Chapter 33
I stop to gaze at the magnolia tree in the front yard, thankful that I got to be here to watch her bloom. The creamy white petals stir in the salty wind coming from the west. I’ll miss this tree, and this tidy patch of St. Augustine grass, and the quaint carport.
I park Daniel’s yellow bike in the carport and let myself into the house, the surfing Obama key chain jingling cheerfully against the lock.
The house smells like paint and dust.
I know I don’t have time to finish anything, but I can at least give it a few more hours of my time, this house that my grandmother loved so much.
In the main bedroom, I turn on some music and crack open a can of paint. I’d impulsively chosen a sage green for this room, though I’d stuck to a safer eggshell white for the rest of the house. I’m glad I chose this color; it makes me happy just looking at it as I roll it onto the walls.
I paint the entire room in under two hours.
My arms ache, and I roll my shoulders and stretch my triceps as I walk from room to room.
The two small bedrooms remain unfinished—one painted, one not, both with no floors.
In the living room, I stop to survey the damage I’ve done: half the room has new flooring, laid the wrong direction.
It looks so pathetic that I sit down on the subfloor and wrap my arms around my knees.
As I sit here knowing that I won’t be able to finish this room, something wells up inside me, a big dark wave; before I can stop it, it crashes down all around me.
I don’t know why I bothered starting all this.
I don’t know why I thought I could handle such a big project on my own.
I should have just paid someone to do it all.
I’ve never, ever , been the type of person to follow through on something like this.
I’m the type of person who has an idea and abandons it at the first sign of potential failure.
Like when I attempted a cross stitch for my nephew’s nursery before he was born.
The stitches were too complicated; I knew it was going to take me way longer than I had bargained for—and so it’s still sitting, unfinished, in a bag in my closet.
And the time I decided to start a blog—abandoned after two entries that were only read by my mom.
Same with the book club I joined after a former co-worker invited me—I was convinced, for one shining evening, that I’d finally found a group of girlfriends, a group I’d carry with me for my adult life, sharing gossip about bad dates, wedding planning, husbands, pregnancy, kids.
And then I’d failed to read the next month’s book and silently disappeared from their midst as suddenly as I’d joined.
These thoughts make a bitter taste rise in the back of my throat. It’s over. I’ll just add Pebble Cottage to the list of things I’ve failed at.
An afternoon rainstorm starts suddenly, pattering on the roof. I let myself out into the sunroom and take a seat at the old Scrabble table, letting the humid, rain-soaked air hug me, listening to the rhythmic rush of rain falling in the garden.
I try to make peace with goodbye. I never wanted to live in Florida.
I’m not a fan of hundred-degree weather, not to mention their politics.
I’ve always been a Pacific Northwest girl.
It’s where I grew up, where my family is, where my friends are—or were.
It’s been a nice vacation from my real life, that’s all.
It’s been a change of pace that I didn’t realize I needed.
But that’s all it was: a break. Now I’m going to go home, and that’s okay.
Things will be different there, too: No more holing up in my apartment day after day.
Back to a commute, an office. Making myself presentable enough to interact with real humans. Maybe different will be a good thing.
By the time I’ve given myself this pep talk, the rain has stopped.
That’s the funny thing about rainstorms here: They’re intense and short-lived.
Kind of the opposite of the constant drizzle in Seattle.
There’s probably a metaphor in there about my time here.
I just have to appreciate it for what it was: short and sudden and entirely different from what I’m used to.
The sharp scent of earth after the rain makes me feel… something. Alive. My thoughts stray to Daniel. I’m not going to ask him to come help me with the house, not now. He’s helped me so much already, and there’s just not enough time.
Sitting in the sunroom, feeling the sticky warmth of the metal chair under my thighs, the prickle of sweat at the nape of my neck, I think about that bath.
His finger pads pressing into my scalp. Gazing out at the kidney-bean-shaped pool surrounded by flower bushes, I remember that night, too.
The weightlessness of my body as I treaded water with his hands whispering against my waist. The slick warmth of his open mouth on mine.
I send him a message: Can you meet me at Pebble Cottage?
I barely have time to exhale before he responds: I’ll be right there .
Twenty minutes later, I’m still in the sunroom, staring dreamily out into the backyard when I hear the doorbell.
