Suddenly, I am eager to find my way back to my complicated artist - well, mine if only for a while — and I shove off of the door and look at myself in the mirror. Oh good gosh, I look like a creature from ‘Fright Night’. My hair is a wild mess, and my makeup is non-existent except for mascara smudged under my eyes. Great. I’m with the hottest man I’ve ever known and raccoons have crawled through my hair and settled under my eyes. And I’ve spent so much time thinking, Chris is going to come looking for me.
Digging through my purse, I search for my brush, and freeze at the sight of one of Rebecca’s journals. I swallow hard as I remember the exact entry inside that I’d awakened dreaming about this morning. No. More like reliving. I swallow hard at how vividly I’d conjured another woman’s words into fantasy while Chris stood nearby, perhaps overhearing my sighs, moans, and who knew what else.
With a deep breath, I snatch the journal and set it on the counter, staring at it, barely containing the urge to read the entry in question. Every time I re-read a page, the content becomes more meaningful, and pieces of the Rebecca puzzle fall into place. I ignore the idea, snatching my brush.
Quickly, I run it through my hair, and consider applying makeup before settling for rinsing my face and applying some moisturizer. Make up would look like I’m trying too hard. I think of the kiss I’d craved from Chris and been denied and the urge to brush my teeth is intense. Out of desperation, I decide to use my finger and water on my teeth. Surprise, surprise. It’s a wasted effort. I have no toothpaste. I grab some tissue and scrub my teeth before rinsing again.
Without much more ado, I give up, and exit the bathroom. Stopping by the coffee table, I drop my purse and grab the plates and the drink cups we’d left there. Loaded up, I head toward the kitchen that thus far is producing no promising scent of cooking food.
I pass the archway between the living room and the kitchen and don’t see Chris, but there is a massive rectangular island counter of grey and black marble with gorgeous grey wooden shelves above and below it. I follow the sound of movement toward a corner to the right, which appears to be a part of an ‘L’ shaped room, but not without being distracted by the hollowed oval eating nook surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and more of the breathtaking view of the city. I love this kitchen. I love this entire apartment so far.
I turn into the bottom of the “L” and find a rectangular room with a counter and a stainless-steel sink on one side. Opposite is another counter with a stove, fridge, and the sexy owner of the apartment, who is busy gathering salt, pepper, plates, and various other items he needs, depositing them in a corner by the stove.
“This kitchen is a chef’s dream,” I declare, disposing of the dishes in the sink opposite him.
“It comes with the apartment so don’t start thinking I’m a master chef.” He opens the fancy fridge with double doors and sets eggs and cheese on the counter. “There’s a reason why I know all of the local restaurant crowd.”
I move to the side of the counter on the opposite side of the stove from where he is working to watch him crack several eggs into a bowl. My gaze is drawn to his hands, and I cannot help but think of how expertly he’d touched my body, how expertly he handles a paint brush. How expertly he’d known how to keep me on the edge and then take me over.
He glances at me, and I feel as if he’s reading my thoughts. Part of me burns to boldly embrace what he’s making me feel, but the old me — the real me? - rushes to cover up what I am thinking for no apparent reason. “I know how to shop in the frozen food section of my grocery store and that’s about it. My mom was…we…didn’t cook.”
He whisks eggs in a bowl and adds milk, salt, and pepper. “Was your mom too busy to cook or she didn’t like to cook?”
How did I let this conversation start? “My father didn’t like her cooking so she didn’t cook.”
He rests a hand on the counter. “He cooked?”
“Ah no. My father doesn’t do domestic tasks.”
He fires up the burner and pours a little oil in the pan. “So who cooked? You or a sibling?”
“I’m an only child and I don’t cook.” He glances at me, a curious expression on his face, and I know why. I’m making a simple question complicated because I always make things regarding my father complicated. “We had a private chef.” The surprised look on his face makes me regret I’ve gone there and I motion to the coffee pot sitting in front of me. “I’m falling down on my job.”