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Oz takes my hand again as the taxi pulls away, and keys in a code at the door to let us in. Then we’re moving to an elevator and up – and up – and up…
I start to think about what I actually just saw. The lobby. It was… plush, fancy. And there was a doorman, even though he wasn’t at the door itself, but just inside. Oz put all of our bags down beside him without even mentioning it, so I guess he must be bringing them up for us. And then there was the uniform he was wearing – a kind of red suit with a plain white shirt and a red tie. Very nice. Even for a doorman.
And the elevator is marked with a lot of floors, but we seem to be going past all of them, and…
The penthouse. We stop at the penthouse.
Because, of course, we do.
Oz lives in the penthouse suite of the fanciest apartment building I’ve ever been in. That figures.
The doors slide open and Oz walks me to a door which he unlocks, letting me inside. Behind it is something that almost defies words.
Safe to say, it makes the lobby look like it was outfitted at a bargain bin.
Oz’s home is decked out in mostly dark or neutral shades, dark wood furniture with black velvet fabric, walls in a shade of paint that isn’t quite white but isn’t so far as to be called grey – a soothing kind of tone that makes all the black seem less severe. There are black framed works of art on the walls, sculptures made of hard and masculine materials in dark colors, and even the extremely plush carpet is a soft grey.
All of it leads to one thing, and one thing that can’t be ignored. The wall at the other side of the room is all glass, a view right out over the Thames and beyond. From here, it looks like you can see the whole of London.
It’s amazing.
And I can’t even think about how much it must have cost.
“I can’t believe you live here,” I say out loud, turning in a circle of wonder.
Oz laughs. “It took me a long time to get here,” he says. “Fifteen years. If you’d met me when I graduated, you wouldn’t have been so impressed.”
“But I’m meeting you now,” I say, turning to look at him. Behind us at the door, there’s a flurry of activity, the doorman, and someone else I haven’t seen yet in the same red uniform, bringing up all the bags of clothes we bought.
“You are,” Oz says, bending softly to kiss me on the lips.
Once everything is inside and the others are gone, it’s just the two of us alone in his penthouse apartment. I’ve been wandering around the living room, mostly because I feel a little awkward about people doing manual labor on my behalf, but now there’s no excuse for hiding anymore. Oz joins me looking out of the windows across the city, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.
“I never get tired of it,” he says.
I love to hear his voice, how easy it is to see that he really loves this place. It makes me happy to know that he is. It really does.
But…
At the same time, a traitorous part of me listens to what he says and hears something else. Hears, he would never leave this place. He would never want to be anywhere else, and this place is… well, it’s a penthouse. The kind of place a bachelor lives alone. Not somewhere suitable for a family. And I do want a family, more than anything. I’ve always been sure of that.
Which means, when you put it all together, there’s just one more barrier between us. One more reason why this weekend is the end of our relationship, full stop. If you can even call it a relationship. Isn’t it just sex? We haven’t even spoken about it being anything more. And it’s not like I have a great deal of experience in this area.
Oz’s hands work gently across my shoulders, smoothing out some of the tension which has rapidly gathered there, and I let out a loud groan.
“Good?” he asks. In the pane of glass, I can make out his reflection over my shoulder, his teasing smile.
“Really good,” I say. “I hadn’t realized how much those muscles were aching until you started to rub them. I guess it’s been a busy week.”
“You had that long flight, too,” Oz murmurs, starting to knead my muscles more purposefully. It’s like heaven, a short burst of pain when he touches the muscles, but then utter relief as he rolls his thumbs over them, making them finally loosen up. “That’s never good for your body.”
“You would know, I guess,” I say, half-joking but half-digging for information. “You must be on international flights a lot.”
