Suddenly I feel a weight on my backside. It’s Loncey. Loncey’s sitting on top of me. Fingertips stroke the top of my back, along the winged curve of one of my shoulder blades, and I realise they’re sweeping rogue hairs out of the way.
“You’re beautiful, Maeve. So very beautiful that sometimes it almost hurts to look at you, to be in the same room as you.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter, not at all surprised when this forces a couple of tears out and onto my arms.
“I’m going to go and get my paints,” they say in a low, calm voice. “Please don’t move.”
“Okay,” I manage to say, and it’s a small word but it feels almost miraculous saying it.
A few seconds later, Loncey’s weight is gone and I hear the door close and feel the air in the cabin still. I finally open my eyes and roll my head to the other side so I can look out of thewindow. From this angle I can’t see much of the night sky but I can see the horizontal smile of a crescent moon high above me. I keep staring at the moon as I wait for Loncey to return, and I wouldn’t say I have a conversation with its curled form but I feel like we engage in something, like it offers me some reassurance, that it tells me what I already know.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Loncey
As I gather tubes of paint, a clean enough wooden palette and as many brushes as I can find, I realize my hand is shaking. I’m not nervous. I’m not anxious. I’m not fearful that this is a bad idea. I saw the determination flash in Maeve’s eyes. I heard the confidence in her voice as she suggested it. No, I’m not afraid. I’m its distant cousin. I’m full of anticipation. I’m buzzing with it. It’s how I used to feel before a scene. It's how I used to feel before sex. It’s how I used to feel when I was…
When I was in love.
Not that that’s happening now. I don’t knowwhatis happening now, but I know it’s not that.
My mind swims as I carry everything back through the house and out to my cabin again. Maeve hasn’t moved her body, buther head is turned toward the door and window and I can see a small smile on her lips.
“You came back,” she says.
“You thought I’d leave you hanging?”
“It may have crossed my mind.”
“Nah, you’re on my bed. Where else would I sleep?”
There’s the softest snort of laughter.
“So you really want to do this?” I check again.
“Am I lying here with my tits hanging out?” she deadpans, her tone as acidic as it often is.
“Technically they’re not hanging out. They’re crushed into my bedspread,” I point out.
“Just paint me, will you?”
“Can I sit on you again?”
“Yes,” she says and just like last time, her voice is little more than a whisper.
I place the paints, brushes and palette down on the bed and then reach under my bed and retrieve the mirror I keep there.
“What’s that?” Maeve lifts her head slightly.
I position the mirror on the couch.
“It's to help me see the night sky from inside. And well, I use it for other things too,” I add.
“Spare me,” Maeve says with a groan.
And I will. The last thing I want to think about is sex right now. Not only because I don’t want my thoughts to go there and ruin this moment, but because I like not thinking about sex with Maeve. I like our conversations, our moments together and our shared experiences being about more than sex.
