Light is filtering through the windows when I wake. I push the hair out of my face and roll to look at the clock on the nightstand.
8:32.
It’s a punch to the stomach, remembering. A year ago, nearly to the minute, my father was in the car with Charlotte on the way to get donuts. It was his idea, of course—he’d use any excuse to get his hands on junk food—but he said it was to get Charlotte more practice behind the wheel.
I picture his heart attack from her vantage point, again and again: panicked and inexperienced, with no idea how to help him and unable to find a place to pull over. She hasn’t been behind the wheel since.
I assume there will come a time when I can think of my father without imagining his last moments. When I can remember him and feel happy instead of lost. But it’s probably a long way off.
I release a single slow breath, waiting for the grief to lessen, and then I throw off the covers and force myself to move on with my day. I rinse off quickly before donning a T-shirt and shorts and brushing my teeth. My hair remains unruly and I refuse to do a thing about it…I’m on vacation after all. Plus, I secretly suspect Hayes is the sort who likes things a little untamed.
“Rise and shine, pumpkin!” I call as I venture into the living room. “It’s time for Starbucks!”
He wanders out in shorts and a T-shirt, hair rumpled and deeply in need of a shave, sweetly sleepy-eyed. He yawns, stretching his arms over his head, and I picture waking up to him just the way he looks now, though in my imagination both the shorts and shirt are entirely absent.
Great. It’s not even nine AM and I already need another shower. As cold as possible, this time.
“I was sort of hoping you’d surprise me by getting the coffee before I woke,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. “I really hope Starbucks isn’t the extent of today’s plans.”
I roll my eyes. “You know this is supposed to be my weekend off. Maybe I figured you’d entertain yourself.”
“I did that last night in the shower. Now I want you to entertain me.”
I laugh, unwillingly, but not before I picture it in all its hard, wet, soapy detail.
Whoa. Down, brain.
Hayes jerking off in the shower is not where I need my thoughts focused today. “Fine. We’re going surfing. I know you’ll claim you’re not interested, but Matt and I went a few times and I think you’ll like it.”
“I suppose Matt was extremely good at surfing,” he says, his lip curling.
“He was kind of good at everything,” I reply as I head to the door. Except it no longer feels true. I’m mostly saying it to annoy Hayes…which it does.
“I can think of one or two things he wasn’t so good at,” Hayes mutters from behind me.
At Starbucks, the line takes longer than it should, thanks to the woman taking ninety minutes to choose a cake pop.
We get our drinks, and he stirs in his very own sugar like a big boy. “So,” he says, glancing at the door, “we’re about to experience the magic of walking outside. Will it feel like absolute inner peace or more like an orgasm that lasts and lasts?”
My shoulders sag. I’d hoped to make Hayes see the value in time off, but how can I when he’s hell-bent on proving me wrong? “I knew you’d be an asshole about it.”
I walk out without him and turn my face to the sun. The air smells like scrub oak and primrose, the weather is perfect and I have a day at the beach ahead of me. It will have to be enough, whether Hayes is grousing the entire time or not.
He comes up beside me, and his arm brushes mine.
“I’m having fun, Tali,” he says softly. “For some reason complaining to you about things I don’t actually mind is just my favorite thing to do.”
It’s not an apology, but it’s close enough and something inside me warms a little.
“Better than banging three girls at once?” I nudge him with my shoulder.
He looks around. “Is that an option at the moment? Is that what you meant when you said we’re surfing? Because if so, I’m one hundred percent in.”
“Sadly, no,” I reply.
“Alas,” he says. “But yes, this will be fun too.”
I arranged for the surf instructor to meet us out in front of the property at ten. I slip on my bikini, grab sunscreen, and wander to the deck where Hayes is already waiting.
His eyes roam over me—face to chest to legs, back to the chest where they remain. My body reacts to his obvious approval—skin tingling, nipples hardening under my bikini top. I try not to squirm, to let him see how his attention affects me. He turns away and I see him adjust his shorts. I like that I affect him too.
“I kind of figured you for the sporty-swim-shorts-and-tank-top kind of gal,” he says.
“The surf instructor is bringing us wet suits. Otherwise, you’d be correct.”
He turns and his eyes flicker over me again, and linger. “Probably for the best. That top looks like a light breeze could send it flying.”
We walk down a flight of the stairs to the beach, where Gus, our young, shaggy-haired instructor, waits. We struggle into wetsuits and then he makes us practice popping up on the board until he’s deemed us ready to paddle out.
