A/N: And so we end as we started: lemons and feelings, feelings and lemons. Thank you for reading this story (and waiting so very long for me to finish it). For those of you who've silently engaged, for those of you who've told me how you felt, for those of you who've stuck it out until the end, and for those of you who've just arrived—you're beautiful. I love you, I will miss you, and I hope to write to you again soon. xo

Chapter 10

Eric didn't win the contest and we lost the station. Those things weren't related: the contest ended well, and Eric took second place when the voting was over—something he was extremely proud of since, as he reminded me, he had no following and wasn't even a real musician (a statement that at this point I doubted very much). The true injustice of it? He lost out to a novelty country version of "No Diggity." Bon Temps sucks.

After the New Year, Sam called us in to deliver the news. He didn't really need to say it out loud; we could tell from his face that it was over. He told us how proud he was, how he couldn't have asked for a better crew. When he finished, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

In the long, dreary, workless month that followed, I felt more numb than sad. In the success of the contest and the rejuvenated interest in the station, I think we had forgotten the looming threat. We were not living out the plot of a feel-good movie. When faced with the cold reality of numbers, the little folks had lost and lost hard.

Even so, I'd received a hell of a consolation prize: Eric. Something had changed for the better since the contest. He was a different, more focused kind of confident now, and he had added a fresh tool to his seduction arsenal in music.

Before the contest, he had rarely played a thing for me. I think he just assumed that since music was my job, I was the expert and he was happy to keep it that way. Maybe he didn't want to encroach or maybe he genuinely enjoyed being the listener. Over the last month, though, there hadn't been anything to listen to.

I hadn't meant to shut music out. It was more the result of misplaced self-protection. While I didn't feel personally responsible for the loss of the station, I couldn't stop obsessing over what else I could have done. I gradually closed myself to reminders. I wasn't wearing band t-shirts and refused to load my Discover Weekly. I didn't return any of Lafayette or Jessica's calls, and they had gradually ceased. Eventually I stopped playing music entirely. I'd turned my life into a dull, colorless thing without meaning to or even really paying attention.

But Eric had noticed what I had not, and he was slowly working to reintroduce me. First it was Shearwater on a long car ride, then Anna Ash for cooking pancakes, and finally the new Beck album while dancing in the shower. He never once prodded me about my feelings, and never expected me to explain them; he just used music, little by little, to bring me back to myself.

It was working. Over time, I began to feel more invested in the day-to-day. I started listening to music again, but more than that: I picked up old hobbies that I had abandoned in the crush to be all things to all people at the station. Cooking, reading, even dabbling a little in—god help me—art. I was trying something new professionally, too: I took a job in advertising at Pam's architecture firm. It wasn't my passion but I was good at it, and Pam was proving to be a hilarious distraction from my other worries.

I was beginning to come to terms with the new living arrangement, too: me running the 9-5 hours, greeting Eric at the door when he returned grinning and spattered in paint. Although it went against my modus operandi, being someone's little wifey seemed pretty good when the man was Eric and I got to fuck his brains out any time I wanted. Things weren't perfect, but I was pretty sure I'd be content to do this for a long time.

And then a phone call changed everything.

The evening started innocently enough. We had finished dinner, and Eric was washing dishes while I read on the couch. Out of nowhere, the clunking opening to "Shape of You" filled the room. I wrinkled my nose and was about to shout for Eric to change the music when he suddenly slid into view, Risky Business-style—socks on, pants off—doing a ridiculous bump and grind. I burst out laughing.

"What?" he asked innocently, peeling off his shirt and continuing the striptease. Each thrust of his pelvis flexed his abdominal muscles, making the dance less comical by the second.

I bit my lip in mock seduction. "You know, if you keep that up, we might just have to put Ed Sheeran on repeat…"

Eric dropped the act. "And have it mess with my impeccable listening history? Over his pasty British body." He switched to alt-J's "Deadcrush"—a slinky, dark, lingering thing much more my speed—and joined me on the couch. "Besides, we can't fuck to that; we'd be laughing too hard."

"Mmm, I don't know about that." I latched my arms around his neck and pulled him down to me. "I'll take whatever you got—" I crooned, "—however you want to give it." He caught up fast, gripping my hips and rolling so that I sat astride him.

"You'd better," he teased and brought my mouth down to his. Despite the light tone he'd set, I ground down on him, suddenly desperate.

