Chapter 30 - Scott
My phone vibrates and I check it. There’s a picture of our breakfast sitting at the front door.
I add a big tip—I am in a wonderful mood—and slide out of bed carefully, so as not to wake Chelsea. Then I stand there, watching her sleep. Is she dreaming? What is she dreaming?
I didn’t dream last night. Not unless you count floating in an endless sea of bliss a dream. We fell asleep, her curled up perfectly in my arms. Then we woke up and did it again. Twice.
When I finally woke up ‘this morning’ it was almost noon. And I’d be more than happy to stay in bed all day with her. I reach out and finger the covers, thinking about it, then pull my hand away.
We have to be ready to film first thing tomorrow and I did promise her we’d leave early enough to miss the worst of the traffic. The traffic which I’m sure is getting worse by the minute.
I go and grab the delivery off the front step. I got her usual, cinnamon raisin bagel and cream cheese and got the same for myself. I decided to skip the onions and lox today. Last thing I want is onion and smoked fish on my breath. I may have to wait until she starts her classes before I have that particular combination again.
Hopefully she’ll like the gesture. My mom told me—when I was engaged for five minutes—that it’s the little things that matter the most in a marriage. Not that Chelsea and I are getting married.
When I go back to the room I set the bag on the nightstand. Her hand is under the covers but I know the ring is there. And I regret it now, more than ever. If—when?—I ask Chelsea to marry me, it won’t be the same. Because of all that we’ve lied about up until now. I’ll have to find a way to ask for a do-over.
I grab some clean clothes out of my bag and head into the bathroom. I look at the shower but shake my head. I don’t want to wash the smell of her, of us, off just yet. Maybe when we get back to Brooklyn we can shower together. That shower is much better anyway. Steam, rainfall, the works.
I look around the bathroom. Maybe I should upgrade this house a little bit. I’m not sure I want to rent it anymore. I don’t need the money, and now that Chelsea and I have…well, the Hamptons have some appeal again. And if we’re going to be out here, I’d like to make it as nice as possible, for her.
The work would have to wait, the last rental I have is in October. But that would give Chelsea some time to come up with a beautiful design. I know she’ll have great ideas. And I can turn it into something truly spectacular, for us. No more beige.
I run a brush through my hair and head back into the bedroom. Chelsea has turned over on her side, but her eyes are still closed. I should kiss her. I want to kiss her. You’d think after last night, and early this morning, I’d be somewhat satisfied, but it’s only made me hungry for more. A lot more. I feel like I could never get enough.
I settle for clearing my throat. Then I do it again. Finally, I fake a coughing fit and she opens her eyes.
“Scott?” she says, looking around.
I can see her eyes adjust to the light and then she is looking me up and down. The smile I was hoping for is not there. In fact, she looks a little frowny.
“I got us breakfast. To eat in the truck.”
I point and she looks at the bagel shop bag.
“You went out?”
“Nope, Door Dash.” She doesn’t say anything. “Easier to eat in the truck, you know.”
I almost add on about my mom’s advice, but that seems wrong. I’m not doing nice things for Chelsea for points. I would want to do them anyway, but since I understand that it’s important, it’s a priority. But I’m pretty sure it would be weird to explain all that. Plus, it is now one of my top life goals to avoid reminding Chelsea of my previous engagement.
“Oh,” she says.
“We probably should get going.” She looks right at me. “The longer we wait, the more traffic,” I explain helpfully.
“Right. I’ll get dressed.”
She sits up, hugging the sheet to her. Which I’m immensely grateful for. Cause if I saw her naked right now, forget about making the call time tomorrow, we’d be lucky to get there by Thursday or Friday.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I say. “Do you want me to take…”
I gesture to the bag of food. She nods and I head out, closing the door behind me. While I wait I straighten up. It’s totally unnecessary, the cleaning service will be here tomorrow.
