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I lay on my bed, staring at the pink lamp, mindlessly tapping the corner of the white card he’d sent me this morning on the tabletop of the nightstand, waiting for him to come. It arrived with a dozen roses.
I’ve showered but not bothered to dress up for him. Let him see me as I am, clean-faced and unruly red hair all affright from air drying. No makeup. No concealer or foundation to hide the days of crying and forgotten skin care routines.
I wear an oversized white T-shirt that says, ‘SAVE THE COD!’ and flannel Christmas print pajama pants, a jolly Santa riding a Christmas tree downhill instead of a sleigh.
I’ve agreed to let him come.
But I’ve agreed to nothing more.
Rest assured, I’ll be making no special effort for him.
He was, as I told him, an ass.
There’s a soft, polite knock on the door. Too docile to be his big fist. I almost wonder if it’s someone else, but then I hear his voice.
Lord, just the sound of him, knowing he’s here in this house, makes my pulse quicken, my breaths come faster. Part of me wants to run to him, throw myself in his arms.
The other part of me wants to lock my bedroom door and bury my face in the pillows, unable to face the enormity that is our failed—what word would describe us—relationship?
More of a situationship as Carol Ann would say.
I hear him speaking in quiet tones to my dad. An apology, I’m hoping. I hear my dad tell him he’s going on his afternoon walkabout, a habit he took up when he got sober, choosing to meander across the island shores instead of down to the pub.
The front door closes. Footsteps. Heavy ones. His.
My tummy flips.
I reconsider the air drying of my hair.
But then I see his face.
And everything in this world that isn’t me and him falls away.
When he enters, my heart races to my throat. When I’d agreed to let him come, I had no idea the effect it would have on me, seeing him in the flesh.
He looks even more handsome than I remember. When I left him. And…more desirable, which I’d have thought wasn’t possible. As Kitt would say, the man is HAWT.
Perhaps I find him more attractive because of the distance we’ve had, the humility in his eyes, and the softness in his face.
Or those worn-out work jeans slung around his hips.
I tell my pussy she can forget about it. I wear this ugly tee and flannel as my armor—my chastity belt. He’s not getting anywhere near this.
“Nice shirt,” he says. “Save the cod.”
“Hiya.” I get up and greet him, deciding between a chaste hug and a handshake.
He stops me. “No. Don’t get up. You look so cozy there; I’ll join you.”
So much for my attempt at a platonic welcome. He’s got a lost puppy dog look on his strong face, one I’ve never seen. I don’t have the heart to refuse him.
“Come on in, then.” I pat the covers, turn on my side, facing him with my back against the wall to make room for him. My laughter breaks the tension. “I don’t think we’ll both fit in such a small bed.”
He slides into the bed. “Yer da went for a walk. He says he goes for an hour each afternoon. Otherwise, I wouldnae even dare to.”
He’s so big, he’s hanging off the side of the bed.
“Told you we wouldnae fit,” I laugh.
