54. 54
My bed is too big.
In fact, my entire apartment is a ridiculously stupid size. I felt like an idiot today as I showed Miles around my place and took him into my third bedroom. I am the only person who lives here. Why three rooms? What’s the purpose of that? My mother, sister, and grandmother live less than an hour away, and my father never visits. Who in the world do I need extra rooms for?
And bathrooms? Why three of those? Do I have the smallest bladder on the planet that I need one in every section of the apartment?
And now—my bed is gargantuan. Like HUGE.
I am one person—not even that large of a person—and yet somehow I convinced myself I needed a king-sized bed.
I kick my feet, feeling as though I may suffocate in these sheets, comforters, and down pillows at any moment. “Stupid, colossal bed that doesn’t even do anything! Five grand, and it can’t even dub as a couch,” I say to no one—just the dark room and night air.
Miles sleeps three doors down. There aren’t even three doors in his entire apartment.
He’s in L.A., he’s staying at my place, and yet he’s so far away.
I had no problem falling asleep in this bed last night or the night before. I had no desire to curse it.
But those nights Miles wasn’t three doors down. He was twelve hundred miles away. And while we haven’t known each other long—our feelings haven’t had all that long to marinate—he is my husband. And my feelings are very real.
Plus, I’ve gotten used to him breathing at night. And the way his massive shoulders take up more than half his couch bed and the way his body heat turns the entire mattress into a sauna.
I reach out an arm—it reaches the middle of this bed. Was this bed always so big? Did someone sneak into my house and add a foot onto the sides and end?
I peek at the digital clock on my nightstand. “Two?” Ugh. It’s two in the morning. I’m recording tomorrow and I’m still awake.
This won’t do.
For the sake of work…
For the sake of my music...
For the sake of sleep, I throw off my comforter that isn’t nearly as warm as sleeping six inches away from Miles Bailey. The man is like a heater.
And while I may not need a heater in L.A. in June–I’ve gotten used to sleeping warm. I like it.
My feet hit the hardwood of my bedroom floor and I peer down, making sure I’m wearing bottoms to match my navy, polka-dotted night top. I am.
Which means—I’m decent enough.
Time to ditch this stupid bed. We’re breaking up. The bed and I, to be clear. And there will be no “it’s not you, it’s me” discussion. Because it’s totally the bed.
I quietly pad down the hall, careful and precise with my movements. I turn the knob to Miles’ door as if I were diffusing a bomb.
The guest room door opens without even the slightest creak. There’s a bed against the far wall, a standing mirror in the left corner, and a small bathroom attached to the right. There’s no clutter or junk to trip over. I can just make out Miles’ backpack at the foot of the bed. The moon outlines the form of it, sitting there, out of my way. It also lights up the lump in that queen-sized bed that is Miles. He’s on his side, taking up only half the bed—his half. What a good husband. He’s left my spot open for me. He sleeps, his chest rising and falling with even breaths.
On tiptoes, I make my way over to the left side of the bed. I swallow before pulling back the blankets and climbing inside. I rest my head on a pillow I’ve never used before in a bed I’ve never lain in before. I cover my bare legs and stare at Miles in the dark.
Comfort sinks in, settling over each of my limbs and head. It washes over me like plunging into a jacuzzi tub.
Complete comfort is rare in my line of work–and life. And yet I’m always comfortable with Miles.
My eyes adjust to the dark and space around me. His nose, lips, and closed eyes are all clear to me now. I can already feel his built-in heater warming me up in this air-conditioned room. I let out a breath, peace washing over me. I shut my eyes and—
“You’re lucky I don’t have pepper spray on me,” the quiet man beside me says.
My eyes pop open. I let out the smallest of yelps. I was so sure he was sleeping.
“You’re the one sneaking in on me, and yet I scared you?” he mumbles, his voice raspy.
“I am not afraid,” I say. “You only startled me.”
Miles hasn’t bothered to open his eyes yet. He still looks like the dead. “Sorry,” he says. There’s a curl of russet-brown hair falling over one of his closed eyes. I reach out and scoop it back, away from his face. I run my palm from his hairline to his jaw.
And then, as if being pulled by some invisible magnetic force, I scoot my body next to his.
I roll over, pressing my back flush to Miles’ chest. He wraps an arm around my waist and hugs me closer like we’ve been doing this for years.
“I missed you,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple.
He said the same thing earlier tonight. I don’t mind him repeating himself. I could hear it again and again.
I rest my palm on top of his hand, lacing my fingers through his and hugging his hand to my chest. We are a bread-and-butter sandwich, stuck together in the best possible way.
I’m ready to sleep. It won’t be long now. Why weren’t we sleeping like this all along?