He nods toward the surf and leads the way, but Hayes hesitates, looking from me to the water. “You’re sure you’re going to be okay? Those don’t look like pygmy-size waves.”
I fight an affectionate smile as I nod. In every important relationship I’ve ever had—with Matt and with my family—I’ve been the rock, the one who worries, not the one who is worried about. It’s a role I think Hayes would refuse to let me play, and there’s a part of me that is so, so tired of playing it, that wishes badly I could lean on someone the way my family leans on me.
I catch a few waves while Gus helps Hayes. After several false starts, Hayes manages to stay upright for a solid ten seconds. Within an hour, he’s better at it than I am.
We’re straddling our boards and staring at the horizon, waiting for the next set, when Gus points ahead of us.
“Whales,” he says, and they emerge not thirty feet from where we sit. Out of nowhere, grief hits. It was a dream of my father’s, to go on a whale-watching tour and for a moment I allow myself to think of him here with me. The sun on his shoulders, the water lapping at his legs, a huge smile on his face as he enjoys the wonder of it all. I pinch my lips together and swallow hard as a sharp pain pierces my heart.
Hayes says nothing, but he reaches out and pulls my surfboard so we are side by side, knees bumping, as they pass.
“Are you happy?” I ask quietly.
His hand rests on my knee, making small circles with his thumb. “Very,” he says. “We should do this again.”
I glance up at him and his mouth lifts, one dimple blinking to life. It’s a perfect moment at the end of a very imperfect year. I’m not sure my father would approve of Hayes, but if he’s watching, he’s probably smiling despite himself.
“You’re going to ruin your appetite,” Hayes says with a sigh, eyeing the large slice of apple pie I’ve cut myself. He’s stretched out on the chaise—already irritatingly tan while I’ve been applying SPF 50 every hour this afternoon to keep from burning—and being awfully judgmental for a guy who just bought his weight in baked goods last night.
“Ruin my appetite for what?” I counter. “I assume we’re eating Pop-Tarts for dinner. At least this has fruit in it.”
He snatches the fork from my hand and pops its contents in his mouth. “We’ve got dinner in an hour down the street. And the place is nice” —his eyes trail over my bare stomach, lingering on the side tie of my bikini bottoms for a moment —“so you might want to be slightly less naked than you are.”
He made us a reservation. I stick the pie in his lap and jump to my feet. I have no idea why, as I rush inside to shower, I’m smiling as wide as I am.
I take my time getting ready before donning a strapless white sundress. I dab my lips with a rose-tinted balm and get a good look at myself in the mirror. The girl who smiles back at me—the one with glowing eyes and sun-warmed cheeks—looks like she’s on the cusp on something big, something exciting. I try to remind her she’s not, but it’s hard not to feel like this is a date when I walk out to find Hayes waiting in the living room, his eyes consuming me as I approach.
His teeth sink into his lip and I feel a stab of desire so sharp I almost stumble from it.
It’s not a date, but if it were, I’d press up close and whisper in his ear, suggesting we cancel dinner entirely. Then I’d press my lips to his jaw just to feel that five o’clock shadow of his against my skin. I’d finish unbuttoning the shirt he’s got on, running my hands down his chest, letting my fingers trace all the hard hills and valleys of his stomach before they trail lower…to his belt, which I’d rip loose so fast my speed would shock us both.
But, of course, this is absolutely not a date.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Since someone ate all the pie.”
His mouth slips into a smile. “I believe that someone is you.”
“I’m just pointing out that pie is no longer an option,” I say, lips twitching. “I’m sorry you feel the need to assign blame.”
We walk two blocks down to the restaurant, which is oceanfront and insanely expensive. He orders a bottle of wine that is worth more than my car—not that that’s saying much—and tastes like happiness in liquid form.
Dinner is served while we watch the sun dim and then set in an explosion of reds and fiery orange. He eats off my plate and I eat off his. Not a date, I remind myself. Definitely not a date.
“What an amazing day,” I say, twirling pasta around my fork. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.”
I wish we were staying longer. Or never planning to leave at all.
He leans back in his seat, holding his glass of wine to his chest. “Was a day with me better than a day with Matt?”
It’s so weird how competitive he is with someone he’s not actually competing against. “Anything with you is better than it was with Matt.” My reply is instant, as I reach across the table to take another bite of his risotto. “Don’t get too flattered. I’ve finally realized he wasn’t all that great.”
