Chapter 13
AL
Al’s heart is banging in his chest as he rushes around the apartment tidying.
Fixing the cushions on the couch, clearing off the kitchen counter space, tidying his bed which was already made but making it neater, plumping the cushions, turning them diagonally, which makes him think of Tara so he returns them to square shape.
It is enough as it is. He is enough as he is.
He brushes his teeth. Sprays deodorant, takes a look down his pants to make sure everything is in order.
Sixteen floors is a long way to walk. You have to be sure about what you want in order to keep going and while Melody is a determined person, showing up at his office and his home for a start, she is openly against relationships.
He doubts she will make it to the second floor.
He leaves the brush to hang from his mouth, as he considers the fact he has been rushing around for nothing.
This is not a relationship, he made that very clear.
He wants Melody for tonight, very much wants her for tonight, he is not in the headspace for anything more.
The fact that he can be honest with her about this is a gift, the fact it’s what she wants to hear makes it an even more perfect arrangement.
He respects the honesty. Frankly it’s a relief and it’s refreshing.
But if she hadn’t held his hand the way she held his hand tonight as they walked around the city then he would believe all that a bit more.
How long has he been standing here? How long does it take to walk up sixteen flights of stairs?
She’s fit, definitely fit, he’d checked, couldn’t help but notice the cropped sweater that stopped above her pierced belly button, even in January.
Her long chestnut hair, and brown eyes. Her cute pierced button nose beneath the woollen hat.
Her husky voice. He no longer feels the urge to clear his throat when she speaks, instead he wants to kiss her neck, get as close to her voice box as he can and thank it for making those sounds.
The anger has left him. He’s back in the mood again.
He removes his shirt and changes into a clean T-shirt.
He splashes Chanel Bleu on his neck and wrists and then regrets it.
It was Tara’s favourite scent, he should have chosen something else.
Then suddenly he gets nervous. He and Tara had been together for five years.
He hasn’t slept with anyone else since then.
He was good at one-night stands and dating, until he wasn’t, and then he was so relieved to be out of that world when he met Tara.
The exhaustion of dating. The games, the wasted energy, having to present the best version of yourself all the time.
Always a miscommunication, somebody being disappointed or upset because of a variation in expectations.
Being on the same page is crucial. He smiles thinking about this evening’s conversation with Melody.
The raw honesty between them from the get-go.
The sharing of personal fears and heartbreak.
He’d cried for Christ sake and he hadn’t felt the slightest bit embarrassed about it.
In fact it had inconvenienced him to the point he thinks he’s over crying about those two against his will again.
He has never met anyone like Melody. She’s funny.
He starts to get nervous now about her not coming.
He wonders what floor she’s on now. If he should go down and meet her halfway.
He leans against the back of the couch, folds his arms and watches the apartment door, willing her knocks to come, feeling like a pet when their owner has left for work.
The silence makes him nervous. He searches through his phone for music he thinks she’ll like, Ibiza Essentials.
The first selection sounds as if he’s having a rave, and so he changes it to Ibiza Chill-Out.
It sounds like he’s in a spa. He overthinks the music situation because she’s an expert and so he turns it off.
But it’s too quiet, so he puts it back on.
For someone who has lived and breathed break-up songs every day for the past few weeks, which were central to his survival, he suddenly can’t think of one upbeat song to play.
He settles on Ibiza Sexy Chill Beats, turns it down low.
As his adrenaline calms he realises he’s an idiot.
She’s not coming. And he should have walked her up the stairs.
He’d let go of her hand and stepped inside the lift without her.
As the doors were closing her expression had been one of surprise.
Maybe she didn’t get the joke? They’d been in synch and sympatico from the moment they’d met that morning, maybe he’d got it wrong right at the last moment.
He opens the door and listens. The lift is facing his apartment, the stairs loop behind it.
He sighs with disappointment; he let her go.
He wanted to be with her. Now he feels the hollowness of longing, different to heartbreak, different to rejection.
Being with her this evening, as they’d walked and talked in the cold night for hours, had been the warmest he’d felt in six weeks.
Maybe even more if he’s being honest. Is this the way it’s going to be for him from now on?
An awkward single desperate man who keeps reading it wrong?
Then all of a sudden, he hears the echoey sound of a deep sigh, a sniff and a ‘Fuck.’
He grins. He hears her footsteps on the stairs, and then she appears. Coat, hat and scarf off, in her hand and dragging on the floor by her side. Her face is shiny with sweat.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she says, out of breath. ‘I need to do more cardio.’
He laughs, filled with absolute glee that she is here, like he’s won a prize and he gets to bring it home.
‘If we’re going to do this I need a shower,’ she says, taking one more step and stopping.
‘Please do,’ he says and she laughs. ‘Do you need help?’
‘Yes.’ She pretends to cry. ‘My legs won’t move.’
He comes down the remaining few steps to her and pulls her coat, hat and scarf from her hand.
He chucks them into the apartment and they land on the couch.
He bends over and grabs her right arm with his left and drapes it over his shoulder.
With his head under her armpit, which is decidedly sweaty but not unclean-smelling, he wraps his arm around the back of her right knee. She’s laughing the entire time.
‘I was actually hoping for something a little more romantic,’ she giggles, as he squats down and positions her body on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and lifts her off her feet.
‘I thought romance was for losers.’ He carries her into the apartment, kicks the door closed, makes his way to the bedroom and tosses her on the bed. She falls down laughing, he stands over her.
‘You’re not a loser,’ she says sweetly, looking up at him.
He uses his knee to knock her foot to the side so that her legs part wider.
Then he gently kneels on the bed, his body between her legs.
Their lips are inches apart, he has the opportunity to study her close up, she’s a beauty.
The connection they have when they look at each other, he feels it.
His heart is hammering so hard, he wonders if she’ll feel it.
Her fingers hook on the waistband of his trousers, then run up his side, over to his chest to his give-away heart.
Her fingers touch his skin and his head goes woozy.
‘I thought you weren’t going to come,’ he says gently, fingers running up her neck, to her face and through her hair.
‘I stopped on the tenth floor. And went back down three flights of stairs,’ she admits, sounding as drowsy as he feels.
‘I’m glad you changed your mind.’
‘Me too,’ she whispers, their lips so close. ‘So technically I walked nineteen flights of stairs to get to you.’
He smiles and kisses her.