough to be borderline crazy. It represented her quite perfectly, actually.

Her back was to me. We both stared at the painting.

“Why cherry blossoms?” I asked, ten years later than I should have. She’d always had a thing for the tree. She painted other shit too, everything she owned had been doodled on: textbooks, backpacks, clothes, arms. But she always came back to the cherry blossoms. Even her hair was the same shade as her favorite tree.

“Because it’s beautiful and…I don’t know, the blooms are gone so fast.” I heard the smile on her lips. “When I was a kid, my grandmama used to take me to DC every spring to the Cherry Blossom Festival. Just me. I used to wait for it all year long. We never had much money, so to spend a day there, to go to a barbeque restaurant afterward…it was a big thing for me. Huge.

“Then she got sick when I was seven. Cancer. It took a while. I didn’t really understand the concept of her dying, going away and never coming back, so she told me about the Japanese Sakura. People in Japan travel from all over to see the trees at their prime. Cherry blossom season is short but breathtaking, and after the blossoms fade, the flowers fall to the ground, scattered by the wind and rain. Grandmama said that the cherry blossom was life. Sweet and beautiful, but so darn short. Too short not to do what you wanna do. Too short to not spend it with the people…you love.” Her eyes closed slowly as she took a deep breath.

She stopped talking, and I stopped fucking breathing. Because I knew what made her stop. Me.

Everything I did.

I prevented her from spending time with some of these people—her parents, her sister—for my own selfish reasons when she was only eighteen.

“Holy cow, I’m a buzzkill.” She let out a breathless chuckle. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I swallowed, taking a wide step so we stood flush next to each other, still observing the painting. “Shit happens. My mom died when I was nine.”

“I know.” Her tone was somber, but not anxious. Normally, people didn’t like it when you brought up your dead mother. Grief was an uncomfortable emotion to deal with. “That must’ve been hard.”

“Well, you said you were a buzzkill. My competitive side inspired me to bring my A game.” I shrugged, my voice even.

“Vicious.” She laughed again, this time turning to me, giving me that look teachers give their students when they’re disappointed with them.

I grinned. “Dead mother beats dead grandmother every day, and you fucking know it.”

She swatted my shoulder but couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re horrible.”

“Horribly sexy. Yes.”

We ordered Vietnamese, and I told her how my mom got injured in a car crash, then died when I was nine. The usual details, except for the really sordid stuff about who made it happen. She was covered in paint, so we sat on the drop cloth under the easel. It wasn’t my thing, but I didn’t mind. The reason I told her about my mom was simple. I didn’t want her to bail on my ass if push came to shove. If I was going to corrupt her morally, I needed more ammo.