“I could have told you that within thirty seconds of meeting him. Men like him want to be the center of someone’s universe and look elsewhere the minute they’re not.”
I lean toward him. “You date all these girls who act like you’re a superhero. Is that so different?”
“I date women who don’t expect anything, and the rest of it…just comes with the territory. You don’t actually think that’s what I want.”
It’s not a question, but a statement. And he’s right. I don’t think he enjoys the way women treat him. He simply chooses women who understand what he’s willing to offer and who, I suspect, won’t make him want more either.
It will never make him happy.
But I could, a voice whispers.
What a ridiculous, dangerous thought to entertain.
A waiter clears our plates, but we nurse the last of the wine, neither of us in a rush to leave. It feels, here, as if he’s mine—the pleasure of his words and his smile and his gaze. I try to ignore the part of me that, increasingly, wants more. Wants to feel the rough press of his skin, his weight above me, hear the sounds he makes when he’s losing control.
The adorable elderly couple at the table opposite us is served a large bottle of champagne on ice and they then rise and bring it to our table. “We’re celebrating our anniversary, but we can’t drink this alone,” the man says. “Do you mind if we join you? My wife keeps talking about how much you remind her of us when we were younger.”
Hayes and I share a glance—he looks as reluctant as I do to give up even a minute of our time alone, but it would be almost uncivil not to agree. “Of course,” Hayes replies, his smile forced.
They introduce themselves, and then Jacob, the husband, calls the waitress over for glasses while Hayes asks Barb, the wife, how long they’ve been married.
“Fifty years,” Jacob answers for her. He looks at our hands. “How about you two? I don’t see any rings.”
“Oh,” I say, startled. “We’re not—”
“Tali’s my assistant,” Hayes says smoothly. Why do we sound like we’re lying? Probably because you don’t have a romantic, oceanfront dinner on a Saturday night with your assistant.
“I know what it looks like, but neither of us are married or anything,” I add hastily. “I thought he needed a break from work, so I arranged this, and he doesn’t know how to get his own groceries or coffee, so he made me come with him.” My words come out rushed, nervous.
It still sounds like we’re lying.
“Would you rather swallow ten large spiders or sleep in a bed of rats?” Jacob asks suddenly, filling our glasses.
We look from him to each other. “Spiders,” we both answer simultaneously.
“Okay, you can only bring one person with you to an uninhabited island and you have no way of leaving. Who do you bring?” he asks.
My eyes flicker to Hayes, who’s already looking at me.
“I’d have to bring Tali, obviously,” he says. “I can’t make my morning smoothie on my own.”
I laugh. Only on Hayes’s uninhabited island would there be electricity and a Vitamix.
“Tali?” Barb asks.
I grin at my boss. “That’s a very hard question. I’d have to give it some thought.”
“You know you’d pick me,” Hayes argues. “Who could possibly be more fun?”
I shrug. “My niece is pretty fun.”
“You’d knowingly choose to make a young child suffer on an uninhabited island solely for your amusement?” he scolds. “With no access to health care? An uncertain food supply? And you call me a narcissist.” His eyes sparkle with amusement.
“Only behind your back. And I was under the impression this island somehow had a bounty of organic vegetables and Vitamixes, but you’ve made a good point. I’m more willing to make you suffer.”
We both laugh, and it’s only then I see Barb and Jacob staring at us again, wondering what our deal is.
“Well, if you’re both single, why on earth aren’t you together?” asks Barb. “You’d make the cutest couple.”
I feel as awkward as a twelve-year-old sitting beside her crush. I couldn’t look at Hayes right now if my life depended on it.
“Tali doesn’t trust men,” says Hayes. “And I am wholly untrustworthy. That pretty much sums it up.”
There’s something in his voice that draws my gaze to him, and for a single moment I see hunger on his face, stark and desperate. As if it’s only the presence of others that keeps him from pushing up my skirt and taking me right here on this table.
I would let him.
Jacob starts talking about how poor they were when they got married: all the canned tuna and potatoes they ate, the car door tied shut with a rope. I am barely listening, watching Hayes instead. If he were mine, I would have no recollection at all of tuna, potatoes, or how we kept a car door shut. I’d only remember wanting him closer and closer, until I couldn’t tell where he began and I ended. I’d suffocate to death trying to get more and more of his gloriously smooth skin.
