Hi Jane, I write. I have to admit I’ve never read a romance novel so I hope these are the kind of thing you were thinking of. I read the very beginning of the time travel one just now and it seems pretty cool and mysterious. Then the other one says on the back that it’s supposed to be funny so I hope it is. Nothing worse than when someone says something’s funny but it’s not. Have a good one. Colin.
I nudge Rafe. “I don’t know what to say. Is this okay, or…?”
Rafe reads it over my shoulder and he bites his lip.
“I can—”
Rafe bumps my shoulder. “It’s perfect.”
I WAKE up on Sunday in a shitty mood. I don’t realize how shitty until I go to make coffee and Shelby darts in front of me and I have to basically throw myself against the wall to avoid stepping on her.
“Fuck!” I punch the wall in a flash of hot anger, which, it turns out, just hurts a lot. It’s not a good start to the day, and every little thing irritates me more than the last. I have a voice mail message from Sam from last night, asking where I am and accusing me of “never being around anymore.” Yeah, like he’s ever around since he married Liza. We used to hang out all the time, but once they moved in together, he always wanted us to come to their house. And it wasn’t the same. I’m out of fucking milk, so I shove handfuls of cereal into my mouth from the box while slumped on the couch.
I have nothing to do today but stare at the wall. I bet Rafe has things to do. Letters to write to prisoners and kids to inspire and fundraisers to plan, or whatever they were going to do when they left to get dinner together last night. Rafe invited me but I didn’t relish the idea of humiliating myself further by having approximately zero to contribute to their conversation about systemic racism and cultural biases and all the other stuff they were discussing in the parking lot before I left. Rafe had started to explain, but I waved him off.
I scrub my hands over my face and consider just going back to bed and sleeping until work tomorrow morning, but I’m all fidgety and I know I won’t be able to sleep.
I hate Sundays. It’s not just that I have nothing to do. It’s that it doesn’t matter what I do. If I watch a game on TV or go running or do laundry or clean the house for the third time this week, it just doesn’t fucking matter. I’ve decided on cleaning the house again when my phone rings.
“Hi, Colin.” Even through the phone, the way he says my name does something to me.
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to go running yesterday. If you’re free today, we could go.”
Part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m basically free all the time.
“Um, yeah, I could do that.”
“Great. I’m already in the car, so why don’t I come to you?”
“Okay.”
I try to shake off my crappy mood before Rafe arrives, though thirty-six years of history should have told me that was impossible.
Rafe shows up cheery and energized, and I try to say as little as possible so I don’t ruin it. I’m in no mood to push myself today. I feel sluggish even though I got enough sleep, so Rafe and I are well-matched for pace. Def Leppard pumps me up for a little while, but the second we’re back at my house, I’m pissy again. I let Rafe shower first. My own shower reminds me of the other day when I jerked off thinking about him, and I’m swallowed up by a dark, tarry cloud.
What the fuck am I doing with him? What does this mean? And what happens next? Rafe’s made it clear that he expects something from me, and I… don’t like it.
I rub the towel over my damp hair. I still haven’t shaved it.
Rafe’s in the living room playing with Shelby. “So, what’s up with you?”
“What? Nothing. Why?” Mistake. Never ask why. Just deny.
“You’ve just seemed pretty quiet. And you look sad.”
“I’m not allowed to be quiet sometimes?”
Rafe raises his hands in the universally irritating I-am-blameless gesture. “Okay, Colin. Okay.”
Yeah. Damn right it’s okay for me to have nothing to say.
I walk into the kitchen and start making a peanut butter sandwich to have something to do with my hands. I hold the jar up to Rafe in question when he follows me.
“Sure.”
“I don’t have any jam.”
“Got any honey?”
“Dude, gross.”
“No, it’s good,” he insists.
I shake my head but gesture toward the cabinet.
When he takes a bite, honey oozes out of the side of the sandwich. “Want to try?”
I shake my head. Then I get curious and pull his plate toward me. I take a bite and the mark my teeth leave in the soft bread overlaps with Rafe’s. I chew suspiciously. It’s disgusting.