15
Thank God Anders’s second bedroom has its own bath—and that I left a bag of chips on the bedside table so I have something for breakfast. I haven’t left the room since I woke up at five this morning.
My internal debate has ping-ponged among approaches for confronting Anders today. All of them make me want to scream into a pillow—which I have done several times already—and none of them feels right. Of course, that’s because yesterday should never have happened.
I should have just been drunk. It’s the oldest and easiest trick in the book. I was drunk, my head wasn’t on straight. I don’t know how that happened. Or, if I’d had an egregious amount of alcohol: Morning. I feel horrible; what happened last night?
Instead, I have to navigate the fact that I behaved that way completely sober.
To be fair, Anders is not entirely innocent in last night’s events. I simply catalyzed his drunk and flirtatious behavior. Though “flirtatious” seems like an understatement for my spreading my legs in the middle of a crowded bar.
He’s knocked twice, and each time I’ve flung myself onto the bed and pretended to be asleep. I have no doubt he heard the movement, particularly when I snagged my toe on the bed frame and cursed, but he hasn’t forced me out yet.
Maybe I should let him take the lead in the conversation.
He’s the one paying me; he’s the one who, though drunk, very obviously wanted to get me in his bed.
It’ll be best if he’s sober now and says, Though it would be plenty fun hooking up, with the current situation between us, it’s best if we maintain whatever semblance of professionalism we can.
Anders is a reasonable man. I’m sure that’s the conclusion he’s come to this morning. And if, for some reason, he hasn’t, I have no issue taking the lead in the conversation. It’s fine. I’m an adult. He’s an adult. We’re all adults.
Good, great, amazing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I bullet out of the room and head straight for the sound of coffee brewing. As soon as I reach the kitchen, my body stalls and my mind empties like a TV unplugged from its outlet mid-show.
“Well, well,” Bethany says, a cherry-patterned dress clinging to her body as she pours milk into a glass. “Look who finally woke up. How much did you have to drink last night?”
Olive, in a matching dress beside her, rushes toward me. She sniffs the air and frowns. “You smell pretty good.”
As opposed to reeking of liquor, I assume. “Good morning to you too,” I greet both of them.
Olive pokes my side. “We’ve been here for hours,” she says, approaching Bethany again. “You missed watching Iron Man with us.”
A hand slides over my back; Anders leans down in what will appear to them as a kiss on my cheek, but he says, “Sorry, they came without warning.”
I refrain from jerking from his grasp in front of his family, but I pull away just slightly, and he frowns at the movement. I was hoping to snuff out this awkwardness the moment we spoke today, but I guess it’ll have to wait.
When I move to walk away, Anders snakes his hand around my waist and pulls me toward him. I can’t wiggle free without raising flags to his family, so I just smile and let him lead us to the counter.
Bethany pours a shot of espresso into a glass of iced milk, then pushes it my way. “Hear you’re not a fan of tea.”
I glance over at Anders. When did he tell Bethany about that? He just learned that fact, and it’s not something necessary to share. Is he speaking about me to other people, just randomly?
“Thank you.” I grab the iced coffee and drink; the flavor is much more bearable than anything you have to steep a bag of tea in. “What brings you here this morning?”
“Today is the Sunday market,” Bethany says, pouring syrup into a different glass. “I thought you could join us for some girl time. We haven’t had a chance to get you alone yet. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” I say, pinching Anders. “You could have woken me once they got here. I’m sorry for holding you all up.”
Anders brushes a stray wave behind my ear. “You just looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Sweet.” I glare at him when he squeezes me tighter to his side. “I can be ready in fifteen.” I give Anders, in his oversized shirt and gray sweatpants—a painfully attractive boyfriend look—a frown. “Are you going like that?”
“I’m not going at all,” he says, and I feel my eyes widen.
“What’s the matter?” Bethany asks with a smirk. “Nervous to spend some time with us without a buffer?”
“Nope.” I recover quickly. “I’m just nervous you’ll fall in love with me and favor me over Anders. He’ll be devastated.”
Bethany cackles. “We’ll see about that.” She waves me off. “Go on, the market opens soon.”
Anders lets me go, and I grip his arm and pull. He doesn’t give me the grace of pretending to follow me like I’m urging him to.
“Can you help me reach something at the top of the closet?” I smile at him, yanking the bottom of his shirt.
“I left the stool there for you.” He removes my hand and takes a glass from Bethany.
I narrow my eyes at him. Is he avoiding me? That’s not one of the scenarios I played out in my spiral this morning. I’m not sure how to approach that. I could play along, act like nothing happened, and that way neither of us have to face last night.
An option, yet something about this is pissing me off.
I breathe in through my nose and force a smile before walking off. My routine is a fast movement of scrubbing my skin until it reddens under the shower, slapping makeup on my face, and slamming around every item I pick up.
