Chapter 27
twenty-seven
. . .
Question
Present day
taven
Saturday, 1:56am
I slip the towel around Desiree’s torso, then grab another to wrap around her hair. She steadies it on her head and heads into the bedroom, rifling through her bag and pulling out her toothbrush and toothpaste. I watch as she returns to the bathroom, opens the cabinet below the sink, rummaging through and finding my mouthwash. “I forgot mine,” she explains, and I tell her what’s mine is yours.
“Are you finally going to step out of those?” she asks, her shoulders wet and gleaming as she looks at me through the mirror and glances down at my briefs.
I peel them off and grab a towel, covering myself while she brushes her teeth, then swishes with mouthwash. I dry off as quickly as I can, enjoying watching her here in my house, doing her routine.
When she’s finished, she turns back to face me and readjusts the towel on her head. “Are we going to talk about all the tattoos?” Her eyes scan over the ink on my arms and torso.
I laugh. “If you want to. Sure,” I reply as I tighten the towel around my waist.
“You really are a mechanic now, I guess.”
“Part of the uniform. None that you have, I noticed.” I grab a robe from the linen closet just outside the bedroom door, return to her and drape it over her shoulders.
She drops the towel from around her chest and dries herself off, holding my gaze the whole time. “I’ve considered one. Something for my mom,” she says.
“What would you get?”
“I’m not sure. Everything feels so cliché.” She hangs up the towel and slips her arms through the robe, pulling the belt around her waist.
“If you haven’t noticed, I have a ‘one day at a time’ one. Nothing more cliché than that.”
She steps forward to me and finds the cursive lettering running along my chest. “You earned it, though,” she says as she plants a kiss.
We walk into the bedroom, and I pull back the covers. Prompt her to slip in. “Do you need anything? Some toast, maybe?”
“That might be nice, actually. Yeah.” She crawls on the mattress and tucks in her legs beneath the comforter and I smile at how confident she seems in her skin. In herself. Making herself at home like it’s nothing. It’s good to see.
I take in the sight of her, here in my bed, looking like an angel propped up against my pillows, the towel still on her head and robe peeking out from the top of the blanket. I step toward her and slowly unravel the towel. Lay it out flat on the pillow.
I plant a kiss to her forehead and rummage through my drawers to pull on some shorts before heading down into the kitchen. I pop some bread in the toaster, and pull out my phone as I wait for it to finish.
Nothing from Evelyn. It’s been two days since I last heard from her. She’s away in London on a business trip, and we said we’d take some space, but I have a feeling she’s hoping I’ll take the initiative and reach out to her.
Funny that I haven’t.
Is what I’m doing right now considered cheating? Probably. Kissing and bathing a woman while you do still technically have a fiancée isn’t exactly the picture of fidelity. I realize that before I go any further with my precious forty-eight hours with Desiree, I need to do the thing. End it with Evelyn. I shake my head, thinking about the fact that any time Desiree and I had ever been intimate with each other, it always seemed to be under the worst circumstances. Time to change that.
My mind floats back to the past couple months with Evelyn. I had been slowly pulling away, I know I had. As more wedding plans were starting to solidify, her asking me about this venue or that, a date to choose, small or large guest list, etc., I became more and more hesitant. More regretful at having proposed to her in the first place.
I had been living under the assumption that the damage I caused with Desiree was irreversible, and she would be forever out of my life. I tried to hold respect for her choice to walk away. I had considered reaching out to her as part of my making amends, sure. But I never did, feeling like it was an interaction that deserved to be more than an item on my checklist.
I was sober when I asked Evelyn to marry me. But the truth is I had been high off of the freedom I felt, and I knew Evelyn wanted a commitment from me. It felt like something I owed her. We could make this work, I could be her person, and she could be mine.
But you can’t force what’s not right, no matter how much you tell yourself it will all work out fine.
The toaster pops up and I plate the bread, smearing butter over top. Such a simple task, making a late-night snack for a woman who is in my bed, not feeling well. Yet I can’t deny the pull at my chest in doing so. I feel happy. Content. It’s an odd feeling for me, and I recognize that there’s not been a single moment when I’ve made food for Evelyn that I felt quite the same thing. It’s hard to explain. I think I’ve been fighting a restlessness that comes from the idea of years of domestic life that lay past my wedding.
I don’t feel that when I replace the image with Desiree.
I walk upstairs to the bedroom, water and plate in hand, and walk in to find Desiree’s eyes closed. Her chest is subtly rising and falling. I place the plate and water on the nightstand beside her, pulling the blanket up and tucking her in. She lets out a hum and turns on her side, facing the inside of the bed with her back to me. I run my knuckle down her cheek. “Sleep, Dazzle,” I whisper before stepping out of the room.
It’s two o’clock in the morning. Seven am in London. Evelyn will be awake and getting ready to pack up, expecting me to pick her up from the airport this afternoon and give her a ride home to her place. I could do it now, I could call her and finish it without ever having to face her.
Except that’s what a coward would do. Instead, I reach for my phone and send her a text, wishing her a safe flight.
My phone lights up with her response.
E: Thanks.
E: I’ve missed you.