Chapter Thirty-Eight
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Macon left town. I wanted to go with him—I didn’t want him to be alone—but he asked me to watch Edmond, and I also didn’t know how I could leave the store yet.
Bonnie had overdosed three days earlier, but she had only been discovered that morning by a neighbor.
Secretly, shamefully, selfishly, I was relieved that she hadn’t died on my birthday.
That those two dates would never be tied together for him.
He used his sick leave to take care of her body and complete the other necessary arrangements regarding her estate.
Will, her stepson, was still in Myanmar and was unable to fly back for two more months.
They decided to wait and hold her memorial in the new year.
At least I would be able to attend that.
I stayed over at Macon’s house. After a quick discussion, we realized it made more sense than me pedaling back and forth between the bookstore and my studio and his house. And then, because his couch was gone, suddenly I was in his bed.
There are clean sheets in the bathroom closet , he texted that first night.
I remember , I said because I had emptied out his entire bathroom to paint it.
What I didn’t say was that I had no plans to change the bedsheets.
My body trembled as I turned down the quilt and slid between the sheets and blankets for the first time.
His aroma was overwhelming. Desire stirred within me, then ripened.
He was grieving, my carnal reaction was ill-timed, and it was wrong to be doing this in a friend’s bed, but I touched myself anyway, tumbling and writhing.
Had he thought of me here, too? I imagined him wanting me as desperately as I wanted him, and I came, shuddering hard into my own hand.
I slept deeply, embraced in his warm scent, and awoke with my hand still in place.
During the daytime, at least, I kept my wits about me.
I dropped off the meals for his mom that he’d forgotten to leave with her, and I checked in with him frequently but not annoyingly, mostly over text but twice over the phone.
I loved hearing his voice, even when it was broken.
I wanted him to return home. I wanted to tell him what I needed to tell him.
I lavished my attention on Edmond in his place.
I treated him to the special cat grass that was growing in the greenhouse, brushed his furry little tuxedo, and indulged his mischievous curiosity by leaving my suitcase open so that his white mittens could inspect and pull out each item inside.
It wasn’t long before he was sleeping beside me in bed at night.
Thinking of getting a cat for the bookstore , I texted along with a sweet picture of him, limbs stretched and tufty belly sprawled out against my legs.
Allergies , Macon replied, bursting my bubble. But then a heart appeared beside my photo.
He was right, of course. Too many people were allergic. Maybe when I get a new apartment , I said, thinking about how comforting it would be to come home to a soft companion.
It took a few minutes for him to respond. I can definitely imagine a cat in your future.
Was that as carefully worded as I hoped?
By the time he returned, eight nights after he’d left, I had worked myself into another state. I threw open the door, welcoming him home with this ridiculous notion that it was natural for me to be there. But my appearance caught him off guard.
“I thought you’d already be gone,” he said.
He was a few days unshaven, and the lines of his face were heavy with grief. How easy it had been to forget that while I’d been living in a fantasy—in his house and his bed with his cat—he’d been alone in Bonnie’s empty house, mourning a devastating loss.
It wasn’t the time.
It wasn’t the moment.
“Just wanted to make sure you made it home safely. I’ll be off now,” I said, rushing to grab my suitcase.
At least I was already packed. At least I had already washed and changed the sheets.
I paused at the door to give him a hug. His body was loose with exhaustion.
“I’m so sorry,” I said for the hundredth time that week as I started to pull away.
But then his grip tightened around me.
“I should have gone back sooner.” He was choked up. “I left her in that house all alone, and I’ll never have a chance to undo that.”
“Oh, Macon,” I said with sorrow.
It took a full minute for him to break away from me.
“There’s broccoli cheddar soup in the fridge,” I said.
His voice lifted, faintly. “You made it?”
“It’s nothing fancy. But at least you won’t have to cook tonight.” This was underselling it. I had tried very hard to make a worthy soup, but I didn’t want him to know that. I only wanted to nourish him like he had done for me.