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“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 satisfying schlump. 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?
When I hear the bathroom door open, I pounce, passing Cole in the doorway. “My turn,” I chirp. Once behind the door, I let the fake smile fall, along with my blanket.
I pull my hair into a puff of frizzy curls, knowing I’m doing that both to hurry and because the frizz is from Cole’s hands and I stupidly don’t want to let that go yet. I take a speed shower, get dressed, and shove my toiletries into my suitcase. One last glance around the bathroom and it, too, looks empty and uninhabited. I pile up the towels in front of the still-running washer and grab my bag.
In the living room, I find Cole sitting on the couch, his elbows resting on his spread knees and his eyes unfocused as he stares into the cold, black fireplace.
“I’m ready. Out by ten a.m. like Anderson said,” I announce cheerfully as I drag my suitcase to the front door.
“Here. Let me,” Cole says as he reaches for my bag.
I keep pulling it along. “No worries. I’ve got it. Been hauling this thing around myself for ages. One time, I had to roll it through the airport, bumping around this way and that, trying not to take out any kids, only to find out that it was overweight at the boarding gate. They said it was too heavy and made me check it. I mean, the weight is on the plane either way, whether it’s below in the cargo area or in the overhead bins, so I don’t know why it mattered, but rules are rules, ya know? And it would’ve fit in the overhead! It’s a small bag. I think it was heavy because I was bringing back rocks from the beach. But it’s lighter now, no rocks at all this time. Though I did take a leaf from the tree by the back porch as a keepsake. It’s pressed into one of my books. I want to save it to remember this trip—I mean, the pretty forest.”
I stop rambling, mostly because I’ve said too much about what this trip meant to me, but also because I’ve bump-bumped my suitcase to the back of my car. “Sioux-B, you ready to make that scary drive back through the woods again?” I ask her as I lift the bag into the SUV. It was nice to have Cole help with things this week, but I’m used to taking care of things myself and being self-sufficient, and it’s time to get back to that.
