“Word of advice? Don’t question the things that feel good. La dolce vita. La vie en rose. What do they say here in the Caribbean?” He gestures vaguely still catching his breath, then turns, crawling over.
“Yosh, relax that beautiful brain of yours.” He caresses my temple with the back of his fingers, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I understand how delicate this is. We’re good. No situation. I promise.”
He called my brain beautiful.
I cough as I compose myself. That sounded very collected, mature even, if you ignore the circumstances. It surprises me, and it does hush the panic riding a derby in my mind. But one question claws at me, and I need clarity.
“Tom, are you bisexual?”
I lift my gaze to find him softly snoring in a starfish position.
“Great. You’re that kind of guy,” I mumble.
At least he’s getting some sleep. I know he’s had a few rough nights. This buys me some me-time to gather my thoughts.
I can’t believe he felt easy enough to fall back asleep. It seems I’m more confused than he is. He spoke as though he was making art, getting high on what he’d just created. But that’s not what that was to me. Or maybe it was and I can’t see?
No. The real question is what it means to him, and what it means to me.
I stand up, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His limbs are everywhere, totally at ease in my bed. Typical.
Maybe that’s what I like about him. Tom McKenna is so unapologetically himself. He’s such a wild thing with all the right words ready to spit out. Yet when he’s with me, he finds his peace and allows himself to let his guard down.
His curls have fallen over his eyes, hiding half his face. I reach down and carefully push them back to have a better look at him.
His frame is slim, the outlines of his ribs visible, with a patch of golden hair on his chest.
I picture myself buried in his neck, my fingers brushing through it, following that heavenly trail of fuzz until my hand disappears under the sheets.
Those damn white sheets. Wrapped low on his hips like he belongs on one of those Vatican renaissance ceilings.
Messy curls on my pillow, thousands of freckles beneath his eyes. It hurts how handsome he is. And he’s in my bed. My bed. Hah! Not someone else’s.
The tattoo on his ribs, however, is still a mystery to me.
That mystical wolf inside the hollow of a half moon.
I remember he’d told me about it.Half Moon Wolves, the name of his old band. I wonder what it means to him now. What it means to them, because I know Calvin has the exact same one on his nape. I wonder if it’s a halcyon memory of their golden days touring and climbing charts. Or perhaps something else. A scar?
There’s still so much I don’t know about his world.
I grab a tank top and my running shorts from the closet.
The bedroom floor is cold under my feet. It fades as I step into the kitchen.
The fridge offers nothing but cold water, so I pour a glass and head outside.
I sit down and take a sip from my glass, closing my eyes and letting the cold water refresh my mouth. Time to breathe.
A deep first inhale. Hold.
I’m grateful. The sun warms my skin every morning. The sea offers me a peaceful white noise. This garden, with my name on the deed, feels like a safe cocoon.
It’s everything I’d dreamed of when I was at my lowest.
So I won’t push my luck with Tom. This is already more than I deserve.
But fuck, I hate that the way he held me in his arms had felt so good.
