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I giggle. “Yes, they can.”
Three nights and three lovely dishes later, I realize he can likely do near anything. “You’re quite multi-talented.”
He snorts a bit and sticks his hand out. “Hey there pot.”
“I suppose that makes me kettle, though I’m not.”
He scoops me up and carries me to bed, and from between my legs, he murmurs, “You’re the kettle. Don’t deny it, Miss Nurse-Potter-Lamb Mom.”
“You’re a better shepherd than I.”
His tongue skates velveteenly over my most secret crevice, and I tug at his hair. He grins rakishly and does it again, and I come up off the bed. He chuckles darkly.
It’s a waking fantasy, this thing we’re doing. He’s quite better than expected, really. Frequently, he runs the bath for me. He learns to cook what I can, and on nights I arrive late, I return to a lovely meal. We paint pottery together, go on moonlit romps with Baby. I take him to the Hidden Cove—a partial cave with black sand and its mouth half full of ocean, and on its roof, pearly white stalactites—and he grins and says a cove sounds like a place we ought to make love…so we do there, on a blanket on the cool, black sand.
There’s a village gathering at the Burger Joint mid-May for that month’s birthdays. We arrive and depart separately but step into our old closet for kisses.
“Last time here,” he murmurs, “I was going crazy missing you.”
I laugh softly. “You were why I wept.”
He kisses my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead as we grind against each other. “Never let me be the reason that you cry. You got that?” He kisses my mouth, and it’s a breathless kiss, a bruising kiss. “That’s our only rule.”
“No sorries—we have two,” I manage between gasps of air.
“No sorries.”
As we walk to the cottage in the dimness of a dark night, he twirls me as if we’re dancing, and the night breeze tosses my hair.
“It feels like a fantasy,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says. “I want it to.”
The weeks fly by. I cannot catch them. Three weeks turns to four, then five, then six. The world is a new place. Even waking in the night at times when he’s sweating or trembling with aftershocks from his body’s ordeal—it’s perfect. Our dim autumn sun shines more brightly. Love is all the books proclaim and everything the singers sing of. All is well…except my lover cheats at chess.
“Blazing blue bananas!” I wag a finger at him as we play one June evening. “You’re a cheater! Cheating Carnegie.”
He’s holding his hand over his mouth, so I can’t see the smug grin behind it. His eyes are wide. He blinks them quickly, as if to emphasize his innocence.
“How do you always win? I’m bloody good at chess!”
He moves his hand, revealing a suppressed grin and dimples.
“How did you learn, scoundrel?”
The grin falls off his face so fast, my heart drops. Oops. I bite the inside of my cheek as he begins to line his pieces back up. Never mind. I want to say so, but my throat is too tight. Looking apathetically down at the board, he says, “My mom’s husband. Stepdad, Rich. He was a Wall Street guy. Machine at chess.”
“He taught you?”
His eyes come to mine as he scoffs. “Fuck no.” His mouth tugs up on one side, as if he’s smirking, but his face is hard. “I learned how so I could kick his ass.”
“So did you, then?”
“Did I kick his ass?”
I nod, feeling quite hesitant about this topic now.
“One time, yeah. Could have done it more, but didn’t see him after that.”
