Helga's POV
The downpour hasn't stopped since last night. My eyes follow the droplets race down my window, wondering what Arnold's doing and if he's with her.
I mean, he would be well within his rights...
Eisenmeower sits in my lap, purring and giving me that judgmental cat stare he's perfected.
"What?" I ask him. He just blinks slowly, like I'm being particularly dense. "I know that look. That's your 'missing Arnold' look, isn't it?" His purring intensifies. "Traitor."
But he's right. I think even Scout, his own dog, never warmed up to anyone as quickly as Eisenmeower took to Arnold.
I can hear Phoebe's strict voice lecturing me about going to see Simon against my better judgment at Lila's.
What a shitshow...my love life has been.
My eyes track the wet drops staining my window, and I space out for a second.
I blink myself back to reality thinking about Arnold's coarse tone but his loving eyes from the other night.
A shitshow. But suppose it doesn't have to be... I let out a heavy sigh while my gaze moves to the tickets on my nightstand.
A toxic cycle has to be eradicated at some point…
My eyes go to my phone on my nightstand again.
Plus, I just want him.
"Okay, okay, I'll call him." I reach for my phone just as it lights up. Seeing Sid's name, I hesitate, then answer anyway.
"What's up?" I ask with some surprise in my voice, tucking Eisenmeower closer.
"Nothing. Just figured I'd check if you're still alive. Y'know, after last night's dramatic-ass rainstorm and all."
I smirk, rolling my eyes. "Barely. But I'll live."
"Good to know. I'd hate to have to break into your apartment and fight Eisenmeower for your leftover Vietnamese food."
I snort at that. "He'd end you before you even touched the fridge."
Sid laughs, but there's a brief pause before he speaks again. "So, you gonna call him, or are we still in the 'agonizing in silence' phase?"
Damn, I wasn't expecting that question. I swallow hard. "I was just about to."
"Good." Sid's voice is uncharacteristically even, and then he adds, "Call me if it implodes. Or if you need a post-call distraction. I'm excellent at finding mindless shit to do."
"Noted."
When we hang up, my brows meet in the middle. I can't believe Sid and I are actually becoming friends. Granted, we've always been friends, but not the kind that talk on the phone; more like the kind of friends who would share a joint with Rhonda after one of our classic self-sabotage moves.
But this? It's... different.
I go to freshen up for bed, and when I return to my bedroom, there's an unread text sitting there.
Sid: Don't do anything dumb. Or do. Either way, tell me about it later.
Weirdly, it doesn't even annoy me. Maybe we really are buddies. I chuckle and take a deep breath before tapping Arnold's name on my screen.
Before I can hit 'call,' it lights up with Arnold's name. My giggle comes out shaky. "Football Head?"
"Helga." It feels like ages since I've heard his voice in my ear like this, sounding like flowing water in the key of smoove.
"I was just about to call you, actually."
"Yeah?" He says in a higher pitch. "Great minds think alike, I guess."
I take a deep breath. "Listen, about last night... I'm sorry. I should have called when I got back to town, and I didn't think... I mean, hanging out with Sid after leaving the way I did, I didn't think it would really—"
"Hurt me?" he finishes quietly.
"Yeah." I curl deeper into my chair. "That, and then when I saw you with that girl, I didn't—"
"I'm sorry, too." He gently cuts me off with a sigh, and I can picture him running his hand through his hair like he always does when he's nervous. "About that girl, Krissy—it really was nothing. We hung out a few times, and she needed help finding an apartment that would take her cats. That's all."
"You don't have to explain yourself, and you have nothing to be sorry about, but I believe you." And surprisingly, I do.
"Still... uh... And about Sid," he adds, "that was really stupid. I should have known better. He may be a flirt, but he wouldn't... not with someone who actually matters."
"To you?" I ask, testing the waters.
"To both of us." He pauses. "Though having Rhonda in my ear didn't help..."
I can't help but laugh. "Oh, criminy, wasn't this after the girls' fourth drink? And she told me she had just seen Curly..."
"With his new assistant, apparently."
"Precisely. Classic inebriated Rhonda stirring the pot. You should know better than to listen to Princess when she's in post-Curly mode."
His chuckle carries through the phone. "Yeah, I should. Though in my defense, you in that leather jacket wasn't helping my judgment either."
A comfortable silence settles between us, and I can picture him smiling just as I am before I gather my courage. "So there's this thing at the Heritage Theater tomorrow night I got two tickets to. Live jazz, dancing... not like the Mojito Club," I add quickly. "More structured. Proper steps and all that." He's dead silent, and I feel my nerves taking over. "Uh.. Yeah, so, it's kinda cheesy and shit, but I figure a sappy guy like you would like something like that." I pop myself on the forehead, cringing at myself—smooth, real, smooth, Helga.
"Helga?" His tenor voice sounds teasing. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Yeah, I'm trying to make an honest man out of you..." I roll my eyes when he keeps cracking jokes at my expense. I know he's trying to break the tension between us. "Look, Arnoldo, don't make me regret this."
His laugh tugs at my heart, sounding warm and boyish. "Can I pick you up at seven?" he asks after learning the details.
