25 Gemma
T he next morning, I’m oddly at peace. Even with my eyes closed, I feel the pleasant warmth of sunlight pouring through the curtains. A gentle weight presses against me, making me feel safe and secure. I don’t remember pulling out my weighted blanket from my box last night, but maybe I did when I was still half-asleep.
I reach down to pull my blanket off and stifle a scream when my hands make contact with human skin . I open my eyes to find that it’s not a blanket on top of me, but a very naked Celeste.
That’s when it all comes back to me. Going to the office NYE party with my ex. Coming back to her place and touching Celeste in ways I’ve only dreamt of doing before. Her , touching me, pleasuring me like she did all those years ago.
I always pass out after sex, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that I never got a chance to use the toiletries that Celeste graciously provided. Meanwhile, Celeste always makes sure to remove her makeup and shower before bed, so I’m not surprised to see that her face is bare. She also always sleeps naked—or at least, she did after we started becoming intimate with one another back in college—so that’s not a real surprise, either.
Feeling grimy and icky from last night, I’m thinking of how best to slip out from underneath Celeste to take a shower, when I catch sight of her face. Fast asleep, she looks peaceful in a way she normally doesn’t, appearing softer and younger without her makeup.
A part of me still feels the same serenity I see on her face, but I’m also horrified at how content I feel. Why does this all still feel so nice, eight years after we last had sex? Like I’m supposed to wake up every morning with Celeste?
It’s the hormones , I reason with myself. Women release oxytocin, which makes us want to couple with whomever we sleep with.
And all these hormones would have been perfectly fine if Celeste and I were dating again. But of course, that’s not what’s going on between us at all. Not only am I currently not looking for anything serious, but also, Celeste Min doesn’t “do relationships” anymore.
Plus, she’s going back to LA in a couple of weeks, since we’re already down to our last set of interviews.
I groan, wondering if this is what happened to Gretchen, too. From Celeste’s Instagram, they clearly worked together before they started dating. Or maybe they casually dated while working together. Whatever the case, the end result was the same. Celeste warned her that she didn’t do relationships. Gretchen caught feelings anyway. And Celeste broke her heart.
I can easily see myself falling into that same trap of feelings if I don’t nip it in the bud, right here and right now. I’d rather step on a pile of cat diarrhea than get that same “I don’t do relationships, remember?” talk that Gretchen got from Celeste.
After managing to successfully shimmy out of bed without waking her up, I grab the toiletries from the kitchen counter and hop into the shower.
The water’s freezing cold at first, causing me to yelp out loud. It’s exactly the type of wake-up call I need, though, and I’m finally able to clear my head as I wash off last night’s dried sweat and makeup. And the smell of Celeste on my skin.
I’m so focused on showering that I only realize I don’t have a change of clothes until after I’ve dried myself off. Well, besides the pink pajamas Celeste gave me last night. Which I definitely am not wearing now.
After a few panicked seconds of trying to figure out what to do, I wrap the wet towel around me and exit the bathroom.
Celeste’s awake by the time I walk back into her room. She’s always been a light sleeper, so the sound of the shower must have woken her up. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she gives me an amused look as she says, “Well, good morning. It’s still early. I can make us breakfast if you want?”
She sounds so relaxed, like it’s perfectly normal for me to be in her bedroom like this. Like it’s normal for us to have fucked last night, instead of it being the first time we did so in eight years . It’s like “casual” is her middle name.
How is she so good at this? I want to growl in frustration as I think back to poor Gretchen throwing up in the restroom.
“Thanks, but I should head home,” I say, keeping my tone light and airy. Two can play this game. “Happy New Year!”
I walk back to the kitchen and grab my ugly Christmas sweater from the floor.
Still completely naked, Celeste rolls over so she’s propped up on her elbows. Her long legs in the air behind her, she stares at me with those gorgeously dark eyes of hers.
A puzzled expression scrunches up her face before smoothing out into acceptance.
“Gem,” she says. “Let me at least lend you a change of clothes so you don’t have to wear what you wore yesterday. Like what you did for me last time.”
Borrowing a change of clothes from Celeste would mean that I’d have to smell like her again. I’m about to tell her no thanks, when her face lights up with an idea.
“Oh, I still have that shirt you let me borrow last time,” she says. “I washed it for you and everything. Let me go get it.”
She gets up from the bed, and I get a full, unavoidable view of her bare chest. How the heck did I sleep with those breasts pressed up against me for the entire night?
I want to ask her if she can put some clothes on, but also, if I’m being honest with myself, I kind of don’t.
She fishes out my shirt from the closet and hands it to me. I sniff it warily and breathe a small sigh of relief when it smells like generic, citrusy laundry detergent.
I gladly put it on.
I’m less lucky on the underwear front, because the bikini briefs I wore yesterday are a complete mess. I don’t dare wear them again, unwashed. I fold them up and stash them in my purse.
Well, at least my pants are still wearable. Going commando isn’t exactly how I thought I’d start off the New Year, but I don’t have a choice.
I’m slipping on my pants when Celeste says, “Let me drop you off at your friends’ place.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I was thinking of taking public transportation.”
She shakes her head. “The train schedule is weird today because of the holiday. Here, if you don’t want me to drive, I can get a car for you,” she says, holding up her phone. “If I request it now, your driver will arrive in around eight minutes. Is that enough time for you?”
“More than enough. Thanks.”
While we wait, Celeste finally goes to her closet and pulls on a long, black pajama T-shirt. She folds her arms across her chest, and we wordlessly stare at each other until my ride arrives.
My head still spinning from everything that happened in the last twelve hours, I don’t let myself fully relax until I’m in the car, on the way back home.