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I’m not sure what this all means. I’m busy with work. She’s got to finish her degree, and I have no idea what she wants to do after that. And I’m still wary of giving my heart away. I like her. But there’s so much up in the air right now.
She reaches for the sponge, pours some gel onto it, moves forward, and starts washing my chest. “We can still be friends with benefits,” she suggests. “Just exclusive ones. Right?”
God, I adore this girl. “Okay,” I murmur.
“Why don’t we talk about it again when I get back from Australia?”
I nod. “Yeah. What date do you go?”
“First of May.”
“And you’re back in Wellington in a couple of weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know if I’ll have time to come down before then. Catie will have the babies any day, and Saxon will be taking a few weeks off, so I’ll have to cover for him. And I’ll probably have to go to Auckland for a week.”
“That’s okay. I wondered whether you’d like to do something on your birthday? I have an idea for a special present.” She winks at me.
“Does it buzz?”
She laughs. “Actually, no. But I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
“Then the answer’s definitely yes.”
Smiling, she picks up her phone where she left it resting on the tiles. She brings up Spotify and puts on Kiwi musician Bic Runga’sBeautiful Collisionalbum because she knows I like it, andListening for the Weatherstarts playing.
Feeling happy, I turn her around and pull her back against me. Then I take the sponge and begin to wash her, while the rain patters on the skylight above our heads.
*
The next morning, we check out, then carry our bags outside and both call an Uber—Belle to her father’s house, me to the airport.
“I hope all goes well with Saxon and Catie,” she says with a smile. “Let me know when the twins are born.”
I cup her face. “I’ll be texting you as soon as I get to the airport.”
She flushes with pleasure. “I’ll miss you,” she whispers.
“I’ll miss you, too.” We had a great evening yesterday, ordering dinner to our room, and talking, listening to music, and making love all night.
I kiss her, taking my time, wishing she was coming with me. But I mustn’t get carried away. I’ll be seeing her soon, and I’m going to be super-busy until then.
Her Uber draws up, so I give her a final kiss, lift her bag into the back, and she waves goodbye and gets in. A minute later, it’s heading into the traffic, and she’s gone.
It’s raining again. I wait inside for my Uber, then run out when it comes and get in. Soon I’m on the way to the airport, looking out through the window at the rainy day.
*
As always happens, as soon as we’re apart, self-doubt sets in. She’s younger than me, and still at university; she’s surrounded by young guys, and I know I have plenty of flaws. Surely she’ll meet someone else better than me?
But she sends me a text before I even arrive at the airport, saying what a great weekend it’s been, and she can’t wait to see me again. I message her back to say ditto and my next birthday is going to be the best ever. She comes back on Snapchat with a selfie of her wearing her new earrings. And that’s it. From then on, over the next week, we message constantly, sending each other photos, memes, songs, and texts. We keep it light, mostly, although occasionally it turns steamy, especially once we’re both home during the evening. I call her, then, and several times we have phone sex, which is a new thing for me. Hearing her innocent little gasps on the phone is enough to fire me up, and then the way she whispers dirty nothings in my ear soon has me taking myself in hand for some DIY. I know she’s found a website that she’s been reading, and I’m thrilled that she’s trying things out, especially as I’m the recipient of her experiments.
The fear that she might meet someone else still lingers, but I don’t have much time to worry about it because I’m flat out at work. Then on Friday, I get a phone call from Saxon late in the evening to say that Catie’s finally gone into labor. He insists there’s nothing I can do, so I wish him luck and tell him to call as soon as he has any news, go to bed, then phone Belle to tell her.
“You’ll be Uncle Damon soon,” she teases. “I might have to start calling you that. Or would you prefer Daddy?”
“Someone’s been reading again,” I say wryly. “And no, I told you, I’m not into the Daddy Dom thing.”
