Epilogue
lovelillibet I used to think that when I grew up, I’d automatically have fancy pajamas. Satiny, lacy things that actually match. I figured it would be like getting boobs, which never worked out for me either, to be honest. Unfortunately, it turns out you have to buy all that crap (pajamas, I mean, though you could buy boobs, too, if you had the money), and then take care of it, and I’m pretty sure most of that stuff is hand-wash.
Which is why I still sleep in T-shirts I’ve had since middle school. They’re halfway to being vintage.
Sincerely, Libby
Image: A pile of ratty T-shirts strewn all over an unmade bed.
#whatisanegligee #silkcostshowmuch #handwashthis
“This bed is my new favorite place,” Jefferson said the next morning. It was their private, clothing-optional island. If they had a source of fresh drinking water, he might never leave.
Libby fed him another bite of the reheated malasada from Keoki’s care package. “Better than a sleeping bag in the woods?”
“Depends on the company.” He stretched, careful not to dislodge Libby from where she’d perched beside him, one long leg draped across his hips like she was holding him in place. As if he had any desire to move. “You made it sound a lot worse. Your bed.”
“I was in my exaggerating phase.”
“And now?”
“Goldilocks era. Everything is exactly right.” She bent to brush a sugary kiss across his lips.
“You even have art.”
She leaned back, gazing at the ceiling above them. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“Kind of hard to miss.” Though in all honesty, it had taken him a while to register the giant painting suspended over the bed, given the more pressing distractions.
“I know. It’s weird. Like I enjoy lying here staring at myself. Maybe I should put mirrors on the ceiling.”
“I’ve heard worse ideas.”
Libby fought back a grin. “I guess it wouldn’t be me if there wasn’t something bizarre.” She settled a hand on his stomach. “You don’t mind?”
It wasn’t until she tipped her chin up at the familiar pink-and-green nudie painting that he was able to think beyond the movement of her fingers sliding up his chest. “I could get used to it.”
Jefferson was talking about all of it. The two of them in a bedroom, however it was decorated. But Libby shook her head, a little sadly.
“You can’t, actually. Jean moves it around. Once I opened the freezer and it was all rolled up so the head was staring back at me.”
“Keeps you on your toes.”
She made a hum of agreement. “Are you tired?”
“Sleep is overrated.” He ran a hand up the curve of her calf. It wasn’t jet lag making his heart race. Jefferson had never asked his body to contain this much happiness. He was a two-liter of carbonation and caffeine, all shaken up.
Being with her had always felt easy, since that first day on the beach. Now that all the walls of make-believe had been torn down, Jefferson could see the change in Libby. It was the same lightness he felt in himself. There was no more holding her breath, waiting for the crash. This Libby belly-laughed and fed him breakfast in bed and sprawled all over him like he was her personal body pillow.
And she told him stories. About silly things, like the time she and Jean spent the day at the airport holding up signs for fake passengers they were pretending to meet, just to see the double takes as people wondered if these two college kids were really picking up Bruce Springsteen or the second runner-up roller derby champions from Toledo, Ohio.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to someone all night, peeling back layers until they were both half drunk with lack of sleep and the thrill of discovery. Lying together in the dark, she’d shared more about the work she wanted to do, connecting with people on a deeper level—instead of flitting from one person to the next, more interested in the surface than in what was underneath.
“I think we all want that,” she said, voice husky with tiredness. “To be known. Only we’re too scared to show our real selves.”
“I want to see all of you, Libby.”
“Um, mission accomplished?” Laughing, she rolled away before he could administer the tickling that remark deserved.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” She settled back against him, head resting on his shoulder. Her hand covered his heart. “I couldn’t help showing myself to you. It slipped out.”
Maybe that was how it worked. Some people fit each other like a lock and key. Hadn’t he sensed from the minute he met Libby that she could get under his skin? The unraveling was a steady progression from that point to this.
It didn’t mean it would be easy, or that they’d figured out how or where they’d see each other next. For now, it was enough for Jefferson to know they both wanted to try. That was a hope you could build on, one day at a time.
Morning light filtered through the blinds. A whole new day with Libby. He felt like his pockets were filled with gold. Or would have been, if he were wearing pants.
She fed him another bite of malasada. “What are you thinking about, Pensive McPenserson?”
He considered not telling her, in case it ruined the mood, but Jefferson had forgotten how to hold back when it came to Libby. “I was thinking this would be my Me-mas.”
“Here? In this apartment?” She lowered her voice like the building might resent her incredulous tone.
“You’re happy. I’m happy. We’re together.” Three ways of saying the same thing, but it was worth repeating.
“And we have donuts.”
“What more could you want out of life?”
Libby thought it over. “I don’t know.”
“See?”
“I do see.” She ran a finger down the center of his chest. “You’re covered in sugar. Again.” Shaking her head in mock-disappointment, Libby shifted so she was kneeling above him.
He closed his eyes as her tongue flicked over his skin. Cheek and then jaw, the hollow beneath his collarbone, a little lower.
“Right there?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“This nipple is practically glazed,” she assured him. “Oops, missed a spot.”
Jefferson slowly returned to earth, watching Libby sit up and reach for her donut.
“You know you’re ruining my brand,” she said.
“I don’t see how. Unless your brand is not licking people?”
“I’m supposed to be tragic. A hot mess.”
“One out of three isn’t bad.” Jefferson’s hand moved over her hip in a light caress. How was her skin this soft? Maybe it was the air here. “You’ll have to spin it.”
She took a bite of the pastry before pulling off another piece for him. “How about this? After a wild night with my hot outdoorsy boyfriend who is super-fit from hiking through the woods, I like to refuel with fried carbs and sugar.”
“Nice. You could throw in a fashion tip.”
“Such as?”
He touched the pearl at her throat. “Jewelry looks better with bare skin.”
“Maybe not super-practical in all climates.”
“I didn’t realize practical was the goal.”
“Yes. The new me tries to deal in very realistic advice. And then I wrap it all up with a pithy saying.”
“It’s a marathon, not a sprint?” he suggested.
“If you want to make an omelet, you have to break some eggs.”
“You win some, you lose some.”
“But then you win again.”
Jefferson rolled to the side, pulling Libby on top of him.
“I was going to get you coffee.” It was a mild protest, especially when she undercut it by settling herself more fully against him.
“I’m feeling plenty awake,” he assured her.
“Maybe that’s what I should tell everyone. Some things are better than caffeine.”
“Don’t tell everyone.” He kissed her lower lip, and then the upper. “Just me.”
“Just you,” she agreed. “Love, Libby.”