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“That sounds good. Mostly the no annoying people part.”
I grin, teasing with wide, fake-innocent eyes, “Aww, are you calling me not-annoying?”
His lip lifts in a small smile at the barely-a-compliment I’m giving myself. “What’s next for you?”
I catch the little add-on there where he’s specifically asking about me, like we aren’t a thing anymore. Not that we ever were, but part of why I wish we could stay here is because of Cole. All week has been fun, and last night-slash-this morning was amazing.
Maybe I need a sex-cation with Cole?
But I don’t suggest that. Instead, I answer his question. “I’m driving home this morning, then I have laundry to do and groceries to buy because tomorrow is a regular Monday for me. I’ll be taking reports by seven a.m. and handing out meds by eight.”
The weight of reality crashes down on me. Imagining a typical workday, I say, “I’ll take care of my patients all day, and Mason’ll force me to go out for dinner, even after I tell him I bought food, by reminding me that I can’t cook. And we’ll talk about my vacation and the wedding. He doesn’t know about you yet, and I can’t wait to tell him about the sexy stranger I almost killed with bear spray and my ninja skills but ended up seducing into helping me escape my family’s death grip.” I curl my hands like claws and wrinkle my nose like my family is full of literal monsters.
“Sounds like a hell of a Monday,” Cole says in a monotone, disinterested voice that sounds too familiar. He might as well have said ‘mmhmm, yeah, sure’ for all the inflection in his words. Is he really that suddenly uninterested? Or is there something more to it?
“You?” I prompt, trying to reengage the way we’ve been all week.
He shrugs. “Home. Work. Repeat.”
“Won’t any of your friends or family check on you? You’ve been gone longer than expected. Are they worried?” I ask in concern. “Oh, you probably texted them already, right?”
He looks at me with his brows low over his blue eyes. “Nobody knows I’m gone. They don’t know when I’m there either. I show up for dinners when I can, or if they’re mandatory, because that usually means shit’s hitting the fan, which is good entertainment more often than not. But, no...” He finishes with a shrug like it’s completely normal that no one knows when he leaves home for an entire week.
It’s shocking. I told Mason my plans, including giving him the link to the cabin’s ad, the emails from Anderson, and my expected route to and from the cabin. I also have a neighbor getting my mail and watching my place for any suspicious activity. If I didn’t show up today, there’d be at least two people who’d call the police and report me missing, and I’d probably be on the news by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest, because Mason wouldn’t leave the networks alone until they were running ticker tapes at the bottom...Have you seen this woman? She needs to show up to work because we’re out of ratio! And oh, yeah, she’s my bestie.
But really, I have people who would care and that’s important.
“You can text me when you get home,” I offer. It’s a bigger deal than it sounds like and I know it. I’m asking if he wants to continue us outside the fantasy world of the cabin and the fake boyfriend deal.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“Janey,” he says gently.
Nope, nope, not doing that ‘let her down easy’ tone. Not today, not any day.
I rush to smooth over the awkwardness I’ve created. “I mean, someone should know you’re okay and didn’t drive into a ditch along the way home. It doesn’t have to be me.” I laugh, but it’s high and forced and sounds fake even to my ears.
I should’ve taken the win of an amazing week with an even more amazing stranger and been grateful. And I am. So grateful for everything Cole’s done for me. But I pushed too far.
“You finished?” Cole says flatly, pointing to my plate with a jerk of his chin. He’s nearly hugging his empty plate, slouched forward with a hand pressed to the island on either side of it. I glance from his plate to mine, which has a few bites left, but the tasty breakfast is sitting like a rock in my stomach now and I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.
“Oh! Yes, but I’ll do the dishes.” I’m up, tucking my blanket around me tighter because I suddenly feel nakedly vulnerable. The face-sitting, ride ‘em cowgirl, Blow Job Queen that I was an hour ago is gone.
But I won’t forget that she exists. I worked too hard to find her.
With my head held high, I grab our plates and head to the sink to escape Cole’s non-answer answer. He doesn’t want to talk or text me later, not telling me he’s home safe or anything else, and that’s okay. That was our deal and that’s fine. Totally fine. “Dishes are on my check-out checklist from Anderson,” I inform him. “I wouldn’t want to get hit with a fee for not doing everything. I need to clean the kitchen, load the sheets into the washer, and grab the towels from the bathroom.”
“Okay,” Cole answers. “Mind if I shower first?”
“No, no, of course not,” I say brightly, waving him off with bubble-coated hands because despite my plans to put the plates in the washer, I poured dish soap all over them and am scrubbing them with a sponge.
Once the bathroom door closes, I sag. “Way to go, Janey. Things were going great and then you turn Stage-Five Clinger on the poor man who just did you a huge favor by playing the part of your doting boyfriend. Well, fiancé. But still? It’s nothing more, nothing less. Just a fake deal to help and some life-altering, no-strings-attached sex. That’s it.” I scrub the plate with a vengeance, like it’s the one that messed up. Mocking myself, I say again, “Text me when you get home! Good God, could you sound any more desperate?”
I rush through a wipe down of the kitchen, climb upstairs, and strip the bed. When I throw the sex-scented sheets over the railing, they hit the floor downstairs with a satisfyingschlump. After a quick tidy in the bedroom, I climb back down the ladder and load the sheets in the washing machine. I fluff the pillows on the couch, giving them a karate chop, check the back porch for any stray blankets, and basically, make the cabin look as unlived-in as possible.
Like this week never happened.
That sort of hurts, right in that spot where memories reside in your heart. That spot that makes you want to carve initials in tree trunks, take a picture, get a tattoo, or something. I want more, like some type of souvenir to commemorate the good times we had here. Because this past week should be more than just memories... shouldn’t it?
