“Bet you wish you had longer arms,” I said.
“And more of them. She’s grabby.” He smiled and reached out, almost touching me, then pulled his hand back and stuffed it under his pillow. “I don’t think I like this ‘no touching’ rule.”
“Well, it was your idea,” I reminded him. My hand tingled; it really was hard to be so close and not touch him.
He huffed and pulled the bedding higher around us. “It seemed to be the only concession that would get you to stay in bed with me.”
“You got me into your bed by offering to not touch me. Pretty sure that’s the opposite of how it’s usually done.”
Then he’d told me about himself. The stuff I couldn’t learn by watching him in a fishbowl.
His father raised him on his own after his mother had died. His father had asked him to be his best man when he had finally remarried last year.
“I’d rather not talk about my mother,” he said, folding his arm across his face. “I barely remember her. Only little pieces.”
I left it alone.
I could remember my mother, but there still wasn’t a lot to talk about. “My parents are okay. Just shuffled me back and forth after the divorce. Now they both have new families.” It didn’t really bother me to feel like an outsider around either of them. “But then, I don’t have anything to compare it to. This is it. Just me.”
It had been quiet for a while; I’d almost fallen asleep, when he spoke again. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”
Disoriented, I wondered if I had missed something. “Ask what?”
“Why I’m such an asshole.”
I blinked up at the ceiling. “Um, no. No, I’m not.”
He sat up on one arm, his face surprised. “Really?” He paused for a moment. “I thought that might be the first thing you would ask. I’ve been waiting.”
“You have no patience with distractions,” I offered. “I get it. Besides, you’ve been slipping.”
“How so?”
“You’ve been nice to me lately.”
He burrowed down into the bedding. “Some distractions are better than others.”
Now, hours later, I slide out from under his arm.
In the doorway, I look back at him. Peaceful.
I think about how frustrated I have been with him, but I can’t manage to feel as angry now, even with effort.
My conversation with Mitchell plays back while I get into the shower.
But why would I feel that way about Canon?
“Stupid,” I say into the spray. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I spit the words through the water. My head rests against the cool tiles.
It has to be the oxytocin or endorphins or whatever those evil, mind manipulation chemicals are that surge during sexual activities.
In this case, really, really surge.
Reason it out. No big deal.
He’s an ass. You do realize I have seen that movie…
He’s judgmental. What do you think of the owner, Samuel Dowry?
He’s condescending. I’m not insulting you. It is simple biology…
He’s conceited…she is the best I ever had…
He’s selfish. Give them your measurements…
He’s incompatible. Ugh. Bee vomit…
He’s secretive. If I wanted her, I would be with her…
He’s impossible to please. Wear whatever outfit goes with those black lace shoes and sit to my left…
He’s aloof and distant and cold, and who am I kidding with this line of bullshit, he is the singularly most passionate and responsive man I have ever known…
The water pounds down on me like the truth.
“I have been entirely wrong about him.”
Shit.
6:45 a.m.
I’M STANDING OVER HIM. He’s where I left him. On his side, tucked in.
Cutest little snore ever.
Stop it. I’m making myself sick.
I shake his shoulder, and he moves a little then settles back.
“Si…Mist…Can…” No, none of that seems right. I don’t know what to call him in these evolving circumstances.
His hair is a mess. I run my hand along his face, into his hair to try to tame it. He turns into my palm. A small hum floats up.
“Please wake up,” I whisper.
He blinks up at me. “Hi.”
“Um, hi.” I straighten up.
He sits up and takes in my clothes and the general condition of the covers that has him wrapped up like the savory filling of a bedding burrito.
“I’ve overslept.”
“No, no. Not by much. I…I thought you were going to, so…I woke you.”
He nods and starts to unwrap. I already know what’s in that package—it’s a different kind of package, go figure—and that is my cue to exit. Stage left. Turn and leave. In haste.
I hear him sigh loudly as I leave the room. The sunrise peeks through the curtains, and either the rooster crows or I can actually hear my own chicken shit soul.
I’m envious of how quickly he’s ready.
I gather up our things and let the breakfast server in when he arrives.
“Over here.” I motion for the cart to go near the sofa.
“Anything more, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe so,” I say.
Canon, suited, walks into the room.
The server turns to him. “You want anything more, sir?”
“It appears not,” he says, slipping on his watch. “It seems that having more is a harder decision for some.”
We eat and leave and drive and arrive, and I don’t hear his voice again until Mr. Peters greets him at 9:18.
“Fine. And you?”
2:20 p.m.
*
Location
: Break room.
*
Emotional State
: DEFCON 2. And I’m mad at myself about it.
*
Fumes
: Running on them.
HOT COFFEE OVERFLOWS THE CUP and pours across my fingers. After a delayed reaction, I hold them under cool water.
“Hey, Emma,” Mitchell says, leaning on the counter next to the sink. “Just got my orders. Looks like I’m headed back to the old stomping ground to work with you guys.”
“That’s great. Really, really great.” It’s nearly impossible not to smile around him.
“So…any progress?”
Glancing up at him, I can’t decide if he’s inquiring about the foreign accounts or ribbing me about Canon. I play it safe.
“Nothing definite.”
He turns the water off and hands me an ice cube. “Maybe you need a different approach.”
“I need more time.”
“How much longer is your trip?”
“Just a couple more days.” I hear myself sigh.
“Is it definitely a now-or-never kind of thing? Or will there be a chance when you go back?”
“It would be too late by then.”
“How are you going to handle it? Do you have a plan?”
Ha.
I shrug.
He cocks his head. “That doesn’t seem like the Emma I remember.”
Yeah, you’re telling me. I shrug. Again.
“It’s important…right?”
Yes. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” He leans with his back on the counter. “That is it? Just a ‘yeah’? Maybe…oh, never mind.”
I roll my eyes. I wish he would just get to the point already. Hypocritical, I know.
“Well, Mitchell, this has been…real. But I need to get back to him.”
He smiles. “Get back to whom?”
“What? Work. I have to get back to work.”
“You said ‘him.’”
“Well,” I say, pointedly avoiding eye contact and gathering up drinks, “I work for a ‘him.’”
“Emma,” he says, looking blankly at the empty microwave, “regret is a kind of cold forever.”
4:18 p.m.
“MS. BAKER?” The unfamiliar voice draws my attention away from my screen. A woman in a delivery service uniform stands in the office doorway.
“Yes?”
“Delivery for you. Signature required.” She hands a clipboard to me and exits only to return moments later with a wide, flat box and a far smaller one on top. She’s gone without notice.
It occurs to me—and I don’t like the feeling at all—that I have not been asked to pick this up myself. It seems he would rather place orders and make arrangements himself than interact with me. I know I have brought this on myself.