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Fun didn’t work when there were feelings involved. That’s how things got messy and painful. How relationships got ruined before they began. I’d already shot myself in my good foot by bringing her back to this room. Lust at first sight, and I’d lunged for her like I was starved. Now her taste is still on my tongue and I doubt it will ever leave.
So yeah, fun doesn’t work when it’s the right person, just the wrong place and time. And if I’m smart, I’ll go back to Chicago and pretend this weekend never happened.
What if I’ve made a terrible mistake?
I grab another jar of black tempera paint from the closet and drop my forehead to the wooden shelf. I’ve been thinking the same thoughts all weekend, but if I’m still agonizing over sending Erik away almost seventy-two hours after meeting him, then clearly I made the right call. If saying goodbye haunts me now, it would have only been worse after an actual date. After I let him inside me.
Let’s be realistic. That was how the evening was going to end, and if the sex was good—and I was confident it would be—we’d have spent the rest of the weekend wrapped up in each other. Distance is the only thing that can spare us both. Well, spare me. I can’t assume that Erik was as involved as I was. Maybe the repeated offers to see me were all about sex. Except I don’t think they were.
At least in the art closet, no one can see me doubt my decisions. Except maybe the Googly eyes. The first graders love those darn things so much I’m probably single-handedly keeping the manufacturer afloat. It’s a good thing I prepped today’s lessons in advance because my head is miles away. Probably in Chicago, sitting at some fancy wooden desk and not even thinking about me at all.
“Tell me all about your weekend of sin and debauchery.” Jen’s voice floats over from the door to my classroom. “You can’t hide from me, Cooper. I know you’re in here somewhere.”
“Closet,” I call back, hoping she’ll assume I’m grabbing something and not having a mini freak out. Then I take a deep breath, pick up the paint, and step out into the brightly lit room.
Jen has planted her butt on top of one of the long tables—thankfully I’ve already switched out the paint-covered paper—and is rearranging her skirt over her legs. She’s a storybook teacher. Dark silky hair, small frame, a proclivity for wearing lesson-themed skirts and dresses. Her ballet flats never have scuffed toes, and she wears her shiny hair pulled back with giant floral headbands.
“Just say when.” Jen holds her hands out in front of her and drags them further and further apart. “You’re not serious,” she says as nears the one-foot mark. “Am I jealous? Or do I feel bad for you?”
“When did you become Sofia?” I ask, and Jen rolls her eyes.
Sofia is Jen’s other closest friend. They’ve known each other since birth and if Sofia wasn’t such a nomad, I’m sure she’d live with us. Sofia tends towards smacks on the ass, crop tops in neon colors, and zero worries about what anyone else thinks of her. A necessity in her huge Italian family. I want to be Sofia when I grow up.
“Rude.” Jen lowers her hands, “But you’re right, I don’t actually want to know how big his—” she widens her eyes and wiggles her brows as she drops her gaze toward my thighs, “stuff is. I’d never be ever to look him in the eyes.”
That won’t be a problem since Jen won’t meet him.
Not because I wouldn’t make introductions. Erik is kind and attractive and Jen would adore him in a supportive friend kind of way—Jen does not poach—but because when would I even get the chance? Erik is back in Chicago and even if he comes back for another visit, I wouldn’t know. I cut off communication. It’s for the best. Right?
“There was no debauchery,” I say, and blush as I remember his head between my thighs. “Okay, there was some, but not as much as you’re thinking.”
“Was he a dud?” She frowns and pulls a granola bar out of some hidden pocket. The crinkle as she unwraps it sounds like nails down a chalkboard, but she offers me the first bite so I can get over it. “It can’t be worse than the time I was set up on a date with Luca.”
“It was that bad?” I ask. “I feel like that’s standard romance novel fantasy material. Best friend’s older brother and all that jazz.”
“Maybe if there wasn’t physical evidence you knew each other pre-potty training.” Jen shudders. “I have never had a thing for Sofia’s brother, but even if I did, he spent the whole date completely gone over another girl.”
I choke on the bite I’m chewing. “That would be a bad date, yes.”
“I’ve never met Vic, but he seems super nice. I know he does a lot of work with Grace Hospital, especially the pediatric wing, and if he’s a good guy, his brother probably is too. Every time you and Erik showed up on tv—” she shrugs, “well you were both laughing and smiling and I thought for sure you were having a good time.”
“We had a good time,” I say because it was the truth, and I won’t lie about that.
“So why not have a fun weekend? I got a text that you were going to his place, then I don’t see you before school Friday, and you were gone all weekend.”
Dad had been discharged Friday afternoon, and I’d spent the weekend with him. I wanted to make sure his laundry was done, his fridge stocked, the bathroom clean. I also wanted to be there in case his fever came back. I’d only found out about the first one because I dropped by earlier in the week to make sure the teenager I had hired was still shoveling the walkway when it snowed. I love my dad, but I’m not sure I trust him to take care of himself.
I probably should have texted Jen at some point other than to tell her I’d see her on Monday, but I’d been feeling a little raw. That was made worse by the fact that every time I picked up my phone, I didn’t see Erik’s name or number. It didn’t matter that I’d been the one to squash our point of contact. Any other time and I’d be impressed that he was clearly respecting my boundaries, but I still felt the freefall of disappointment every time my phone was blank.
So instead of breaking a sweat while naked and relaxed, I’d broken a sweat deep cleaning my childhood home. Dad isn’t a slob, but chemo takes more out of him than I know he wants to admit. The trick is trying to take care of him without him noticing.
I’m not sure why he doesn’t want my help. Moving out, being an adult, are just more reasons to let me shoulder some of the burden. Why can’t he just let me take care of him, dammit? I’m supposed to be the person he can lean on. We’re all each other has.
“Dad came home Friday evening,” I say. “That was more important than a fling.” And it is, but that wasn’t why I’d turned Erik down. I didn’t have to choose between them.
“Did they ever find out what caused the fever?” Jen’s brows tip together in concern, and I shake my head.
“They started him on antibiotics, but his culture came back clear and his fever dropped. They let him go home as long as he carefully tracked his temperature for a while.” Meaning I track his temperature. I spent last night googling fever stickers. They’re made to monitor the temperature of toddlers, but it might be my best bet to take care of Dad. I can stick it somewhere he can’t reach or see. Too bad the reviews had been less than optimal.
