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Peter raises his hands to shield my unforgiving blows while he edges off the bed to safety. But if he thinks moving out of reach is going to save him, he clearly doesn’t know me very well. I jump up, grabbing a pillow in each hand, and set off after him. Peter just about makes it to the door before I’m close enough to lay into him. But my revenge is horrible, because I can hardly breathe I’m laughing so much.
“Aaah, okay, okay, uncle. Uncle!”
I try to get in one more shot, but Peter’s reflexes are too sharp. He moves quick as a flash, getting a solid grip on both my wrists. Bringing them down to my sides, he steps into me. He presses up so close I can feel him getting hard through the light cotton of his boxers.
The pillows drop to the floor, forgotten weapons of feathered destruction, and I go up to meet his lips with mine. I haven’t kissed very many people in my life, but I’m prepared to take a stand right this minute and declare that Peter is by far the best.
He frees my wrists and snakes his arms around me, pulling me closer as I wrap mine around his neck.
“Seriously, though,” he says, breaking from my mouth to pepper soft kisses along my jaw, “I meant what I said about the shower,” and into my neck, “we have plans.”
My head rolls back, indulging in the amazing feel of him. “Hmm, what could be more urgent than us getting back into bed?”
Peter straightens to look at me, his hand coming up to fix my hair behind my ear. I lean into his touch, so soft for someone who exudes so much strength at any given time.
“I can think of a few things,” he says, “but I’ll start with breakfast.”
My stomach grumbles as if on cue.
Freshly showered and dressed, we pull into the parking at Dunkin’ a cool fifteen minutes after the impromptu pillow fight. Peter had mentioned something about showing me his favorite breakfast place in Boston, but I suggested we leave that for another time.
I’m not even sorry that he has to learn about my chronic beef with hunger at this point in our relationship. In fact, I’d rather he understood the delicacy of the situation early on, and so prevent any catastrophic meltdowns in the future.
When we get inside, I’m immediately punched in the face by mouth-watering aromas of baked goods and fresh coffee.
“The blueberry muffins look really good,” Peter says. “I think I’ll go with one of those.”
He orders a coffee with the muffin, and then motions with his head for me to place my order.
“I’ll have the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, please. Also the hash browns. And that blueberry muffin does look good, you’re right,” I mutter to Peter, whose eyes are large as he watches me order. “Yes, I’ll take one of those, too.”
He’s shaking his head and chuckling to himself as he goes to hand the cashier his card.
“Oh, and a vanilla chai, please.”
Peter pauses and looks at me. “Where are you planning on putting it all?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He smiles and gives the cashier a nod to go ahead and ring up the order.
Despite the shaky start to my morning, the rest of the day with Peter turned out to be just what I needed. After the perfect breakfast, we put off going to my apartment till last. Instead, we drive to the Public Garden, where we walk and talk for hours. I introduce Peter to one of my favorite games: watching people from afar and filling in funny dialogue they might be having. I laughed so hard at some of his scenarios, my overfull stomach began to ache.
Then we stopped for soft pretzels and Peter led me to a spot under a weeping willow where we could savor them, and each other, hidden from the rest of the world. Even while it was happening, I knew that I was in the middle of a memory I would end up cherishing forever.
Finally, there was no more putting it off and we had to go back to my apartment before dark. The drive there was uncharacteristically quiet. Peter tried to break the tension, but I was just too anxious about going back there. I was grateful when he stopped trying and gave me the space I needed.
I thought it would be the hardest thing ever, going back and getting my stuff. But as soon as I walked in, the apartment felt like a stranger’s home. It didn’t feel at all like I had lived there for years. It just wasn’t my space anymore. Not after being violated by that creep.
The couch where I used to love spending my free time watching Netflix, my bed where so many late-night assignments were finished—they were all just cold, empty pieces of furniture in a cold, empty apartment.
By the ti
me Peter had stowed the last of my books and bags in the trunk, I had officially made peace with saying goodbye to that part of my life. I had no interest in ever getting it back.
“You okay?” he asked, as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.
I watched my apartment building shrink in the side-view mirror, and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
