Page 64 of Lorenzo

The sunlight hits me before I’m even fully awake, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling window. It lands across the bed in a wide, warm stripe.

I lie still for a moment, blinking at the ceiling.

Then I become aware of the heaviness of my body, the unfamiliar stickiness between my thighs. The events of last night come rushing back to me all at once, like a wave.

Is what happened last night, a dream, or did it really happen?

I look at Lorenzo’s side of the bed. The pillow wall is long gone, but his delicious scent of spicy cedar remains.

Frustrated, I push aside the tangle of crisp white sheets and head to the shower.

As I wash my hair with strawberry scented shampoo I think through all the events of the previous night.

Why I let sex happen is really the question.

Had I been influenced by the Scotch, since I rarely drink?

Or was it the drama of the evening that set everything in motion.

Lorenzo, I remind myself, is only a temporary part of my life.

Then I correct myself.

Lorenzo was not part of my life until last night.

Last night, I made the conscious decision to let him in.

Now, there’s no taking that back. What’s happened has happened.

But how do we move forward from here?

I quickly get ready for the day ahead, beginning with my hair.

I mold my hair into a tight French twist, appreciating the sense of restraint it gives me.

Then I lace myself into a pristine white button-up blouse that buttons up to my neck.

I’m not sure what it symbolizes. The white shirt of Purity? No longer possible.

Grabbing my phone, I automatically tap at Anna’s phone number.

Then, I look at my phone. Last time we spoke, we had ridiculed Lorenzo as a modern-day Darcy in today’s world.

But now that I know him, Lorenzo’s so much more than that.

Some things aren’t ready to be spoken aloud.

I put down the phone and head toward the kitchen. Gina sits in her usual place. She sweeps me over with large worried eyes.

“Oh my God! I heard what happened!” She comes toward me, Biscotti in hand. The poor little dog yelps as he’s almost crushed between us.

“I’m okay.” I force a smile.

Gina’s eyes venture to the spot on my neck, well covered by my white shirt.

“Lorenzo told us what happened. Why didn’t you tell me you were going so I could have Ernesto drive you? Or you could have asked him to drive yourself.”

“It’s all good,” I assure her. “And hey, what would I tell the folks back home if I didn’t have a horror story for them?”