When I’ve done all that I can and Chelsea still hasn’t appeared, I start taking stuff to the truck. The many cans of soup we bought Friday night takes me three trips.
I can’t wait,I think. For the next part. For the show to be over and for her to be taking her classes. We won’t have to eat soup that much, we really did overbuy, but if she wants a late-night snack while she’s working on her projects, we probably have enough for the next four years.
When she comes out, she’s dressed and pulling her bag behind her.
“I guess I’m ready,” she says.
“Great. I already packed the truck.”
I go to take her bag from her, but she pulls it away.
“I can do it. Your bag is still in the bedroom.”
“Right, thanks. Um, here are the keys.”
I take them out of my pocket and hold them out to her. She doesn’t come to get them, so I just push the clicker.
“Should be open now. I’ll get my bag and lock up. See you in the truck?”
“Sure,” she says.
I go and grab my bag, and our breakfast. When I get outside, she’s already sitting in the front seat.
“Oh shoot,” I say, handing her the bag. “I should have started it. Must be hotter than hell in there.”
“It’s fine.”
I want to turn on the AC for her, but I still have to lock up the house. I do that as fast as possible and then run back to the truck. I start it and blast us with even hotter air.
“Sorry,” I say, and quickly roll down the windows.
She’s looking out the window, not at me. I concentrate on driving and constantly checking the air. It cools off fairly quickly and I roll up the windows.
“Don’t forget your bagel,” I say.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Would you mind giving me one?”
She reaches in and pulls one out. She peeks at it and starts to unwrap it.
“I got two of the same, actually, both cinnamon raisin.”
I wait for her to ask why, but she doesn’t. Should I tell her? ‘I don’t want to kiss you with onion and fish breath.’ No. I don’t know what to say, but definitely not that.
I take a big bite, which keeps me busy chewing for a while.
“Are you going to eat yours?” I ask after I swallow.
“Why? Do you want mine too?”
Normally I love it when she teases me about how much I eat. But this sounds different. I’m not sure how. Hostile? No, it can’t be that.
“I just think that maybe you should eat something. Probably a lot of stop and go traffic. I don’t want you to get carsick.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see her look at me. Glare at me, I think. Why? I mean, I know talking about vomiting in the car isn’t exactly romantic, but I’m just concerned.
“I won’t throw up in the truck, promise.”
“Okay, but—”
“Can we not talk, maybe? I think that would be better.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
Nowhere in the history of human interaction has anyone ever said they were fine, at least not in that tone, and meant it.
“Do we need to talk about something?” I ask.
“I’d rather not.”
“But maybe we should.”
This is bad, really bad. Except I have no idea what ‘this’ is. Or how to fix it. Give me a clue, please, I beg her silently.
“What exactly do you want to talk about, Scott?”
“Well, last night—”
“It was…” I hold my breath. “Look, we were both curious and I guess given how much time we spend together, and pretending to be engaged…we got carried away, that’s all.”
“Carried away?”
“It was…look there is no need to pretend that it was more than it was. We’re adults. We can…do that if we want. With no strings attached. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
I sound like a parrot. I’m gripping the wheel so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t bend.
“So, we’re good?”
I don’t dare look at her. I can’t. I can’t see that in her face.
“What now?” I ask.
My voice sounds normal, and I don’t know how. Because everything inside me has turned black.
“Well, it’s not going to happen again, if that’s what you are asking.”
That is not what I was asking. I don’t even know what I was asking. Some asshole in a BMW decides to cut me off at that exact second. I slam on the brakes and lay on the horn.
“Did you see that?” I ask Chelsea. “What the hell is wrong with people? This is a big truck, don’t they know it needs more room to stop? That’s why I leave so much room in front of me, and people just cut me off over and over again.”
Besides me, I hear the bag rustling.
“Thank you for the bagel,” she says.
Jesus fucking Christ, how did I misread this so bad? And how the hell am I supposed to get through the rest of the show? I say the only thing I can think of.
“You’re welcome.”