“She’s noticed you and I have been hanging out,” I tell her. “And she didn’t like, hand them to me with a long speech on safe sex practices. They were just on my bed when I came home one day.”
“Hmm,” she responds, her body relaxing against my comforter. “Nothing like having your mom be your wingman. Definitely doesn’t scream ‘mama’s boy.’”
A light pinch to her side and she squeals, quickly stifling it with a hand to her mouth. I lean down and run my nose along her cheek. “Is this a diversion technique?”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, Teeny. If you’re not ready?—”
“No,” she interrupts. “No, I am. I just want to make sure we’re prepared.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She tilts her head up and kisses me, angling her head to the side while running her hand up the center of my back. Everything starts to move in a blur, but I’m here. I’m in my room with Teeny. In her arms, like she’s anchoring me to earth. In a place where I belong.
Quiet whispers of “Are you sure?” and “I want to,” and “You’re amazing,” float into the air. It hangs and hovers, creating a bubble of hope and confidence that we can survive anything. I could take off to college for four years, be hundreds of miles apart, and we would somehow still survive it all. I would eventually find my way back to her. My place is with her, no matter what.
We pull back the covers of my sheets and slide under a cocoon, burrowing farther into the place where I finally feel at home. We undress, taking our time, learning each other’s bodies while knowing this won’t be the last time. We’ll have more moments like this…forever.
We both know this is fundamentally physical, whatever teenage hormones running rampant in our blood, but it feels so far from it. It’s charged with some cloyingly visceral thing that I can’t quite place. Because I’ve never felt this. I’ve never felt this close to another living soul in my entire life.
When we’re done, Teeny lays against me, her bare body flush against mine. Her hair sprawled across my pillow where I know I’ll be able to smell her when I go to sleep tonight.
“I’m so in love with you, Christine.”
She giggles into my chest. “So formal.”
“I am,” I tell her, smiling into her hair.
“I know,” she responds. “I love you, too, Everett.”
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Teeny
NOW
Vegas became a distant memory.My foot injury scabbed over and healed. And my kiss with Everett stayed in Vegas, right on top of that luxurious goose-down comforter. As soon as we came back to the real world, after a weekend of alcohol, long hours spent in chlorinated water, a tinge of a sunburn, and even more alcohol, my night with Everett turned into a heavy mass I carried around with me. And I kept it at my heels, like dragging a suitcase on wheels, as a constant reminder.
I’m a married woman. I’m still Mrs. Christine Diaz. And yet, it’s taken one moment of weakness for me to realize how little that title means to me now. Fifteen years ago, I wore it like a badge of honor. I introduced myself as Mrs. Diaz to everyone I met. I stood proudly by Leo as his doting wife. As the mother of his child. And now, I’m questioning it all. Did it all mean nothing to him? Was I just a placeholder for him? Someone to fill the role as his wife so that he’d slide perfectly into what he envisioned for himself: a successful man who had it all. A reputable lawyer and a family man. And I played into it all.
With the pending meetings on my calendar with Grace’s lawyer, I knew I needed to talk to Leo. As much as I wish I could just shove a stack of divorce papers into Leo’s face and have my lawyer handle things, I owe it to my marriage to talk to him. No matter his infidelity.
Right now, I have to push all of that aside to meet Everett at Allegra Augustus Gallery in La Jolla. I’d set up the meeting quickly after my return from Vegas, and Everett jumped at the opportunity when I texted him to let him know about the earliest opening.
I’m looking over a large canvas, probably spanning close to fifty inches wide, with abstract florals. It’s just the kind of art I would’ve painted. Something I would’ve drawn up in my head and let it linger there until I finally let my hands talk. But that was a lifetime ago. Something Everett is more familiar with than I am.
Allegra Augustus, the gallery owner herself, is meeting with us today to personally show us the current pieces in her gallery. As I’m perusing the relatively familiar space, I hear the bell on the door trill as it opens and closes. My heart flip flops. There’s that time machine again, plopping me right back into my sixteen-year-old self, giddy with excitement over seeing my boyfriend. Waiting for him to meet me after basketball practice or at the door to Mrs. Fix’s class.
I can’t hold back the completely silly grin on my face. “Hi,” I say softly to Everett, waving a hand in his direction.
“Hi.”
He’d texted me a few times. Simple exchanges asking me how my foot was, if I made it home okay. If there were any more encounters with unmannerly men who didn’t understand the concept of consent. I’ve been responding with one-sided answers, too confused to egg on a more flirtatious banter. And Everett being Everett, he seemed to take my lack of engagement as a silent request for space instead of urging for more of my attention. Something I appreciated with my entire gut.
I hear faint clicks of shoes echo against the stark white walls in the gallery, coming from the back offices away from patrons. “Christine,” Allegra calls, approaching me with a kind smile. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Hi, Allegra,” I say, greeting her with a quick embrace. “Good to see you too.” I turn to introduce Everett. “This is the client I was telling you about. Everett Hayes.”
