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“Quite possibly,” he replies affably. “But that’s then. For right now, I’m quite content to be in Vermont with my current girlfriend and her blue hair.”
I prop my chin on my hand and grin at him. “I bet she’s pretty great.”
“I’ll confess to being surprised, sometimes, how much I like her.”
“Is that so,” I say lightly, hating how much I want it to be true. “I’ll bet she’s really good in bed. Gives excellent head.”
Thomas’s low groan as he shifts in his chair is the best thing I’ve heard since, well . . . his groans last night.
The rest of the day is pretty perfect, and though Thomas’s and my “relationship” was supposed to last only long enough to enjoy two varieties of pizza (both delish, by the way, with the chicken and waffle winning by a hair), the couple-y vibe continues after that as well.
At the distillery, where we’d found ourselves touring the grounds together after the group tasting. On the shuttle, where we always sat beside each other, our knees brushing against each other’s just a little too comfortably.
Then again, at dinner, where the elegant atmosphere had been more suited to quiet chatter than loud, big-group conversation, Thomas and I found ourselves talking about all those nothings that somehow feel like something.
And now, at the end of the night, our group finds itself in a repeat of last night, minus penis gummies, ending the evening bundled up around the bonfire.
I can’t remember if I sat on the swinging bench first or if Thomas did, but somehow we end up together sharing a blanket as the group plays an enthusiastic game of I’ve Never.
And when the game ends, and the group disperses, some to bed, others to their quiet conversations, neither Thomas or I move.
I tell myself it’s because I’m comfy and cozy, and I am. But I’m also . . . content. More so than I can ever remember being, and the realization leaves me feeling, ironically, a bit unsettled.
It’s just one day, I remind myself. It won’t kill you. One weekend.
On Monday, we’ll go back to not seeing each other, at least until that future day when I probably will see him and his perfect wife and baby.
A couple of weeks ago, the thought would have made me feel a little smug. Better him than me.
Now, it just leaves me feeling melancholy, so I shove it away and remind myself what my mother told me far more often than she ever told me to eat my vegetables:
To live in the moment. This moment, right here—that was life.
And life, right now, is good.
When my sleepiness increases, and my cheek finds its way to his shoulder, I feel his chin brush over the top of my head. Rest there.
I apparently fall asleep at some point, because when Thomas gently nudges me awake, everyone else is gone, and the hotel staff is extinguishing the bonfire for the night.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling a bit awkward, as I wipe my mouth, checking for drool. For good measure, I wipe his shoulder too.
“No problem,” he says.
We’re silent as we make our way up to my room, not saying a word until we stop outside my door.
I fish my key out of the back of my jean pockets. “Well.” My voice is hushed. “Thanks for being a great temporary boyfriend.”
“Not as terrible as you thought?”
“No,” I admit. “But don’t go getting any crazy ideas about a permanent arrangement.”
My voice is joking, but Thomas doesn’t smile back as he steps a bit nearer. “You do that constantly, Mac. Make comments about the temporary nature, how you’re not that kind of girl. Who are you trying to remind? Me? Or yourself?”
“You,” I retort quickly, before thorny, life-twisting thoughts can sneak in. “It’s just . . . the thing is.” I huff. “I actually am kind of starting to think you’re a good guy, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
He is silent for a minute, then nods. “I see. That irresistible, are you? That I won’t be able to help myself? Fall wildly in love? Buy us a house in Connecticut?”
I flinch. “When you put it that way, it makes me sound—”
“Incredibly full of yourself? As though perhaps you underestimate me? Think I’m not capable of making up my own mind, of knowing my own heart? That I’m little more than a marriage-seeking robot rather than a man who sometimes has just good old-fashioned male needs?”
He’s right. He’s so right, it’s embarrassing. Not once has Thomas ever even remotely implied he sees me as a part of his future. Just like he’s not a part of mine.
He is, however, right here, right now, and every part of me is aching for a repeat of last night.
I toy with the end of my braid and look up at him. “Male needs, you say?”
