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The question seems more real, said aloud.
It’s how I used to hype myself up after a breakup, talk myself in circles, say all sorts of ridiculous things into the open air, the kind of stuff you’d rather have a nail brutally yanked off than broadcast aloud to the public, like, “You are the strongest person I know,” “You will get through this,” “He will be sorry.”
Right now, though, I don’t feel strong. I’m not all that sure I’ll get through this. Hell, I’m sure as shit that Emerson won’t be sorry.
After all Josie told me, do I really want him to be?
The phone in my room rings.
I glare at it, at the seashell design on its back.
“Go away,” I growl.
The phone rings out a reply, Not a chance.
I go to lie on my other side, staring into the wall. I stretch and flex my toe. It gives a good crack.
The phone rings and rings and rings and—
“Emerson,” I snap, picking up, “not in the mood.”
Silence.
Then, the sound of a dial tone.
My glare crumples into tears.
Before I had even made up my stupid mind, did I have to ruin everything?
He probably thinks I’m a psycho and is packing his bags already. As he’s right to.
Unless...
I call him up.
Winner of The Most Bipolar Woman on the Island Award today goes to...
“Hi,” he says flatly.
“Can we start over?” I ask tentatively. “Sorry, I’ve just been...” I trail off uselessly.
There are about fifteen words that come to mind, and none of them is the right one.
“All right,” he says. “I’ve just been... too.”
I frown. “You making fun of me?”
“Not really. I get it. Last night was a mindfuck.”
I’ve been pressing the tiny half-moons of my nails into my palm.
Is he hinting at what I think he is?
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I get why you’d be freaked.”
“So, you’re freaked.”
“I’ve had better mornings,” he says shortly.
“Oh.”
He exhales. “Jesus, Wynona, I woke up and didn’t know what to do, so I left. Then, I call you up and—”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I say. “I just... didn’t expect this. It’s a lot to process.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” he says.
A pause, then he says, “But I can see you again?”
I manage to chuckle. “You sure you want to?”
He chuckles too. “If your snapping at me every morning is the worst of it, then I think I can handle it.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen the worst yet,” I reply smoothly. “Believe me.”
“Is that a threat?” His rolling baritone is light, amused.
“Just want you to know what you’re in for,” I say sweetly.
“I already knew you were a handful.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“The kind of handful I like.”
“Ooh, smooth,” I quip. “Is this the part where I invite you over and casually mention that I’m in my pajamas and still in bed?”
“Now that you mention it...”
“Can I just have some time?” I’m surprised to hear myself say in a more or less steady voice. As soon as I heard Emerson’s voice, my first instinct was to want to see the handsome tanned square of a face that it belonged to, but that might not be the best thing right now. “To think. I just finished talking with Josie.”
“Fair,” Emerson says. “How much time?”
“A few hours, at least.”
“Perfect,” he returns smoothly. “Then you can make dinner tonight.”
I find myself chuckling again. Emerson does seem to have that effect on me. “You couldn’t wait to ask me for a few hours?”
“Bad idea,” he says. “Wait that long and you could have plans already.”
“Yes,” I quip. “With all the appealing hermit crabs on the beach, who knows how long my nights will stay free?”
“That a yes?”
“It’s not a no,” I say.
“Wynona—”
“I’ll keep tonight open for you and think,” I say. “I’ll let you know in a few hours.”
“All right,” he says. “In a few hours, then.”
Turns out it’s not a few hours. It’s one.
One hour of doing an online yoga routine with Josie and an instructor whose patronizing nasal voice makes me want to strangle her, which somewhat mars the calm from the poses. I manage to finish it anyway, although certain poses—downward dog and warrior two, to name a couple, feel... overtly sexual in light of last night.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Obviously, I haven’t been a cloistered nun for the five years Emerson and I have been apart. But there’s sex, and then there’s... sex.
The kind of sex you glimpse in movies and sometimes even porn. The kind that’s so good that it seems mythical, like a flying pig or a Neanderthal.
The kind that I’d once had. The kind that, before last night, I thought I was remembering with nostalgia’s rosy glasses, overblown and overdone in my inexperience.
But now? Now I know.
It was just as good as I remembered—better, even.
Spontaneous, perfect, easy.
Like two dancers who had been away for years, returning for their signature dance.
I force myself upright from savasana, the final resting pose of my yoga practice, where I’ve evidently let my mind wander.
