Chapter XXIV
XXIV
Marin
“So it’s not the Four Seasons,” I quip nervously, spreading a towel across the desk before unpacking my toiletries, “but it’s also not a semireclined passenger seat in a snowstorm.”
My plan is to try to get to bed, lights off, as quickly as possible.
The longer I’m awake, the more I will have to metabolize the last few hours, which I’m not prepared to do.
Teddy’s reaction to my bid for a second chance at the bar stung, especially painful because I deserved it.
I’ve given him the impression I think I can just waltz back into his life.
It’s killing me that I don’t know how to demonstrate, in some meaningful, convincing way, the truth: That what I did to him at Tivoli is not who I am.
That I would never do that to him again.
That we are this close to the Iowa border and all the emotional baggage and uncertainty that it carries, and yet my conviction about him is stronger than ever.
Teddy steps into the bathroom, and I look around the room.
I avoid dwelling on the lack of a pullout sofa—or any furniture beyond a dresser and bed—as I focus on locating my decidedly unsexy gingham pajama set from my suitcase.
Teddy starts brushing his teeth, door open, and I wince at how familiar the sound is, still.
Any chance I had at winning him back, proving to him I’ve changed, feels bleak at this point, and I don’t want to think about it again until the storm passes.
He’s better, and we’re on speaking terms , I remind myself.
That alone is a better outcome than I could have hoped for.
“I’d offer to sleep on the floor,” he calls out over the running water, “but I’m pretty sure there’s concrete under this carpeting.”
As soon as we were assigned this lone room, I knew we’d be sharing a bed. Actually agreeing to it is something else altogether.
I have to make light of it—have to play the part of brusque Marin who is unbothered by the presence of this man. It’s my only defense. “Don’t worry. I’ll control myself despite the irresistible allure of your cotton boxers from college.”
I blush as I say it, thankful he can’t see me, and I think about the nights in Copenhagen where we’d go hours without clothes, one of us tiptoeing into the kitchen wrapped in a quilt to make tea.
The time I ran out for wine in my giant parka and only a bra and underwear beneath because I knew I’d strip down as soon as I returned anyway.
I step up to the sink with my own toothbrush, desperately aware of how comfortable it feels to be lost in a quotidian moment next to him.
This is what I missed most when I thought of him—sex, yes, a thousand times, but the quiet peace of being in his orbit.
He slips out of the bathroom, pulling off his shirt and folding his pants the way he does every night.
“Don’t fuck this up,” I mouth to myself in the mirror, desperate to get out of my own head.
I brush my hair with the same brush I use every night, my heart pounding.
I examine myself in the mirror, the bags under my eyes a little more pronounced.
I reach for the cream I almost never use but pack anyway. I look for excuses to dawdle.
“You going to sleep in there?” Teddy asks from the bedroom with just enough teasing in his tone to tell me the chilliness of our Envy’s Pub exit has thawed.
I’ve extended my skincare routine well past its typical five minutes.
Anxious, I click the light off, feeling my way toward the bed.
As I tentatively pat at the mattress, I meet only a sheet.
We’re both partial to the side farthest from the door.
“You took the bad side,” I say.
“When Dolores comes for you, she’ll have to get through me first.”
It’s quiet as I climb in beside him. As my eyes adjust to the light, I can tell he’s propped up on his elbows, and I can fill in the rest of his shape from memory.
“Look, Mar, we both need to go to sleep. But I just wanted to say...” He sighs.
“We can talk about this more tomorrow.” Sleep.
My body is intensely aware of its proximity to his.
I can’t imagine my heart rate slowing and can only hope that the jet lag, whiskey, and sustained fight-or-flight hormones will catch up with me.
Teddy reaches across the bed, and I hold my breath.
He flips my collar right side out. “I’m donating this to a good cause,” he says, tucking his only pillow perpendicular to mine, remembering my preference to curl into something, usually his chest, when sleeping.
Lumpy barrier between us, I swear the tug between my body and his will keep me up all night.
That’s the last thought I have before I fall asleep, Teddy next to me.