Chapter 27
Rory
The drive to the Cape gives me a lot of time to think. I mean, I mostly think about kissing Morgan—pressed up against the door, his mouth hard and hot on mine, but I also think about the good night kiss. Soft and gentle while pulling back just enough to tease.
It’s distracting for a while, but not enough to completely keep my mind off the confession prior to the kiss. The way Morgan had looked at me had almost made me not care about my smile.
I know I have big teeth. I know I’m not conventionally pretty.
But Morgan seems to find me attractive anyway. That hard-on under my hand was . . .
I shake it off. I’m driving. I need to focus and getting aroused while on a work trip is not ideal, especially because I did not pack a vibrator—not even one from the box of smut.
I sigh. Four days on the road is going to be a long time alone with my thoughts.
When I broke up with my ex, I started seeing a therapist. In the beginning, we talked a lot about my physical insecurities, my small circle of friends (many of whom were my ex’s friends and, thus, no longer mine), my inability to form friendships, and the lingering grief over my family’s death.
Eventually, I stopped scheduling the appointments.
I was talked out, and nothing new was happening in my life anyway.
Lately, I think I’ve been so focused on trying to get my grandmother settled somewhere that I’ve forgotten I have my own life.
Morgan barreled in with the reminder that I am more than a granddaughter, more than an orphan, and more than someone who’s lost a sibling (why isn’t there a word for this?).
After everything I’ve learned about him, it’s only fair that I look back over every interaction with Morgan in a new light, observing him not as someone who can’t help but flirt with everyone he meets, or someone that views my tough exterior as a foil to his charm, but as someone who actually might be attracted to me.
Did I think I was so undeserving of his attention and attraction? These thoughts plague me all through my drive, the meeting with the warehouse team, and running some tests on their malfunctioning articulated robot.
And that night in my hotel room, I book a therapy appointment.
I wish that I had someone else I could talk to—not a paid professional but a close friend. I’d even take talking to Grandma but what would I say to her? I’m surprised my fiancé actually likes me?
I also have a text from Morgan—several actually.
Morgan
Drive safe.
Barty says hi.
What do you do for dinner when you’re on the job?
That second one includes a picture of Bartholomeow loafing on the top of Morgan’s fridge, looking annoyed that he has to tolerate paparazzi.
I send Morgan a selfie of me with my Thai takeout. He’s probably at work right now, and I’m tired from the long day’s drive, so I fall asleep before he can respond.
In the morning, his response is waiting for me, sent around 10 p.m.
Morgan
Hello gorgeous.
He added a heart eyes emoji, and it makes me smile. A second text came at almost midnight.
Morgan
I’m getting ready for bed, and I expect you’ll be reading this when you wake up. So, good morning, my queen.
Morgan and I text all week. Sometimes it’s just random photos that I respond to with emojis: Princess with four tennis balls in her mouth, upside down on the lawn; Miss Mullins’s T-shirt that she wears on Wednesday with Rosie the Riveter saying “Let’s take down the patriarchy”; the view down Main Street during a walk with Princess where the trees lining the road have turned bright, vibrant yellow.
I respond in kind: a picture of a bandaged finger when I sliced my cuticle open on a clamshell package (he responds with a kissing emoji), a Catskill Mountains bumper sticker I spot on a Subaru, and the fall foliage here on the Cape, which isn’t as vibrant as upstate yet.
Every message sends a thrill through me.
Maybe I am unused to this kind of attention.
The crescendo of flattery is battering my defenses.
Grandma loves me, I know that. But her love is like a thief in the night sneaking in and leaving a somewhat formal letter on your pillow that ends with “Love, Grandma,” whereas Morgan’s affection is like coming home to a battered front door, rose petals trailing to the bedroom and an effusive and slightly R-rated (with illustrations) love note instead.
But it’s also terrifying. Every photo just furthers this idea that Morgan is so rooted in Here and I am not. Grandma and I both ignore this truth—no matter where she settles, I will still be living on the road most of the time.
Thursday morning I wake up with a different sort of text from Morgan.
Morgan
Hey, you didn’t come by the house, did you?
Never mind.
Call me when you can, no matter the time.
It’s six thirty, and I dial anyway, lying on my side in the hotel bed.
“’Lo?” Morgan’s voice is scratchy and sleep-laden.
“It’s me.”
“Hey.” The automatic softening and warmth sends my heart fluttering. Even mostly asleep, Morgan’s affection comes through loud and clear. “How are you?”
I can’t help but smile into the phone. “You told me to call you? Remember?”
“Oh shit, yeah.” He’s much more alert now. “Someone broke into the garage and the house.”
I sit up. “What? Is the car still there?”
“Yeah it is, but a window’s broken. The glove compartment was open, and in my house any paperwork I have was ransacked.”
“Oh my god.” I run a hand over my face. “Your dipshit brother doesn’t even know how to break into a car.”
“I know. He’s more of a—wait, do you know how to break into a car?”
“Of course.”
“God you’re hot,” he says, and I laugh.
“Did you call the cops?”
“Yeah. They came by to look at things. I told them about the situation and they said he was probably looking for the paperwork.”
The sigh in Morgan’s voice is heavy, and in the silence I think about the stress of coming home from a late night and having to deal with all that. And even after the cops left, Morgan had to grapple with his brother violating his space.
“Are Princess and Bartholomeow okay?”
“Yeah. She was locked in my bedroom and Barty was probably hiding somewhere. They’re both fine.”
I pull the covers up over myself. “And you’re okay?” The concern in my voice is so embarrassingly obvious, I might as well be waving a white flag. Look at me! I care about you!
Morgan sighs. “Yeah.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, and I bite my lip. It wasn’t a convincing “yeah.”
“Hey. Wanna hear about the robot I’m fixing?”
There’s a hint of amusement in Morgan’s voice when he says “yeah” and I tell him all about my project here, his “ohs” and “uh-huhs” getting softer until he falls asleep.