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* * *
Thomas
My stomach hurts.
Staring at the bathroom door, where, on the other side, Alice is most likely in some state of undress, I rub my abs. Instead of its normal ridges, my stomach feels like an overinflated balloon.
Even with the unexpected, but incredibly delicious carb load, I doubt it’s the large quantity of lasagne that’s weighing heavy in my gut.
The memory of Alice’s hopeful spirit cracking earlier makes me frown hard enough that my eye, almost pain-free, pinches. Her optimistic, trusting attitude used to grate. Now the threat of it breaking combined with the papers she signed makes me feel ill.
I make a mental note to shred the documents she signed first thing Monday morning. Then I’ll call my lawyer to change course. Make the priority Mary’s continued safety. All things I should’ve already done.
Alice emerges from the bathroom, a billow of steam behind her. ‘Your turn.’ Even though I was the one who offered her another of my T-shirts to wear after she splattered spaghetti sauce on hers at dinner, I still swallow at the sight of her in it.
After putting Mary to bed, which included me reading a story about a mouse, a strawberry and a big angry bear, Alice headed to the guest room.
I stopped her, reasoning that if Mary had a bad dream and came upstairs, it would be best if Alice was waiting for her. Furthermore, I have no idea if my mother plans on returning here after her date. There are some things a son doesn’t ask because it’s better not to know.
And so here Alice and I are, turning sideways to walk past each other as if afraid to touch, despite the fact that we already know each other intimately. Or because of it.
‘Thanks.’ I pretend my voice isn’t rough and awkward and close the bathroom door behind me.
Shaking off the odd emotions, I make sure the shower is freezing before I step under the water. It takes about three minutes until everything potentially problematic is shriveled and I allow myself to get out.
But the arctic blast is all for naught when I enter the bedroom and find the bed empty. I turn just in time to see the light under the closet door go black.
* * *
Shifting under the sheets for the umpteenth time in the past hour since I climbed in, I stretch my limbs across the large expanse of mattress, my comfort unhindered by a six-year-old, a nut-busting feline, or a former dildo-wielding bridesmaid.
I don’t like it.
But I’m not sure how to change it. Or if I should.
The gentleman in me dislikes the thought of a woman sleeping on a chaise while I sleep in a bed. The man in me really dislikes it.
But logically, it’s the best thing. For starters, I would not fit on the tiny couch. If I gave Alice my bed, I’d need to move to the living room, and I’d rather not get caught by my mother couch surfing in my own house. Or worse, not get caught by her because she’s bed surfing in some bowler’s apartment.
The closet door opens and I freeze, pretending to sleep while Alice tiptoes out of the closet and into the bathroom.
Making a decision, for good or bad, I rearrange the pillows on the bed while she’s inside.
‘Sleep here.’ The words emerge as soon as she exits the bathroom. I point to the space on the opposite side of the pillow barrier I made like I’m a toddler who can’t be trusted to stay on their own side. Which I can’t.
‘Oh, no. That’s okay.’ Alice backs up to the closet. ‘I’m fine—’
‘I’m not.’ I lay back down, dismissing any of her arguments. ‘I can’t sleep knowing you’re in a closet.’
I glare at the ceiling in the following silence.
‘Um. Okay.’ She steps closer. ‘If you’re sure.’ The bed barely jostles when she gets in.
Silence ticks by, her still as a statute, while I turn one way then another wondering why, after ensuring she isn’t on a couch and that I won’t cross the line (of literal pillows) I still can’t get comfortable.
‘Thomas?’
‘Yes?’
