My racing heart gets the memo and starts to steady. Roe’s sleeping soundly. Pretty sweet actually. His eyebrows are parked in neutral and his dark lashes are splayed. We’re under a thick white comforter. He’s mostly clothed and I’m wearing his shirt. I inhale and it’s like a hit of an opiate. This feels like the most intimate thing I’ve ever done. We’re facing each other, his top leg draped over my waist. Our hands lie relaxed, half curled like sleeping children. I should hate this. I should be angry at least.
In fact, I feel content.
As my body fights waking, I think about progress. Not only have I let him see me naked repeatedly, but here I am lying in bed and with him pressed to me and I’m not dissolving into panic.
Roe tugs me closer in sleep. He rolls me so my back is against his chest. We’re spooning. I am spooning with man in a bed. And I am not freaking out. I should tell him to get off.
Of me. Tell him to get off of me.
I don’t. Probably because I’m exhausted. His warmth is a salve to my discomfort. I should get up to drink a million gallons of water, but my eyes drift closed again with a contented sigh.
When I wake up again, it’s to the sounds of Roe cursing. With one eye open I see him pushing up to a sitting position. He’s fuzzy with sleep and his hair sticks out in multiple directions. He has a noticeable shadow of a beard. His hands scratch through his hair and he’s squinty-eyed with confusion. It’s adorable.
“What time is it? Did you hear that?” His mumblings don’t really process before coffee and I certainly can’t speak. He grabs his phone off the side table. “Damn. It’s almost three in the afternoon.”
Still… I can’t really do more than blink at him.
“I don’t remember the last time I slept more than two hours.” He shakes his head. It’s like he’s mostly talking to himself because he seems a little taken aback when he finally notices me.
I still haven’t moved. If there were prizes for being the most still I would win them all. Even my analogies are lame right now. He leans closer to me and places a hand on my cheek like a mother checking for fever.
“How are you?” he asks.
I blink once. To me, that translates to, “I’ve been better, but I’m alive. I could go for a giant cup of coffee and a shot of B12,” but that must not have come across because he shakes my shoulder.
“Seriously, Maggie? What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth. It’s sticky with dehydration. “Coffee,” my voice crackles like a dusty old book.
He studies the ceiling for a second. A second later a pillow smacks my head. I’m too tired to take it off. Plus, it blocks some of the obnoxious sunshine.
That’s when someone knocks on the door.
“I thought I heard something.” The bed shifts as Roe leaves it. “Stay here.”
I groan. As if there were any other option. The pillow blocks me from seeing anything but I can hear him walk to the door and click open the deadbolt.
“Morning,” a deep voice says.
My stomach sinks.
“Marty Zebulund,” Roe says.
I briefly forgot about last night in the confusion of tangled limbs and warm smiles. Despite almost passing out, I remember well enough Zebulund’s studied looks of last night. The suspicion. The spectacular failure of my plan. It wasn’t a plan really. In hindsight, I’m an idiot. Not that I’d ever admit that to Roe. These powers are wasted on me.
The cool air brushes my exposed thighs, reminding me of my vulnerability. I’m prone on the bed, the upper half of my body covered by the comforter, but the lower half is free to be seen. I’m too afraid to move. I’m like prey. Maybe if I’m still, he won’t see me.
“Sorry to disturb you… both.” His voice is heavy with implication. So much for that.
“Uh, yeah sorry. I uh, just woke up.” The comforter is slid down to cover me.
“I see. That the cigarette girl?”
My heart hammers away and I’m sure the bed must be visibly vibrating from it. Did he spot me last night? Is that why he’s here? Did he make some sort of connection? Oh, no. The gig is up.
“Uh, yeah. The brunette.” Roe laughs sheepishly.
Relief at his lie is tinged with something bitter. Is it weird that I’m oddly jealous of his other pretend girl? He’s only trying to protect my identity but suddenly I’m cataloging all the brunette cigarette girls I worked with last night, wondering which of them is enough to be noticeable to Roe.
