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“I…ah…gotta go, Janice. I’ll talk to you soon.” I hung up Matt’s cell phone and glared at him, his rumpled hair so dark against me and the white sheets. His eyes so green, his smile so warm.
A knot of something hard and sad sat in my throat and I swallowed past it, not wanting sadness. Not now. Not until the moment Matt walked away. Until then, I wanted to absorb every single ounce and fleck of joy I could.
“You’re in trouble,” I told him, laughing as he tickled my belly button with his tongue. I kicked my leg over him and rolled him to his back.
The condoms, two fewer than before, were in reach and I tore another one from the strip.
“No,” Matt joked, palming my breasts. “Not that. Anything but that.”
I slid the condom on him, my fingers running over him until he groaned, his hands digging into my skin.
We were both covered in little bruises and marks, physical proof of how out of control we’d gotten last night.
Proof of how out of control I was.
This is going to hurt, I told myself. When he leaves it’s going to hurt like nothing ever has.
But I didn’t care. I’d take the pain later if it ensured the pleasure now. Because right now, I felt as though I’d die without the pleasure.
“I’m afraid so,” I said, using my best librarian voice and his eyes flared. “You’ve been very bad, Matt Woods.”
“Yeah?” He groaned and I slid down on him, until I could feel him in my heart. He rocked upward, and I moaned, sitting back on him, my thoughts scattering. “How bad can you be, Savannah?” he asked, his voice like honey.
I leaned down over him, my breasts against his hot chest, my tongue licking at his mouth. “Put on your glasses,” I said. “And I’ll show you.”
“You calling in sick again?” Margot asked on Friday, as we waited for the coffee to brew.
I nodded, careful not to look at Margot, or let her look too closely at me. “Stomach thing,” I said, cupping my coffee mug to my chest like a secret.
“That’s a whole week.”
“It’s a bad stomach thing,” I said, biting out the words. I knew down to the minute how much time I had left with Matt.
Matt chose that moment to step out of the sleeping porch carrying his thermos, looking to me like a man who’d been gorging on sex.
Oh God. Was that a hickey on his neck?
“Morning,” he said into the silence.
“Matt,” Margot said, her eyes sliding to me.
I yanked the coffeepot free, spilling coffee over my hand.
“Hello, Savannah,” Matt said. He was all but laughing at me because he knew I was ready to die from embarrassment. He pressed a kiss to the side of my head and headed out the door to the back courtyard, whistling as he went.
“Seems to me,” Margot said, taking the pot from my death grip, “you have a Matt thing.”
“I have a…” I paused, not sure how to finish that sentence. Heartache coming? Hole in my head? “None of your business.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Margot asked, leaning one hip against the counter. “You like him.”
Of course I liked him, an idiot could see that. An idiot could see that I was dangerously close to being in love with him.
“You told Katie about her father?” Margot asked.
“I did. She’d started to think that Matt was her father.” Margot’s jaw dropped open. “I know.” I managed to laugh a little. “But with me never telling her anything, she started to answer her own questions. Matt got caught in the crossfire.”
“He’s very good with her,” Margot said.
I lifted my eyes to see Matt and Katie in the back courtyard. He was carrying a huge, burlap-wrapped bundle, every muscle straining against his shirt.
Katie leaped and danced around him like a muddy, tangle-haired butterfly.
“That man is good for you,” Margot whispered. “That man is good for both of you. You’re changing because of him.”
It was true. More than true. There were parts of myself I didn’t recognize. Every morning I looked in the mirror expecting to see that I’d become a redhead, or grown a third eye, or something dramatic that would match the utter transformation happening in my heart.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, tears in the back of my throat, “whether I like him or not. Whether he’s good for us or not. Whether I’m changing or whatever. He has to leave on Sunday.”
“You could go with him.”
“Please,” I scoffed.
“You think he won’t ask? That man looks at you like you’ve buttered his bread.”
“I have,” I shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean anything. You know that better than anyone.”
Margot arched an eyebrow. “Don’t be catty,” she said. “He looks at you like you matter. Like you’re important to him.”
I took small sips of air, feeling as though the whole world was just too tight. In bed with him, his arm around my waist, his breath on my neck, anything seemed possible. It seemed possible that he might stay. That he might love me.