Eric noticed and pulled back to look at me quizzically. "Sookie..." I answered with another deep thrust, eyes closed in want. I slipped my hand into his boxers, found his waiting cock, and grasped it hard.

"Lover," he warned, gripping the back of my neck and forcing me to look at him. The playfulness was gone and his eyes were filled with black fire. Their intensity thrilled me. I responded with a low, guttural groan.

Eric spoke—harsh, blistering, controlled: "Fuck me like you need it." His large hands swept over the expanse of my body, rough and indecent. "Fuck me hard," he urged. I whimpered as desire raged through me. Then he pushed me over the edge: "Fuck me like we're in public and you can't stop."

The familiar shiver ran down my spine—the one that indicated instant submission, but also fear at the mindlessness, the automation of it. He owned my body; there was no denying it.

And so I responded.

Without thinking, I flipped my skirt up, pulled my underwear to one side, and slid down onto his waiting cock. I was too far gone to be embarrassed. The eagerness of it, the obvious want overwhelmed what might have felt awkward. He moaned into my mouth and stroked up into me.

"Do you know that's a fantasy of mine?" I asked. "I imagine we're at the station making love on air." He groaned at the suggestion and kept pumping. "I have to sound normal or else people will know." I struggled to keep my tone even, rising and falling with his erratic rhythm. "It is very, very hard."

Eric was losing it: "Oh my god, Sookie. FUCK."

"You want me so bad you can hardly stand it." That seemed true now, too, as Eric gasped and bucked and writhed, his blue eyes scalding me with desire. "The second I switch over to music, you come screaming my name."

Eric snarled in angry negation. I exhaled in surprise as he grabbed me by the wrist, brought my hand toward his lips, and bit my palm hard. I came immediately.

He gave me no time, flipping me forward in enraged triumphant. "You will always come first," he growled ominously. I gasped, struggling to grip the arm of the couch as he yanked my underwear down and off me.

"Hold on, lover." He drove into me fast, brutal even. This was a whole other Eric—a dark dream come to life—and I loved it. I felt my orgasm building again at his aggression, his massive, pulsing erection hammering me into near oblivion.

His phone began to vibrate on the coffee table.

"Eric—"

"That's right, baby," he groaned with a particularly savage thrust.

"No, Eric, your phone!" I shrieked.

"I don't care if it's God. Just scream my name again," he shouted, and spanked me hard. Even the thought of his long-fingered hand splayed across my ass lit me on fire, which was nothing compared to the searing actuality of it. I let out a long, primitive wail.

"Oh god, Sookie, I feel that in my dick. Again. Louder."

"FUCK ME, ERIC."

"FUUUUUUUUUCK," he bellowed as he came, gripping my hips, shocking me to another electric blue orgasm. We collapsed together, completely spent.

It took a while to recover.

"Well, that was different," I said after I'd found my voice.

"Mmmm," he murmured, sated, happy.

"I liked it. A lot."

"Mmmm," he repeated.

We lay together for a few minutes drifting toward sleep when I finally remembered the interruption.

"Who called, by the way?"

"Your mom," he muttered, nestling his chin roughly into my hair.

I swatted him away, now fully awake. "Come on, man. You're supposed to be a professional."

"Fine," he grumbled, lurching forward and off of me toward his phone. He stood, listening to the message for a few moments. A look of shock passed over his face. I waited, suddenly on edge.

He hung up, rattled. "Let me, uhhh—I've got to call this guy back." He pulled his worn jeans on and padded barefoot into the other room. I watched his ass as he left. So devastating and so fucking effortless. It was almost unforgivable.

Eric came back a few minutes later, guarded excitement in his eyes.

"Sookie…" he started. "There's...there's something I need to tell you."

It took him a while to explain. Eric had applied to do an artist's residency in NYC before we'd started dating, and he'd been accepted. It was an incredible opportunity for him, just the publicity boost he needed after the success of Night Off. If he accepted, he'd get time and space to devote to developing a new project and make lots of connections to other artists, thinkers, and industry professionals. It was a nine-month residency, and it started in March.

"What do you think…?" he asked tentatively once he finished.

Although I hadn't had time to get a word in before, I responded immediately with enthusiasm. "What do I think?! I think you should do it! I mean, you have to do it, right? NYC! That's amazing."

"Is it?" he laughed, relieved. "I mean, really—is it? Is it actually amazing?"