I’m still fantasizing when Barb coughs politely and tells her husband it’s time for them to go. I wonder how obvious my thoughts were.
We stand, and Barb hugs me. “Even if you don’t trust men,” she whispers, “this one’s a keeper.”
She obviously doesn’t know much about Hayes’s careless approach to women. But then again, as he stands there watching me with that look in his eye, he doesn’t appear all that careless to me either.
We get back to our rental and walk out to sit in the double chaise, where it’s silent but for the crashing waves and the incessant call of crickets. Our night here is ending, and we leave in the morning. I want to dig in my heels and refuse to go.
“In a perfect world, I’d stay in this house and never leave,” I tell him.
I see a flash of his dimple. “Would I be here with you? Before you answer, let me remind you I’m good at buying pie.”
“Hmmm, true,” I agree. “And Pop-Tarts. I suppose you’d have to stay.”
There’s silence. I lean my head back and shut my eyes. As much as I love this house, it’s Hayes that’s actually made me happy here. If I were to create a Tinder profile now, I’d seek…him. Mischievous eyes, a willingness to always say the rudest possible thing, a mouth that twitches when he’s trying not to smile. Someone who holds my door without thinking, but is happy to slam it in my face if it will make me laugh.
We only have two weeks left before Jonathan is back full-time. I wonder if it bothers him at all. I wonder if the thought of it makes his heart clench the way it does mine, if it sometimes hurts to breathe when he considers it. Doubtful, when he doesn’t even know I’m leaving for good. He’s never asked where I’ll go when Jonathan returns, and I never volunteered it. I guess there was this small part of me that just wanted to see every possibility played out. That wanted to see how things might be with us if I were able to stay.
“And in your ideal world,” he says, “would Matt be here too?”
I stretch and roll on my side to face him. “I swear you talk more about my ex than I do. Do you want me to set you two up? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m just wondering to what extent you’re over him,” he says. His voice is quieter than it was, less certain. “And don’t reflexively tell me you are. I saw the way you looked at him that night, Tali.”
Has he been thinking, all this time, that I still want Matt back? “I was just shocked. It was the first time I’d seen or talked to him since the breakup, and I felt like such a failure by contrast. It wasn’t about missing him.”
“You must miss him a little,” he argues. “He’s basically the only person you’ve ever been with.”
I think about this. “The things I miss are pretty stupid. I miss having someone to eat with, someone to talk to while I brush my teeth at night. I miss having someone who will listen to the stupid stuff that happens each day, the stories that don’t really have a point.”
“I feel like much of what you say is pointless, if that helps?” he asks, and I kick him. “At least he was so deeply unsatisfying in bed you don’t have to miss that.”
“I never said it was deeply unsatisfying,” I argue. “But I guess it’s nice not to have the pressure.” This grabs his attention. He turns his head to look at me, and his body follows, adjusting his position so he is on his side.
“What pressure?” he asks.
I flip onto my back. “I’d need a lot more alcohol to discuss that comfortably.”
He grabs the bottle of wine and refills my glass.
I take a heavy sip, wishing I’d had more to drink before this discussion began. Or that I hadn’t said anything to lead to it in the first place.
“It bothered him,” I begin haltingly. “It bothered him if I didn’t…finish…which I often didn’t for the reason I mentioned earlier. He took it personally, so I was always kind of worried.”
“Lots of women don’t come through intercourse. Why didn’t he just go down on you?”
The ease with which he suggests it, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, plucks a string in my core. I picture it. I picture Hayes like that…how open and shameless he’d be.
God.
“What?” he asks. “You can’t come that way?”
“I have no idea,” I groan, as I cover my face with my hand, humiliated. “And I can’t believe we’re discussing this. I’ve only slept with two people, and neither of them tried. It doesn’t matter. It probably wouldn’t work anyway.”
“It would work,” he says. His voice is low and raspy. I shiver at the sound of it. “I could make you come in two minutes flat.”
My gut clenches. I picture him sliding down between my legs, pushing my thighs apart. The rasp of his scruff against my skin, that first flick of his tongue… Stop thinking this way. There will be other men in the future. It just can’t be him. It’ll ruin everything.
Hayes is perfectly still beside me, silent. I’m about to brave looking at him, but I’m scared of what I might see.
And then his hand circles my wrist. “Tali,” he says quietly, pulling my hand away from my face. “Let me.” The look on his face is almost pleading, but there’s desire too.
