Page 25 of Play Dirty

Augustine: Don’t walk away without knowing the whole story.

Augustine: You WILL want to hear this.

Augustine: I’m at your house.

Fuck.

And I’m there before I know it, pressing the button to open the gate and pulling into my driveway. Her car has to be parked on the street, but the walking gate doesn’t have a lock. So she’s standing under the cover of my small front porch behind a curtain of rain because it’s pouring down like sheets right now.

I park, get out, and walk around to the front of the house wishing… wishing they’d just go away.

Which is ironic, because last year around this time I thought I wanted this. I thought reconnecting would be awesome.

Even though she’s under the porch, she’s drenched. Her long, dark hair is plastered to her wet cheeks. Water is beaded up on her upper lip and soaking her clothes.

“What the fuck, Augustine? Go home. You’re gonna get sick or something.”

She shakes her head and says, “No,” as I unlock the door and hold it open for her.

I don’t want to invite her inside but dismissing her seems out of the question.

Stop running from them. That’s what Chella said. And Chella’s instincts are usually right on the money. I don’t really feel like I’m running, but maybe I am? And maybe they do have a secret they’re keeping safe. Maybe I should just… wait them out until they’re ready to spill it?

She goes inside and stands in the grand foyer, dripping on my travertine-tiled floors, hugging herself to ward off the cold.

I take my coat off, hang it up, and then say, “Well, what is it?”

“What?”

“The whole story. What is it? Because I gotta tell you, Augustine, I don’t think there’s anything you could tell me that would make me change my mind about this. But Chella says you guys are probably keeping a secret you’re not ready to tell me yet, so…” I shrug. “If that’s the case, you’d better come clean quick, because I’m about done playing.”

She looks past me, into the office I’m using as my apartment. “Can we sit down at least? And can I ask you… can I have some dry clothes? I walked over here.”

And even though I have a million questions about that—starting with, Where the fuck do you live? —I don’t ask any of them. Just go into my office and start rummaging around for some sweat shorts and a t-shirt. I throw them at her and point to the office bathroom. “You can change in there.”

She doesn’t. She strips right in front of me, peeling off her wet clothes one layer at a time until she’s standing there, naked flesh bumpy from the chill. Teeth chattering as she messes with the shorts and shirt, pulling them on and then hugging herself again.

“Do you have a blanket?” she asks.

“Welcome to my bed,” I say, pointing to the couch.

And then we both kinda laugh.

It’s stupid, I know this. Living the way I do. But the tension between us melts a little, and I grab the blanket, sit down, pat the cushion next to me, and wait for her to join me before covering us both up with it.

She leans into me automatically.

I let her. Automatically.

I can’t deny that it all feels very familiar when we’re together. Not just her and I, but Alexander as well.

We spent over two years together. That’s not nothing.

“So what is it?” I ask. “This amazing story you need to tell me.”

She draws in a breath. Like she needs it for courage. Then starts talking as she lets it out. “Alexander has changed a lot since you knew him.”

“Has he?” I ask. “Has he really? Because it’s all the same to me.”