"Oh my god, Eric, yes! I am so, so proud of you."

He beamed back at me. "I didn't think I had a chance," he said, shaking his head. "And I didn't really want to talk about the possibility, what with everything you went through with the station..."

I agreed. Bragging about the potential for excellence in one partner's career while the other's was starting to plummet would not have been a great morale move.

"Maybe it worked out for the best after all," he continued.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, since you're not working at the station, there's nothing keeping you in Bon Temps. You can come with me."

The world seemed to stop. I was stunned at the assumption, struck momentarily speechless, but Eric didn't seem to notice.

"New York is the shit. There's so much good food there. And the music. The fucking music! We can go out every night and never repeat a venue."

"Eric…"

"We don't get automatic housing with the residency, but I'm sure we can figure something out. Ava, another one of the recipients I met in Nashville, knows some people. I think I could start by calling—"

"Eric!"

He stopped cold. "What?"

I didn't know quite know how to say it, so I blurted it out. "I don't think I can come with you."

It was his turn for stunned silence. "…what?"

"I'm really happy for you. I am. And I meant it when I said you should do it. I just…I just don't know if I can be a ride-along on this. New York is so expensive, and I don't know anyone there…"

Eric was crushed.

"Are…are you saying you want to break up?"

"No. God no. I just don't know if I can leave my life here just like that."

"It's only 9 months—"

"That's a long fucking time, Eric! And I just started a new job—"

"Pam won't give a shit."

"Well, I do," I snapped. I tried to soften my tone a little, but I was pretty worked up. "I can't imagine going through life like that—clinging to you because I don't know anyone else in the place, dependent on you to bring me every piece of self-satisfaction. That isn't fair to you."

"I'll be the judge of what's fair to me."

"Or fair to me. And you know what I'm saying."

A moment passed silently between us.

"I do," he sighed, slumping back down on the couch. "I do, but I don't want to."

My heart broke ever so slightly. I walked to him and settled into his lap. The sad symmetry of the moment was not lost on me; a moment ago, I'd been gasping there in elation.

"I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions." He hugged me to him. "Whatever you want to do, I want you to do it," he whispered, almost inaudibly into my hairline.

I tried to smile, but my heart wasn't in it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gray March rain slid down the windowpane. It was a Saturday, and Eric was at a networking event. I was bundled up with a mug of tea feeling miserable.

Eric was leaving for New York in two weeks. Canvases leaned half-wrapped against the wall. A few boxes filled haphazardly with essentials sat open on the floor. I smiled despite myself when I looked at them—only someone perpetually covered in paint would have such a disorganized packing style.

It was only 9 months, I told myself. I could wait 9 months and then he would be back.

I wanted to go—I really did. Even without Eric, the glut of talent in the city alone had me salivating. But I had nowhere to go, and my Stackhouse pride was out in full force. I was damned if I was going to one of the most expensive cities in the country without a way to pay for myself. Especially not as an embellishment for some guy, even if that guy was damn near perfect.

I told myself it was for the best—Eric would respect me more if I made a decision that prioritized my needs as well as his. It felt shitty, though. He was putting on a brave face, but I could tell he was worried, too. We were the opposite of a long-distance couple: we'd lived together before we even dated. How would it work to be in different states?

Trying to clear my head, I grabbed my keys and left the house. Despite the fact that I hadn't gone there in months, my body drove automatically to the station. At some point I realized where I was headed and I didn't veer off course; in fact, I accelerated.

It had only been a couple of months since the station closed, and the buyers hadn't claimed the building yet. It looked identical to the place I'd dreamed and worked and planned for the past few years. I pulled into my usual parking space and turned off the engine, staring at the building in silence. Thoughts and memories flooded my mind and drifted out again. I sat there a long time thinking nothing at all.

Although Sam had made us turn in our keys, I was suddenly struck with a mad impulse to get inside. I remembered the spare key he'd hidden under the ironic figurine of Elvis Costello dressed as Elvis in the planter by the backdoor. I wondered if he'd remembered it...

With the brazenness of an old lover who still feels owed, I walked straight to the planter, unearthed the key, and fit it to the lock. Like any other day, the key clicked easily into place.

And just like that, I was home.

And, of course, I wasn't. No one was there, and all of our equipment and furniture was gone. Only the battered green sofa remained—so ratty, tired, and gross that no one had wanted it when we helped Sam clean the station out. It had been too heavy to haul outside. I distinctly remember him saying, "Fuck it. Let's leave it for the next douches," in anger.

