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I take her by the hand and lead her into the cottage, and she follows me this time. I get her in the shower and wash her body, warm her up, dry her, dress her, and tuck her into the bed. She’s half asleep by the time I get her into it.
“The photo,” she murmurs.
“It’s two in the afternoon,” I say.
“I wish you never had to take any of them on your own.”
And then she drops off, and I’m left alone with that, and the determination to find a way to express myself to her.
Forty-Seven
MARCI
Is this a headache?
No, it’s hell. It’s a fucking hell in which I am the only occupant, and the cause is my own stupidity. I roll over in the dark, my arm searching for Jesse in bed, and my mouth dry as a dessert. The other side of the bed is empty, and I sit up, then instantly regret it and flop back down again with a groan.
“What have I done?” I murmur. “What have I done?”
The bedroom door opens, and I’m greeted by a meow, and the scent of Jesse’s smokey cologne. “The princess awakes,” he says. “Mr. Skitters and I come bearing water and disdain for your terrible taste in alcohol.”
“What century is it?” I ask, scraping hair back from my forehead. “Don’t come too close. I smell like a brewery.”
“You smell good to me.” He places the glass on the bedside table and turns on the side lamp then dims it. “Like a refreshing Marci flavored beverage.”
I groan. “Don’t say beverage.”
“It’s midnight. And you need water and to sleep it off.”
“Why aren’t you in bed?” I ask.
“I’ve been struggling to sleep. Thinking about the debate and stuff.”
I don’t want to ask what stuff. I’m not sure if it was an alcohol-induced fantasy, but the things Jesse said earlier are… They’re difficult to process. That he liked me. That he bought coffee that he hated so he could see me.
Jesse sits down on the edge of the bed.
“You need anything? Some Advil, maybe?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
He gets it for me, and I drink it with the full glass of water. He gets me another one.
“How about some greasy food?”
“Not at that point in the hangover yet,” I say. “We’re squarely in the regretting the existence of alcohol and self portion of the festivities.”
Jesse joins me again, this time with his back propped up on the headboard. Mr. Skitters jumps onto the end of the bed and settles in, purring and kneading the comforter. It’s a cozy vibe.
“The picture,” I say. “We’ve got to take the picture.”
“You want to take one now?”
“I mean, I can’t get any lower.”
Jesse sets everything up then returns to my side. He loops his arm around me and pulls me in close, pressing a kiss to my temple. The shutter clicks, and I relax into his arms. It feels like a forbidden fruit, being this happy with a man.
“Jesse,” I murmur.
