4. Brin
Brin
When I wake up in the morning, Marco’s bed is empty and his stack of running clothes is gone.
I get out of bed and light the candle on my nightstand, a thick red one that I’ve started lighting every day since the day after Thanksgiving that’s scented with “Holiday Sparkle.” Whatever that is, I like it.
This one’s much better quality than the one I got last year, because the candle last year melted down to the metal the week before Christmas.
This one is still halfway intact, so it’s definitely going to make it all the way to the twenty-fifth.
Bea’s door is cracked open, but it’s the last Friday before her Christmas vacation starts, so I know she’s at work, and the apartment has that supernaturally still feeling of an empty space. I have the place to myself right now.
There’s a cup of coffee waiting for me at the machine—thanks to Marco—which I gratefully gulp down since it’s lukewarm, and then make another cup.
Today I’m babysitting for Andrea, who lives upstairs. Her kid, Noah, is eight, and on Christmas break. Andrea’s a sanitation worker, and her mom is a nurse, and they need someone to fill in the gaps between their two schedules.
They pay a reasonable wage and the kid is fun—I know way more about Roblox than I ever desired to. But it makes me feel like a teenager, so desperate for money that I’ll take whatever job I can get. Most people my age are hiring babysitters, not working as one.
I mainline caffeine while I watch a few videos to figure out what’s new in the world of gaming so I can keep up a conversation with Noah. After babysitting, I’ll be working at the restaurant again tonight.
It’s a tough schedule, and a long day. But I like helping Andrea out and the tips at the restaurant are great over the holidays. Actually, pretty much since the start of December I’ve been taking home way more money than I ever have before.
And as much as possible goes to paying off my credit card debt.
It’s embarrassingly large. I had no idea what I was doing when I moved to New York City at twenty-three. I didn’t know how to be an adult—and two years later, I still don’t know how to be one. Most of the time I feel more like three raccoons in a trench coat than a functioning adult.
I don’t know how I got to be so lucky to meet and move in with Marco. And even Bea, who is kind, though so busy I rarely see her.
They both have their shit together better than I can even dream.
For example, if I was a fiscally responsible adult, I could have decorated the apartment for the holidays. I could afford a big, beautiful, real tree and the lights to go on it instead of the crappy strands that may or may not light up every time I flick them on.
There’s no point in doing any of that, though. Bea is leaving for Christmas, spending the week in upstate New York with her family.
And Marco . . . well. Marco hates Christmas, which I can understand. It’s hard to celebrate a holiday when it reminds you of your brother’s death.
So it’s not worth it to decorate the apartment just for me. Not when I could be saving that money.
At least I have this scavenger hunt to look forward to.
And with that thought, I hop into the shower.
Living in such close quarters with a man is weird, but we make it work. Marco has a shelf of toiletries in the shower. I open his body wash and take a big sniff. I can tell it’s expensive just from its bottle, a simple black-and-white typography-heavy design.
It smells Christmassy. I check the label. Cedar and saffron. I guess it’s the cedar that I smell most.
Marco always smells good. I wouldn’t have said cedar, but more like a scent that’s just . . . him.
It’s most noticeable after his runs. Since mornings are when we are most likely to be home together, I usually see Marco when he gets home from running. He runs almost every day, often to a gym to lift weights and then back home, two workouts in one.
It took me about eight weeks after moving in with him to get my libido to calm down.
Living with a really hot, pragmatic guy had taken some getting used to.
I seriously had thought something was wrong with me, because I’d never had so many “sinful thoughts.” I wanted to hand him my life and let him tell me how to be an adult, while at the same time not wanting him to know how out of control things were.
Men who have their shit together—and are kinda bossy about it—are my kink, apparently.
(Two years ago I would never have even wanted to think of the word kink. I mentally congratulate myself while I lather up my body wash.)
My attraction to Marco means I keep my vibrator well-hidden and take advantage of any alone time I have in the apartment.
And then my libido hit rock bottom after that disaster of a date from Sugary, and now I just don’t date. Period.
I wouldn’t even have a vibrator if it weren’t for Eva. She’s gifted me several in the time I’ve known her, which is the only reason I have one. Good girls do not have vibrators is the thought I have to push away every time I look at it.
But right now, I reach up onto my tippy toes and grab the removable showerhead. It’s definitely the best feature of this place. I’d never had one before, so the discovery that it worked even better than my vibrator was a pleasant surprise.
I put a foot up on the ledge of the tub and lean against the wall. Depending on where I am with my cycle, I either like the high-pressure setting or the pulse one. Today feels like a pulse one, and I aim the showerhead between my legs and close my eyes.
Dark brooding eyes and a tall runner’s build wait for me in my imagination.