I open the front door to find Daniel, slightly out of breath and running one hand through his sweat-damp hair.
“Hey,” he says. “Everything okay? Did you want me to help with some last-minute house stuff?”
“No. I know you’re busy and I—”
“Mallory.” He drops his arm, and a crease appears between his brows. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear by now that I’m never too busy for you.”
“Right.” I shift from one foot to the other, my hip bumping against the doorknob. I seem to have forgotten how to stand like a normal human. Dimly, I’m aware that I should invite him inside, but I feel like I don’t know what will happen if I leave the shelter of this doorframe.
He looks confused, and, if I’m honest, completely delicious, standing there in his formfitting bike shorts and clinging T-shirt. I look from his red hair, to the freckle on his lower lip, to his muscled thighs, dragging my gaze back up to meet his.
“Mallory?”
“I—” My voice rasps. I clear my throat and try again. “Before I leave, I just wanted you to know.”
He reaches back to scratch his neck, and I don’t even bother trying to keep my eyes from following the swell of his biceps.
“I wanted you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me these past weeks,” I continue.
“And I know nothing can come of this, but I feel—I mean, you’re—” I lose the thread.
I really should have planned what I wanted to say, but I had texted him without giving a thought to what would happen next.
“Yes?” One side of his mouth curls upward, and there’s a look in his eye that I haven’t seen there before.
He takes a half step forward, and I notice how very broad his chest is.
As if it would take up this entire doorway.
My breath catches as I look up and realize what the look in his eye is: It’s confidence.
He doesn’t move any closer, just stands perfectly still, like a predator who knows that all he has to do is wait.
Ridiculous. He’s not a predator. I’m in control; I’m the one who invited him over, this is my house, and I’ll be the one who decides if and when to let him inside.
I shake my head to clear out these swirling thoughts.
“No?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not no. I just—I wanted you to know.” I take a shaky breath. “And I think you do.”
He looks at me, unblinking, with a question in his eyes. I nod.
With one unhurried movement, he curves his face down to mine as one arm curls around me. He buries his fingers in my hair at the back of my head and gently tugs so that my face turns upward to meet his.
“I do,” he says.
And with a noise deep in his throat, so low it’s almost a growl, he kisses me.
As I kiss him back—simultaneously starving for the taste of him and wanting to savor the moment so that it lasts forever—every particle of my body relaxes.
It’s as if I’ve been tensed, waiting for this, wanting this, and I’ve finally succumbed, and it’s bliss.
He backs me up into the doorframe, his body molding to mine, his hands gripping my hips now. I break away just long enough to say, “Maybe we should close the door.”
He laughs gruffly, glancing out at the empty cul-de-sac. I grab his hand and pull him inside, shutting the door behind us. He wastes no time pressing me back against the wall, caressing my jaw, gently clinching my earlobe between two fingers as he kisses me softer than before.
“Damn, you’re good at this,” I mutter.
He smiles down at me. “Should we stop?”
I hesitate. My hands are on his chest; one of his legs is in between mine. I rest my head on the wall behind me.
“I leave in two days.”
He nods, removing his hand from my face, taking a step back. The sudden air between us physically hurts.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, and then I laugh because I said the same thing in the bath, and now it sounds like I’m begging, and maybe I am.
“Rosen?” The crease between his brows deepens. I reach up and smooth it away with my thumb.
“Green light,” I say.
He needs no more encouragement. And as it turns out, we’re fine without furniture.
I help him out of his clothes—what can I say, I want the visual image to take home with me—before stepping out of mine.
There’s a fluidity about the way we come together, as if we’ve done it before.
And there’s an ease with which he holds me, presses me into the wall, my legs wrapped around him, as if I’m floating again, only this time I’m weightless with ecstasy and wondering why the hell I waited this long to let him in.
When we’ve both finished, our foreheads pressed together as we catch our breath, Daniel doesn’t loosen his grip on my thighs. Instead, he says, “Come here,” and carries me across the empty living room and into the kitchen, where he lays me down on a bench in the breakfast nook.
“Again?” I laugh.
“Again.” He hovers over me, and words cannot express my delight at being caged in by those biceps. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
This time I’m the one who growls as I reach up for the back of his neck and pull him toward me.