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I park in front of a bakery with a neon blue “OPEN” sign flashing in the window. I know, as I walk inside, that I’m walking into more than buying scones.
I know.
But I’m not sure how much I care.
GWENNA
His room is clean and quiet. The bed is empty. On the pillow beside me, I find a note.
HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL. I HAD SOME THINGS TO DO THIS MORNING. CHECK THE OVEN BEFORE GOING HOME. B.
I go downstairs and find the house empty. The stove clock says it’s 10:43 a.m. Inside the oven, I find a tinfoil-covered dinner plate piled high with scones. Blueberry scones, apparently. In the garbage can, I find a box from Mona’s Bakery in Gatlinburg.
My chest goes hot. He went to get these just for me—or us. I know he did it this morning, too, because Mona’s only sells food baked the day of. I down two delicious scones and drink some orange juice, then I float into the den, where I find my clothes draped over the couch’s arm.
I take my time upstairs, dressing and making the bed, and have to struggle not to check the drawers.
I wonder if he folds his clothes or they’re just in a messy pile, shoved in. Somehow I doubt they’re messy.
Before I go, I hug his pillow. Smells like him.
I wonder if he’ll call.
SIXTEEN
GWENNA
December 30, 2011
I slide my Kindle into my carry-on bag, a little leather backpack propped against the arm of my black suede couch. Elvie stops messing with my new DVD player and walks over to me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “You and your imposter books,” he drawls.
I wriggle free and swat his cheek. “They’re not imposters. They’re ebooks.”
He snorts. “I don’t know how you do that.”
“You don’t read, so I imagine not.” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“I read music. Isn’t that enough for you, woman?”
“Of course it is.” I reach instinctively for him, but remember he doesn’t want me touching his hair. He’s playing tonight.
He must have seen the intention on my face, because he cups my cheek and pulls me up against him. “You’re looking good there in that little skirt, Gwennie.” He rocks his hips against me, just to be sure I feel how turned on he is. “You want to fuck before Jamie gets here?”
I wince at the word—fucking is totally not how I’d like to describe sex—then shake my head and laugh. “She’ll be here in five minutes, you lunatic.”
“It could be a quickie.”
“No one’s that quick.”
In fact—especially not Elvie. Especially not lately. When we first started having sex our sophomore year of college, sometimes he would come before he even got all the way inside. Now sometimes it takes him longer than me. I push that thought away. Models aren’t allowed to feel insecure about their looks. I pat Elvie’s itty-bitty beer pooch. “It’s going to be a long five days without you. I hope New York is amazing.”
“It won’t be the same without you.” He looks down at his big belt buckle, frowning as he rubs it. His green eyes lift to mine. “You could still come, you know. Back-up sing.”
I push my hand at his face. “You arrogant asshole. I’m the star,” I say in a dramatic Southern accent.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Too good to back-up sing for Elvie Wesson.”
“Damn right I am.”
