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“I’ll use it after dinner, so I won’t be in your way.”
I shrug, but in my head, I’m thinking about how she’s going to be wearing a bathing suit. Will it be one piece or two? Sexy as fuck boy shorts? A teasing sporty top like she wears around the house?
In fact, it’s kind of all I can think about as we separate and work for the day—well, Sara works. I fantasize about her in a bikini.
I’m trying to come up with the next line for a chorus that needs to rhyme with “dorn,” but my eyes keep drifting to the clock. Six fourteen. Six twenty-three.
Is she having an early dinner?
I crack open the door to my studio and sniff the air. It smells good, like cumin and onions.Banana Pancakesby Jack Johnson plays, and Sara hums along with it while kitchenware clatters.
Twenty minutes later, I crack the door again. The smell still lingers, but the kitchen is quiet.
I’m not sneaking. I’m just walking casually in my own house, glancing out the window . . .
“Hey.”
I suppress a jump at Sara’s voice behind me. She’s sitting in the corner of the room, reading, looking at me with her eyebrows drawn in confusion.
“Are you all right?”
“Yup,” I say, “Just, uh, getting some water.”
“Okay.” She looks back down at her e-reader.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of cold water. Sara has cleaned, and several things sit in the drying rack, and she has wiped the counters. On the stove, a pot gently simmers, the steam barely escaping.
Okay, I’ve probably got at least a half hour before she’s out in the hot tub.
“Smells good,” I say while walking back from the kitchen, glass in hand.
After half an hour, I crack the door again. Dishes clattering and water running.
Fifteen minutes later, all is quiet. The daylight is giving way to gray outside, the dishes from Sara’s dinner are in the drain, and there’s no sign of Sara.
Fuck it. I’m having a smoke.
I sit outside and light up my cigarette, body sagging with relief. The night is still and quiet, the lights from the house forming a perimeter of bright lights and harsh shadows before rapidly fading to darkness.
I try to make the cigarette last. Just this one, I tell myself. Surely Sara will be out soon, and then I can go back inside.
She’s not out by the time I get to the last bit.
Okay, one more.
Because I’m a shit human with no self-control, it’s four cigarettes by the time the door opens behind me. Sara doesn’t say anything at first, and I close my eyes. I’ve been lingering, waiting to catch a glimpse of Sara before she gets in the hot tub because it’s all I have been able to think about today.
“Chris?” Sara’s voice comes from in front of me. I open my eyes, and, fuck, the waiting and the guilt over the cigarettes are worth it.
Knotted on the top of her head, her hair reflects the harsh lighting. The bathing suit is a one-piece that is modest up top, wide straps that come down to a high-cut neckline, but it’s cut high at her thighs too.
Sara leans in, peering at me, and I realize she can’t see my face in the shadows. Probably for the best.
“Is it still all right if I use the hot tub?” One arm holds a bath towel and her e-reader, the other a glass of wine.
“Yeah, of course,” I gesture with my half-burnt cigarette and then snub it out, rising to help her remove the cover. I turn my back as she sets her things up on the shelf in arm’s reach.
I should go inside. I’ve had four cigarettes and wasted most of my day, and I’ve seen what I wanted to see.
