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Knitting needles and balls of yarn, a half-thawed bag of vegetables, soar off the bed. Kate burrows down in the sheets with me and whispers, “Yes, I do.”
•THIRTY-SEVEN•
Kate
For once, I’m the one who can’t sleep. My mind is flying, my limbs restless, and so I slip out of bed the next morning just as dawn starts to fill the main living space of our apartment. Part of me wants to lie there, watching Christopher sleep as sunlight warms his skin, burnishes the curling ends of his hair and sparkles off the scruff that showed up last night—scruff that I thoroughly enjoyed abrading my breasts and stomach and thighs while he brought me one stunning orgasm after another.
I could lie there all morning, staring at him, replaying those beautiful moments, wondering what beautiful moments lie ahead. But I know if I stay, watching him sleep, my wiggles will wake him up, and after years of such poor sleep, Christopher needs his rest so badly.
Quietly shutting my bedroom door behind me, laptop and headphones under my arm, I tiptoe over to the kitchen and turn on the coffee maker, which Bea or Jamie must have set up, because I know Christopher and I didn’t.
While I wait for the coffee to brew, I wander into Bea’s tiny studio at the back of the apartment, with its faded gold velvet armchair next to the window, facing the sunrise.
Settling into it, I power on my laptop, tug on my headphones,and start some mellow music, prepared to work on editing the rest of the nonprofit’s photos. A reminder pops up on my calendar:
Jules’s flight home tonight.
I blink at the screen, stunned, my heart thudding. I’ve been so consumed with Christopher, so fixated on work, I completely blanked on the dwindling countdown to Jules coming home. She’ll be heretonight. Which means I need to figure out what I’m doing next. And I need to deep clean her room.
I shouldn’t be so panicked. I knew this was coming. But like my classic self, I haven’t done much—anything, really—to prepare for it. My suitcase still sits open, where I’ve kept my clothes. I haven’t thought about where I’ll go or what I’ll do after this.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe I haven’t had tothinkabout it—I’vechosenit, little by little, along the way. I’ve chosen working at the Edgy Envelope, chosen new paths for my photography to connect me to people and capture their stories. I’ve chosen to cultivate friendships, spend time with my family, make myself a part of what I’d missed.
Maybe I’ve been choosing what I want all this time, since I came home and ran right into Christopher, and now that it’s here before me—the life that reflects those choices—I’m already where I was worried I would never get to.
My gears turn as I think about what comes next. I could spend a month at Mom and Dad’s, save up for a deposit on a tiny studio somewhere. Or I could stay with Christopher.
No. That would be too fast. Too soon.
Even though I know I’d love it. Even though I know we’d give each other a disgusting amount of pleasure and comfort. We’d laugh and argue and tease and make love—
Love.
That’s what it comes down to. What I want, what I’ve chosen, is what Ilove—who I love. And one of those people is right down the hall, sleeping.
At least, he was.
I catch movement in the kitchen that I know is Christopher, broad and solid, dark bedhead waves sticking up. I smile, tugging off my headphones, prepared to call his name and say good morning.
But before I can, Christopher says to someone I can’t see, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I frown. He’s speaking quietly, but his voice echoes down the hall from the kitchen to the studio. Who is he talking to?
Jamie’s voice answers him. “I’m not looking at you like anything. I’m... surprised to see you. I didn’t think...” A heavy sigh. “I don’t know what I thought, and I don’t know what to make of you being here. I thought you were going to fix things with her, to make peace. That’s all we asked for.”
That’s all we asked for?
My ears start to ring. I know I should make my presence known. I know I’m eavesdropping. But I’m like an animal in the field, staring down the barrel of a hunter’s gun, frozen, stunned.
SomeoneaskedChristopher to “fix things”? Why did he never say? Why does it sound like some grand arrangement was made to deal with me and the complications I apparently presented?
And why does it feel like I’m going to throw up?
I whimper, a sob climbing up my throat, tears stinging my eyes, but then I stop myself, shaking my head.
No. I won’t do this. I won’t skip ten steps and assume the worst. I won’t take a fragment of a conversation and fill it in with all my fears and insecurities.
