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I ring the doorbell and wait, but after a minute, there’s still no answer. I check my messages again and find I have a new one from Darren. My stomach drops at the possibility that he might be canceling, but as I scan the text, I smile.He gave me the code to his house a long time ago, but since most of our dates are planned, I’ve never needed to use it. It feels odd to let myself in, but I punch the numbers and open the door. The first thing that catches my attention is the massive bouquet of flowers on the side table to the right. Flowers aren’t a typical decoration for Darren. In fact, knickknacks and decorations in general aren’t Darren’s thing.
His house is pretty much on the extreme side of minimalist. There’s generally no evidence of clutter, or that he even lives here, apart from the occasional mug in the sink or a pair of boxers that missed the laundry basket in his walk-in closet.
Much like the ones that arrived in my office several days ago, this bouquet seems to be keeping with the sunrise theme. It’s filled with pale and vibrant yellows, soft peaches, pinks, and purples. There’s a card beside the vase with my name written neatly on the front. I flip it open and smile at the note inside.The restless pinging down below ratchets up a few notches as I consider what exactly his something more comfortable might consist of. Taking the note with me, I head upstairs to his bedroom, which is where I’m assuming the something more comfortable will be.
I bark out a quiet, shocked laugh when I step inside his bedroom and turn on the light. The very first thing I notice is a second bouquet of flowers, which contrasts perfectly with the one downstairs. Instead of a sunrise, this is more sunset with a cascade of yellow, darkening to vibrant peach and nearly black purple lilies and dahlias at the base.
The flowers aren’t the only addition to the room, though. Laid across the end of the bed are several clothing options. I expected lace or satin, or possibly some combination of the two. But that’s not what I’m looking at.
It appears Darren has done some shopping at my favorite legging store. There are five new pairs. Two of them are ridiculously adorable and firefly themed, and the others are covered in fun pastel prints reflective of the season. He’s also gone to the trouble of buying matching tanks and shirts, and a vast array of new cheekies in every color, pattern, and fabric available.
In addition to those, there’s a black gift bag tied with a bow. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to open that now or wait, so I leave it and pick a pair of leggings, a shirt, and a pair of panties to change into. They’re freshly washed, as evidenced by the distinct smell of Darren’s fabric softener.
I head back downstairs to wait for him and find yet another surprise in the living room. Set up on the table beside the reading chair he bought for me is a bucket with a bottle of white wine chilling and a glass waiting to be filled. Several books are stacked on the seat of the chair, their spines creased from my excessive reading and pages folded over. Sometimes, when I love a book I’ll earmark certain chapters or passages so I can find them easily and read them over.
Darren must have scooped them from my nightstand and brought them here for me. I press my fingers to my lips, my chest light and heavy at the same time. His attentiveness is endearing, and while part of me loves it, the other part worries about what it means. So many things are changing, and I don’t know quite how to handle it. The neat lines we’d drawn seem to be erasing themselves, and I don’t know how to do this without them. It makes me feel unsteady.
With shaking hands, I pull the cork free and pour myself a glass of wine. I take a small sip and moan. This is way better than that boxed stuff my mom brought with her. I actually considered tossing the rest of it, but figured it was too much of a waste, so I mixed it with ginger ale and juice. Then it wasn’t so bad.
I grab my phone and my ear buds, because I might as well enjoy the lengths Darren has gone to for me.
Moving the books to the table, I relax into the chair, cover myself with the throw, and sigh contentedly. On the next inhale, I note the faint scent of Darren’s cologne clinging to the fabric. I turn my head and press my nose against the backrest. I’m not sure if I’m imagining things, but I swear it smells like his shampoo, which means he’s been using the chair when I’m not here.