Arnold meets me at my door in a suit that makes my mouth go dry. His eyes sweep over my dress—midnight blue, vintage-inspired—and there's that gaze again, the one that makes me want to forget about dancing altogether.
But this is different. We're doing it right. Or at least that is the intention.
The Heritage Theater glows with soft lighting, the kind that makes everyone look like they stepped out of an old movie.
The band plays standards, the kind that requires actual dance steps. Arnold leads confidently—when did he learn to dance like this?—his hand properly on my waist, maintaining just enough distance to stay decent.
"Where did you learn the foxtrot?" I ask as he guides me through a turn.
"Grandma," he says, and there's that soft smile I remember. "She insisted every gentleman should know how to dance properly. Said you never know when you'll need to sweep someone off their feet."
"Is that what you're trying to do? Sweep me off my feet?"
His expression turns serious. "Maybe I am."
Later, we're singing the last song the band played: "I Wanna Dance with Somebody," like two corny toads two-stepping to my door, and then the energy between us shifts. Arnold's tie is loose, my feet ache pleasantly, and all I can think about is getting him inside.
"That was..." I search for words that won't sound too revealing.
"Our first proper date?" He supplies with a hint of playfulness.
"Yeah," I admit, fumbling with my keys, too, filled with excitement. "Do you want to come up? See what happens next?"
"We can do that..." He follows me inside, and for a moment, it's like before—my hands in his hair, his mouth on my neck. My fingers scroll down to his back, feeling him pulsate. But then he pulls back, breathing hard with his eyes slightly closed.
His fingers move from my hip to briefly graze my cheek.
"Helga, wait."
"What's wrong?"
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that makes him look younger. "I don't... I don't want this to be like before. Quick and intense, and then you're gone again."
I know he wants this; his eyes scream so...
"Arnold—"
"I want more than that. With you." His voice is quiet but firm. "I want to do this correctly."
I step back, torn between frustration and something dangerously close to hope. "Fine. You can take the couch if you want."
I toss him a pillow and blanket, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, and retreat to my room. But sleep won't come. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud.
When I venture back out, I find Arnold on the couch with Eisenmeower curled against his chest. He's awake, too, staring at the ceiling.
"Can't sleep?" he asks without looking at me.
"No." I slowly move to my small upright piano, where I usually retreat to when I can't sleep—a splurge from my first book advance.
I hesitate before I move, fingers ghosting over the piano keys. "Do you know Power Fantastic?"
Arnold tilts his head, something curious in his gaze. "Sounds familiar, isn't that by Prince?"
I nod. "It's different from his usual stuff. More haunting, like a dream you can't quite remember."
He watches me as I press down on the first note, the melody curling softly into the room. The sound feels fragile, weightless, but full of something unnamed. My fingers glide over the keys, slow and deliberate, letting the music spill into the quiet.
Arnold doesn't interrupt. He just listens, eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth barely curving, like he knows this means something.
When I lift my hands from the keys, the silence hums between us.
Then he steps closer. Hand extended.
"Dance with me?"
I blink up at him. "Hold on." My fingers move to my phone, and with a few taps, the real song begins to play, its hypnotic intro weaving through the air. The room feels different now, wrapped in the soft hum of piano and horns like we've slipped into some private, unseen place where time doesn't exist.
Arnold doesn't wait. He takes my hand, guiding me into the open space of my living room. The song sways around us, and so do we—not like at the Heritage Theater, not with measured steps or careful space between us.
This is something quieter, slower. More intoxicating.
His hands settle at my waist, and I let my arms slide around his neck, fingers brushing the soft curls at his nape. We barely move, just rocking in place, like neither of us is ready to break whatever this is.
The music lingers, each note delicate and deliberate, like it's meant just for us.
His forehead rests lightly against mine, breath warm against my skin as the song does;
"You're a little apprehensive, 'cause what it is, is what you want and need..."
My throat tightens.
"I missed you," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His arms tighten around me, holding me like he means it. "I missed you too. Every day."
We dance until the song ends, but neither of us moves away. Something has shifted and settled into place. It's different from the heat and urgency of before. Right now, this feels like coming home.
Morning finds us still on the couch, tangled together but fully clothed, Eisenmeower purring between us. The rain has finally stopped, and light streams through my windows, painting patterns on Arnold's sleeping face. I study him in the quiet—the slight furrow between his brows, the way his hand stays curved protectively around my waist even in sleep.
This is what I've been running from—not Arnold, but this feeling.
This certainty. This knowledge that some things for things... or people, you have to face what you're afraid of.
And I'm still afraid, but...
He stirs, blinking slowly, and smiles when he sees me watching him with the busy streets, creating a unique background melody. "Morning, Football Head."
"Morning," he murmurs, voice husky with sleep.
A long pause.
"So," I say, breaking the silence. "Now what?"
Arnold just smiles, squeezing my hand. "Guess we'll figure it out."
But his fingers tighten around mine—just slightly like he's holding onto something, too.
The thing is—I want to believe that. But my gut still contorts, just a little.
Maybe love isn't about having all the answers right away. I guess it's about having the patience to find them together.
The city stirs beyond the window, life moving forward, but we stay here—still, warm, certain.
And for once, I don't feel like escaping.
Not today, anyway.