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Me: Is everything okay?
World’s Best Husband: Yep.
Lie.
Me: What’s wrong?
World’s Best Husband: Nothing. Just forgot what we were doing for a minute. All good now. I remember.
Me: You seemed upset.
World’s Best Husband: Everything is all good. It always is.
Me: Isaiah.
World’s Best Husband: Just tired. Late night if you remember correctly ;) Gonna sleep for the flight. See you there.
A boom of thunder vibrates our hotel room, and if I hadn’t already been lying awake, the sound would’ve jolted me out of sleep.
There’s no rain to accompany the summer storm, only loud rumbles and bright flashes of light, but it’s kind of beautiful to watch from the safety of inside as the lightning illuminates the Minneapolis skyline.
Isaiah is only feet away, on the floor while I’m in the comfort of this king-sized bed, and still I can’t find rest.
I have no clue why he’s still down there. After last night, I don’t know, I thought sleeping in the same bed was a given. I told him he could sleep up here if he wanted to, but he refused, and I have no idea what I could say that would make him change his mind.
My mind still isn’t clear, still hasn’t fully categorized last night as practice. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he knows I’m not ready for more because I’m still reeling over the fact that Isaiah made me come by simply grinding me over his body.
What the hell am I doing?
Kicking one leg out from under the covers, I flip onto my back as another flash of lightning explodes outside, brightening the space just enough for me to find Isaiah up on his feet and pacing the room.
That’s weird. I could’ve sworn from how quiet our room is that he’s been sleeping through the storm. I never heard him get up.
The thunder crashes again and I watch as his entire body flinches from the sound. His eyes screw shut and his lips tremble with a shaky exhale.
I don’t speak. I don’t make it known that I’m awake and can see him now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness.
I simply watch.
His perfectly disheveled hair. His shirtless chest, expanding and contracting at an alarming rate. His bare feet carrying him around the room silently.
Isaiah hovers his thumb over his phone screen before deciding against pressing it. He drops his arm back to his side as he continues to walk, wearing down the carpet by the door, but when another bolt of lightning lands, he doesn’t hesitate to lift his phone and make a call.
Isaiah’s free hand clenches and releases. He bounces on the balls of his feet, his nervous energy palpable even from the bed where I watch.
“Did I wake you up?” His voice is a whisper, his eyes closing in relief at the sound of whomever is on the other line.
There’s an uneasy pit in my stomach, both from seeing this confident man so frazzled and knowing he called someone to calm him down.
That part isn’t jealousy, though. Definitely not jealousy.
“Are you in your hotel room?”
Hotel room? This hotel?
A flash of Connor runs through my mind. How many times did he run off to my stepsister when he thought I was asleep? When we were at family functions, did he slip away to Mallory’s room in the middle of the night?
Is that what Isaiah is doing? Planning to slip into someone’s else’s room?