His smell is everywhere—ocean and soap and fresh air, making it impossible to think.
I stare at him, my tongue darting out to tap my lip as I hesitate. I know what he’s asking, and I know it’s a terrible idea. “I don’t want to mess up—”
“It won’t,” he says. “It won’t, I swear. You don’t have to touch me. Just let me do this. Let me be the first.”
I’ve never heard him like this before. I’ve never seen him act like he really wants something, and wants it badly. I’m shocked by how compelling it is.
I don’t think I’m capable of turning him down when he asks like that.
“Only this,” I whisper. “Nothing more. And it all goes back to normal in the morning. We’re friends again. No weirdness. Promise?”
His fingers push into my hair, and he turns my face toward his.
“I promise.” He grabs the wine glass out of my hand, putting it down on the little table to his right, and then comes back to me. His hand rests on my waist, face inches from mine and I suck in a breath at his closeness. He glances at my mouth and for one endless second, I think he will kiss me. He swallows and then his lips move lower—to my jawline, then my neck. They linger there and he breathes deep, as if I’m wine he’s just decanted. Already I’m arching toward him, like a flower toward the sun.
I feel the flutter of his pulse beneath my palm, faster than normal. His hand moves up my body, skimming my breast. He runs his fingers along the top of my sundress, dipping for a moment into the cleft between my breasts.
“This,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving me, like I’m a meal he’s waited a lifetime for. “This made me crazy all night.”
Grasping the fabric, he slowly lowers my dress down to my waist, freeing my breasts to him completely. His quiet groan grazes my skin, pebbling my nipples, and he traces one with an index finger before his mouth lowers to grace it with a gentle kiss.
I arch upward as something bursts open inside me. My blood is racing, my body taut and reckless.
“Oh,” I gasp. “That…”
I can’t really form the rest of the sentence, and I don’t need to. He knows. He knows I need more, that suddenly I need everything. He does it again, using his teeth this time. A pulse beats in my core, insistent and demanding. My knee bends as my foot slides up the back of his leg, in a silent plea for action.
I want to tell him to forget about his plans. I want to reach for his belt and pull him inside me. But already he’s noticed the way my skirt has fallen to my waist, exposing me. His hands trail along my inner thighs and then he pushes my legs apart, his eyes following their progress as if the Holy Grail is at the end of their path.
And then his fingertips press against my panties.
Oh. Even that tiny brush of his fingers is waking something up in me, something I’d almost forgotten existed. My eyelids flutter closed, but not before I see him watching my reaction, avid and satisfied.
His index finger hooks under the elastic and drags along my core. My head falls backward, arching my neck. “Oh, God,” I whisper. But what if it doesn’t work? the voice in my head echoes. I don’t want him to look at me like Matt used to afterward, silently resentful.
“Stop thinking, Tali,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the soft skin of my inner thigh. “This is just you and me, no one else.” He strokes me again. “Do you feel my fingers against you?”
I swallow as he refocuses my attention. The calloused pad of his index finger brushes against my clit before it slides lower. That tiny brush lights me on fire. I’m not sure it’s even possible to worry when he’s doing what he is right now.
“Yes.” The word is breathy, desperate.
His mouth moves up my thigh, his shoulder forcing my legs further apart, allowing him more access. He presses his lips to my clit, outside my panties, before pushing the panties to the side entirely and swiping his tongue over me, top to bottom.
“Jesus, you’re so wet right now.” He glides his fingers up and down, and then pushes one inside me, to emphasize his point. I let my knees drop open even more, encouraging him. His fingers circle my opening and I groan out loud before he slides two fingers inside me, his tongue continuing to flicker over my clit in the most torturous way.
It’s unlike anything else. I rock my hips against his fingers as he starts to move them in and out of me. I’m not even going to last a minute and I want it to last. I want him to keep doing exactly this until we have to check out in the morning. Preferably, until I have to move home.
His thumb replaces his mouth on my clit as he applies more pressure and my head starts to spin. My breath comes out in small gasps, in rhythm with the thrust of my hips. I hear him moan and the clank of his belt as it falls open, followed by his zipper, and then…the sound of his free hand, moving over his own length.
My eyes open to watch him. His mouth is slightly ajar, his gaze dark and drugged, his grip on his cock so tight it looks painful.
That’s all it takes.