That said, there was still so much there there. The wall with the green paint faded according to the pattern of records that used to hang there. The expensive sound booth we had excruciatingly installed three years ago, terrified we would put it together wrong. The smell of musty cardboard and old cigarettes and Lafayette's cologne. Every little thing and non-thing held a memory. The crush of it was overwhelming.

It was all too much. This was my space. Where I had finally fit in and wanted to stay. I was good at designing music segments, but through the experience of the contest, I'd learned I was better at scouting and cultivating it. I'd dared to dream of new shows for the station, more on-air concerts, perhaps a new role for myself. That was all gone now, like everything else but the terrible couch.

I sat down and cried for the first time since the whole mess had happened. I cried for Sam and Jessica and Lafayette and myself. I cried for a long while.

When the phone rang, I felt like I had summoned it. It was Jessica. I sat gaping at the phone in disbelief for a full five seconds before picking up.

"Hello?" I managed finally.

"Hey Sookie, it's Jess. Where are you?"

A thick laugh escaped me. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. What's up?"

She was never one to mince words. "We're getting the band back together."

"What are you talking about? What band?"

"Us."

"Who's us? What do you mean? Where are you?"

"If you picked up the phone once in a while, you'd know," she scoffed. "We're in New York. Lafayette headed up here with Jesus after the studio shut down just for kicks. It turns out David's weird uncle owns a warehouse in Brooklyn. One thing led to another, and well… we're turning it into a performance space."

"You're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Kids from bumfuck Louisiana go to make it in the big city and immediately go bankrupt—you're living the cliché."

"Come on, ass—give us some credit. David's uncle is fronting the dough."

"And he's got money to burn?"

"He does, actually. Inherited and unexpected: the best kind."

"Huh."

"Sookie, listen. The space is good—we need to build a stage, put in equipment, but we think it would work."

"Which 'we'?"

"The jam band crew: me, Jesus, David, and Lafayette."

My thoughts darkened for a minute. "What about Bill?"

"Fuck no. No Bill. He's in Mexico—vision quest."

"He's on a vision quest in Mexico?!"

"No, that's the name of his new band: Vision Quest. They're touring in Mexico."

"What a fucking asshole."

"You said it."

I let the whole situation wash over me again. It seemed too good, too aligned to really be happening.

"We want you, Sookie. We've got no one to do marketing or promotions. No one to scout talent."

I pushed against it tentatively. "I'm a radio personality, Jess."

"Bullshit. You spent half the year going after and cultivating live talent. You loved it. And you're good at it."

She was right. I had, and I was.

"I don't mean to oversell this. You're right that we don't have a timeline or a business plan. We're just figuring things out. But we want this to work. I think it can work. And we want you. Can you just come up and see the space?"

I paused for a split-second. Could I?

"Yeah, I can, actually. Eric's starting an artist's residency on Governors Island in two weeks."

"So you'll come up?"

"I'll do it."

"You'll see the space?"

"No, I mean I'll do it. I want the job. I'm in. I'm coming to New York."

We screamed together for so loud and so long I almost forgot what we were excited about.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two weeks wasn't much time to get the apartment packed, but Eric's preliminary work had made it easier. Plus, our excitement turned the whole experience from chore to joy.

When we took Jason out for wings to break the news, he was surprisingly supportive. "Just makes me glad to see you happy."

"Which one of us?" Eric asked, eyeing him warily.

"Both of y'all!" he responded with his trademarked naïve defensiveness. "Just don't forget about your bro when you go gettin' all rich and famous." He eyes twinkled mischievously. "I could use a new truck."

Eric and I drove up from Louisiana together listening to Simon and Garfunkel's "America," watching the scenery roll by. It was an incredible experience to see the country open up before us, like everything in it was ours.

It was pitch black as we approached the city, glittering in the distance. Eric pulled over to survey the scene. If I squinted my eyes, it looked surreal, like a painting from his series.

He spoke, hand on the gearshift. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Asks the man who fucked me with a vibrator before our first date," I shot back.

"I'm pretty sure I asked you then, too…"

"I think it was more implied."

"Well, I'm asking you now," he sparkled.

I shrugged nonchalantly.

"Floor it, Northman."

Eric's face broke into a thousand smile lines. He grasped my hand sure and strong as we drove off into the future together.

The end.