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“Why do you think that is?” he asks, with the tone of someone who already has the answer. I don’t, though. It eludes me, even as Greg unearthsThe Godsonfor its first showing in two decades. After we hug him good night, I doze off inside the car. And once we’re home, I hang my coat onmyhook.
Is it messed up that I’ve started to think in those terms? If being somewhere three times were a sign of ownership, Cece and I would be the barons of Trader Joe’s cheese aisle. But my peacoat always finds itself in the same spot—between a lightweight black jacket and the lanyard with Jack’s MIT Physics Institute badge. The budding domesticity makes reaching for possessive pronouns that much easier.
“Want a hot chocolate?” he asks. He ventures deep inside the apartment, turning on just one light. His face is full of shadows, and I’m a little lost in them.
“No.”
“Anything else?”
I shake my head and stifle a yawn. It’s past two and all I want is a pillow, but I think we’re about to have sex. That’s whatspending the nightmeans, right? I should check Urban Dictionary.
“Let’s go upstairs, then.”
In his room, he hands me an extra-large hoodie and herds metoward the bathroom. I change into it because I’m too tired to wonder why, because it’s kind of comfy, and because maybe it fits into a kink of his. He did like lingerie. Sportswear might be the next logical step. Or tentacle dildos.
I use his mouthwash, scrub my face clean, then pad back into his room, hair up in a messy knot, the thick cotton hitting my thighs almost to my knees. I brush past Jack and his amused look and throw myself onmyside of the bed—more unwarranted possessive pronouns—and sneak in a twenty-second micronap. Or maybe it’s more like ten minutes, because when I next wake up, Jack blocks the night-light seeping in from the hallway. He smells like shower and toothpaste. And he’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and aToy StoryT-shirt.
“Cute,” I say, closing my eyes again. “Did you notice Woody and Buzz’s homoerotic undertones?”
“I thought they were very overt.”
“Validating. Thank you. We’re about to have”—I yawn—“sex, right?”
The mattress dips. “Sure.” Under the down blanket, strong hands pull me closer, long legs tangle with mine, and we’ve done this before. It’s comforting. Familiar. The wordminepops into my sleepy head again, and I let it float about longer than I should.
“Okay, good.” I can’t stop yawning, but I force my lids open. “I’m on the Depo shot. I get it from Planned Parenthood, otherwise I couldn’t afford it.”
“Planned Parenthood’s good people.”
“Yeah.” I shift closer. He’s hard against my stomach, but nothing about him broadcasts impatience. “We don’t have to, like, use a condom. Unless you have pubic lice.”
His cheek curves against mine. “I doubt condoms protect from pubic lice, sweetheart.”
I doze off into a pillow that smells like shampoo and a hint of sweat and Jack’s MIT office, thinking about the logistics of little critters jumping from one crotch to another, only to jolt awake mid-fading. “Don’t let me fall asleep,” I yawn into his neck. “We’re supposed to be doing it.”
“We are. We’re going at it like animals. Just close your eyes.”
I do. It’s easier. “Is this another rule of yours? Are you into BDSM?”
“I do have a thing for consent. And my partners being awake.”
I picture legions of beautiful, intelligent, curvy partners with advanced degrees. “What happened to the geologist?”
“Who?”
“She was your date the day I met you. Very nice. On the short side. Dark hair. I forgot her name...”
“Madeleine. She’s currently in Europe for her sabbatical. Spain, I believe.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “She’s cool. You two would get along.”
I’m marginally more awake. “Have you been with lots of women?”
“Mmm.” The sound purrs through my skin and bones. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
“I have no idea what the parameters of ‘lots’ are.”
“Between one hundred and three hundred and twelve.” He slaps me gently on the ass. I chuckle and melt into him. “I’m not sure, either.”