Every muscle in my abdomen pulls tight. “Oh, God,” I whisper. “I’m gonna come.”
He buries his face between my legs and licks hard as I arch against him with my hands in his hair. Fireworks explode behind my eyes as I finally let go, crying out as the entire world falls away. He doesn’t let up for a moment until I reach down to wrap my hand around the one currently gripping his cock.
“Come here,” I gasp, and he knows exactly what I mean, rising quickly, climbing over me to press his cock to my lips like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it there soon enough.
“I’m close,” he hisses, as my tongue slides over him. “Oh, fuck, I’m so close.”
I take him as far as I can, my fist sliding over his base, and when I pull hard with my mouth, he inhales sharply. “Coming. God.”
He starts to pull out but explodes before he can, and I wrap my hands around his hips, holding him where he is, taking everything he gives me.
He finishes with a low, delicious groan of relief, the most gorgeous sound I’ve ever heard him make.
He’s breathing heavily as he collapses, his head on my chest.
“Holy shit,” he gasps. “I think I understand why your ex came so fast.”
Before I can laugh, he’s pulled my mouth to his and he’s kissing me hard, urgently, the same way he did between my legs. It’s not what we agreed to, and I just don’t care.
Once. It could mean one time, or it could mean one night. We can’t really make things worse, and…I want more. His mouth lowers, pulling at one nipple and the other. He’s already hard. I can feel him there, swollen against my inner thigh.
“Condom,” I gasp. He reaches toward his shorts, still hanging off his thighs and grabs his wallet. He tears the packet with his teeth and raises above me to roll it over his—predictably huge—length.
“Are you sure?” he asks, positioning himself between my legs. The way he’s looking at me right now—as if this is all he wants in the world, hits me deep in my gut. I feel empty for him, and my hips arch, pressing him into me before I’ve ever answered.
“Jesus, Tali,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”
He thrusts inside me, and I’m suddenly full, so unbelievably full. My gasp is small, almost inaudible, but he hears it.
“You’re okay?” he asks. His voice is tight. He’s not moving, trying to let me adjust to his size.
“Yes.” I’m breathless as a sprinter. “God, yes. The, um, rumors were true.”
He gives a quiet, pained laugh, and then he begins to move. Push in, slow drag out. Repeat. I want to do this for the rest of my life. This and nothing else.
“It’s so fucking good with you,” he hisses, moving faster, his tight control starting to lapse. I love seeing him like this. I love that I’m capable of producing it in him, this lack of restraint. His fingers move to my clit, light but fast. He changes the angle of his hips and thrusts hard, hitting deep and in just the right spot.
“Aahh.”
Something opens up inside me, and no sooner has he begun than heat rushes up my body, my muscles stiffen, everything wound so tight I feel like I might snap in half.
“I’m gonna—” I gasp, and then I clench around him and my head digs backward. My back arches, pushing my breasts into his chest, intensifying my orgasm as I spasm around him, my core gripping him tight.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his thrusts jerky and hard and uneven and perfect. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Finally, he’s still above me, breathing hard. When his eyes open, he looks as stunned as I feel. I’m not sure why. Surely this wasn’t as radically different for him as it was for me.
My God. To think I almost went through life without this. Without even knowing it could be this way.
His lips find mine once more before he flops to my side and pulls my head to his chest.
“I’ll show myself out,” I mumble against his shirt.
His chest rises with a quiet laugh. His arm tightens. “I knew you were going to say that.”
And then there’s silence.
I still want more. But he just came twice in a row, and he’s gone quiet…undoubtedly because he assumes I’m now planning our spring wedding and choosing our children’s names. Any minute now, he’ll say something to place distance between us, to remind me what this was.
The mere thought of it makes my stomach drop. I need to extricate myself before it happens. I don’t want this to be awkward for either of us.
I sit up and fix my dress. “I’d say ‘let’s do this again sometime’ but I know that’s not your M.O.”
“Rushing off?” he asks. “Am I the new Brad Perez?” It’s phrased like humor, but there’s a bite to it. As if it bothers him, when we both know I’m simply saving him the trouble.
“Who will kick me out in the morning if I’m not available to do it?” I ask, climbing to my feet. There’s this desperate thing inside me that wants him to say this is different, I wouldn’t kick you out, I want you to stay.
“I guess I deserved that,” he replies. It makes me feel guilty, like I aimed too low, but it’s not as if he’s stopping me. It’s not as if he can argue I’m wrong.
