“I believe you.”
He kisses her again. A loving deep kiss that is layered with regret and emotion and hidden meaning that she would like to read in between his lip nuances.
I’ll make myself un-miss him.
He smiles again. “Now what do you say to us grabbing a bite to eat … and then fucking our brains out one more time?”
*
They made love throughout the evening, and then through the night, stopping now and again to drink wine or nibble at snacks. He falls asleep on her bed for the second night in a row. This time, they are entwined. Limbs curled around each other, her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.
It is … almost romantic.
He reminds himself he doesn’t do romance.
When dawn snakes through the cracks in her curtains, he puts his hand on her hair and tugs at it gently.
“Wakey, wakey. I’ve got to be getting back to the Evil Day Job.”
“Oh right,” she groans, “it’s Monday. Two nights of partying. I can’t believe it. It’s so not me.”
Yeah, but it’s me, he thinks. Time to get back to his old life. Why does he feel heavy all of a sudden, like there’s a lead anchor dragging down his chest?
He vaults out of bed for a shower.
“I thought you were the boss,” she calls from the bed.
“Yeah, well, somebody’s got to play the devil.” He has got to work back his razor edge. He has been uncharacteristically mellow last night. Any more of this and he will be losing his touch.
When he has finished showering, she stands by the bathroom door, watching him as he towels his hair dry. They are both silent. He hates goodbyes and he knows she senses that he doesn’t want her to create a scene. And so she doesn’t. She just stands there, her hair mussed up – that sexy, been-fucked-all-night, out-of-bed hair that he finds so alluring. Her eyes are soft and accepting, and he’s grateful that she doesn’t try to talk him out of leaving.
After he has dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she watches him walk to the front door.
“Have a good life,” she says.
“You too, sweetheart.”
He turns to go before he can say something he’s going to regret, which is basically the story of his life. He avoids the elevators and bolts down the stairs, fleeing the carapace of emotions he left behind.
14
Sam finds herself thinking of Brian from time to time. She plays their lovemaking over and over again in her mind.
She’s not in love with him, she sternly tells herself. He is just a wonderful memory. A keepsake in her little box of secrets. She will never see him again, but take him out from her drawer from time to time to fantasize about – like a high school yearbook photo of a great-looking boy who took her to the prom.
She doesn’t tell Cassie about her night with Brian. She would like to keep it to herself, hug it warmly to her chest.
“So are you going to call Caleb?” she casually asks Cassie.
Her best friend stirs the froth on her cappuccino, despoiling the carefully shaped chocolate powder heart. She makes a face.
“I’d rather he call me first.”
“And has he?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for you to call.”
“Maybe he’s too indoctrinated in the Brian Morton school of one night stands.”
Sam winces at the mention of Brian’s name.
‘Ah well,” Cassie says in a singsong voice, “back to the old daily grind of waiting by the phone. Only we don’t have to technically wait by the phone anymore, seeing as we are all equipped with text, Viber, What’s App and a million other ways to get dumped.”
“He did not dump you.”
“He didn’t exactly jump all over on seeing me again either. I mean, it’s understandable for Brian, but I thought Caleb and I had a connection. At least … we talked. And talked and talked and talked while we fucked.”
That’s more than I can say for Brian, Sam thinks in chagrin.
Still, what is a girl to do but carry on with the precious mementoes in her life?
*
Brian finds himself thinking of Sam when he’s supposed to be concentrating on something else. Like this really boring ad presentation, for example.
“And so, it’s PERFECT,” the enthusiastic young exec says, tapping the mockup, “the perfect cream for the perfect woman.”
He beams as though he has just found a shortcut to the fountain of youth.
Brian feels like burying his face in his hands. Or better still, burying the young exec under a mountain of PERFECT cream. Who the hell copyrights a name like PERFECT anyway?
“And that’s supposed to make me run out to Nordstrom, throw down my credit card and shell three hundred dollars out for it?” he says caustically.