My tread is heavy as I enter the house, like I’m fighting my way through mud. I wish I hadn’t rushed off. All I want in the world right now is to be curled up against him, and I just walked away from my only chance to do it.
As Matt said at the end, maybe I’m not as smart as I think.
I open my eyes to the sky alight with the colors of the sunrise. The soft bed sheets wrap around my legs from a restless night’s sleep. I can still remember the feel of him above me and in me, the sound he made when he came. The way he looked—mouth open, eyes squeezed tight, head thrown back. One day, the memory of him like that will dull, and it’s probably for the best because right now, it’s almost too sharp to bear.
My skin smells like him. My lips, and other areas, are sore from him. I feel him everywhere, and the only way to recover from this is to wash it all away and start fresh.
I shower, lathering my sensitive skin in soap to disguise his scent. Once I’m dry, I pull on shorts and a tee, throw all my shit in a bag. As much as I love this house, I just want to leave now. I need to move forward, as soon as possible, and I don’t think I can do it here.
He’s already in the living room, already showered. I don’t think he’s ever woken before me in his life, which means he’s probably as desperate as I am to get through the awkwardness of our trip home.
“Aren’t you the early bird?” I ask. My good cheer sounds as forced as it feels. “Sex with me transformed you into a new man. I assumed it would.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t figure you for the type to be so…uncomplicated the morning after.”
I go to the kitchen and start unloading the dishwasher, clanging flatware and pans as if I don’t have a care. “Best just to put it out there. Otherwise, it turns into The Thing That Shall Not Be Named.”
He comes to the other side of the counter. “I did figure you for the type to work a Harry Potter reference into any given conversation, so that lines up.”
I can tell he’s watching me. I continue to focus on the dishes, as if the task requires all my attention. If our eyes meet, he’ll see every single thing I’m feeling. He’ll see I’m the stupid girl who wants more when she should know better.
“Now I just have to decide what I should say on the flowers I send myself.”
“And you’ll want breakfast, too, I imagine. Will Starbucks suffice?” he asks, tying off the trash bag. “Probably not. I’ll get you a gift card. Applebees? That seems like a place a person from Kansas would enjoy.”
I started this, but I’m a little stung that he’s replying in kind. The dumb teenage girl inside me wanted him to hold my face lovingly and explain how much it all meant to him. And maybe if I stopped being so offhanded about it, he would. But I feel too raw for that. I just can’t. I need to protect my heart.
“I’m deeply impressed by your thoughtfulness,” I reply. “I’ll frame it as a permanent reminder. Although testing positive for syphilis in a few weeks will probably be permanent enough.”
He sets the trash by the front door and returns. “As far as I can recall, we were careful. And I’m clean.”
“That you just referenced a sexual encounter with ‘as far as I can recall’,” I reply tartly, “indicates my concern is valid.”
The kitchen is spotless. I’m forced to meet his gaze at last. His eyes are dark, and his face is drawn. I wonder if he ever went to sleep at all.
“I remember, Tali,” he says, his voice quieter, more earnest, than normal.
I swallow. “Yeah, me too,” I whisper, reaching for my bag.
This is precisely what I didn’t want—the awkwardness of I know you want things from me I can’t give. It’s not how I pictured our trip ending.
The drive home is fine. He doesn’t seem to mind my running commentary on every car and building and view we pass, which I find absolutely necessary. If I’m silent, I start looking at his profile and remembering the scrape of that jaw against my thighs, the way he’d push in hard and drag out slow, eyes shut as if I was expensive scotch, meant to be savored. The sounds he made as he came. Oh, God, I hope I always remember the sounds he made.
We finally reach my building. As uncomfortable as the morning has been, I don’t want to leave his car. I’d take discomfort over being apart from him, hands down.
I force myself to open the door, and he climbs out too. The air no longer smells like him. Santa Monica suddenly seems like it’s nothing but pavement and reflective surfaces, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more alone.
“Thanks for bringing me,” I say, swinging my bag over my shoulder. “It was fun.”
“I’m glad you came,” he replies. Our eyes meet. “That wasn’t meant to be a double entendre.”
I laugh. He beat me to the joke.
By the time I reach the stairs, he’s driven away, probably eager to put this behind him. I get to my apartment, collapse face-down on the bed, and cry like a child.
How is it possible I got over ten years with Matt more easily than I did ten minutes with Hayes?