Out of all the options to play at, Anders choosing to pretend yesterday didn’t happen is the worst choice. Is he regretful? Sure, I am, but why is he? Is it because he agrees this is too messy, or am I some mistake he wishes to erase?
I shouldn’t care, I don’t want to care, and this flurry of emotions is exactly why I should have closed my goddamn legs in the first place.
When I walk out to the kitchen again, I make sure I appear pleasant, easygoing. The girls sit on the oversized couch, gazes glued to some cooking show.
I approach Anders on the gray love seat and sit on the arm, the bottom of my pale sundress inching up my thigh.
He wraps his arm around me, so I fall on top of him.
“You okay?” he asks on my arm, his lips moving against the skin there in his kissing-and-speaking method that sends a line of heat down my spine.
I tap his thigh and say to the girls, “I’m ready when you are.”
Olive says, “Oh, you look so pretty.”
The power of an angry hand patting-on an immaculate face. “Not as pretty as you.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, but she can’t help but smile as she gets up.
“Perfect.” Bethany stands. “Don’t wait up—we’re stealing your girl for the whole day.”
“I’ll bring you back a treat,” Olive promises.
“You’re the best,” he answers.
When the girls head toward the front door, backs to us, I inch forward so that my dress hikes up. I arch and lift myself from Anders, giving him a half-second view of my pantie-less ass before the fabric falls back down.
He’s up before I can blink, pulling me back toward him, grabbing my chin to face him. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
I narrow my eyes at him. No matter if he’s pretending yesterday didn’t happen, his body’s reaction to me was not something he could control. If he’s going to try to erase it from his memory without talking to me first, I’m going to make it as painful as possible for him.
It’s completely hypocritical of me, but my pride as a woman is on the line, and I need the last laugh. Just for today, I’ll be a tease. Tomorrow, I’ll remember to be a professional, sane person.
I tap his chest lightly. “What are you talking about?”
He pulls my arm when I try to leave. “We’ll talk once you’re back.”
“We don’t have to revisit anything,” I say, then pull away and join the girls, leaving Anders to think on that.
“I don’t need it,” I say, as Bethany holds up the thin, golden chain with a lily hanging on the thread.
“Then why do you keep staring at it?” she says.
An unexpected tag team, Olive pulls my hair into a ponytail, and Bethany clasps the chain around my neck. “It’s perfect on you,” she swears, spinning me toward the tiny mirror on the white-clothed table hosting dozens more delicate sets of jewelry.
The flower hangs at the center of my collarbones, and it’s the perfect shade of gold that doesn’t blend and dull against my tan skin. I finger the curves of it, admiring how lovely the detailing is.
“Lilies are my favorite flower,” I share, twisting it in my fingers. “I used to try and fail to plant them in our tiny little garden.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about killing this one,” Bethany notes.
It really is perfect.
It’s also over a hundred dollars, and I had to run and check my bank account just ten minutes ago when I bought a tiny cup of shaved ice for Olive.
“I’ll think about it.” I unclasp it from my neck and hand it over to the beautiful old woman behind the table.
“I guarantee it’ll be gone by the end of the day,” Bethany warns. “Made the mistake of missing out on the most beautiful set of diamond earrings here.”
“I’ll risk it,” I say, pointing at a stand in the distance when I spot a giant sign on the side of it in the shape of a paw. “Mind if I take a peek at that stall?”
“Go on.” She gestures. “I see a coffee stand with my name on it.”
“I’ll go with you.” Olive loops her arm through mine.
We walked together through the park’s many sidewalks, both pathways of concrete lined with vendors selling handmade art pieces, photography, soaps, and candles.
We’ve stopped at almost every single one, and Olive—ordered to by Bethany—has bought at least a single item to “support local businesses” at each and accumulated enough bags we had to make a trip back to the van to shove them in the back.
There are several speakers playing different songs, and at the very end of the path we walk stands a fountain with a tiny waterfall, where several men perform a dance, and I know after one flip Bethany will shove bundles of cash at the hat sitting across from them.
We pause at the tent with the paw sign. A banner hangs on their table that reads Paw Print Bakery. Two women sit behind the packaged treats for dogs and a couple of colorful collars.
But my gaze locks in on a woman around my age, with a round-shaped face and dark hair pinned up with colorful clips, sitting beside them, a way-too-thin black Lab lying by her feet.
Olive and I approach them, and I go on my knees.
“Who is this cutie?” I ask, holding back Olive when she reaches to pet the dog.
“Sora,” the woman answers, reaching down and placing her hand in front of the Lab’s eyes before petting his head. Sora leans into her hand. “We rescued him six months ago, the precious boy.”
When Olive reaches out again, I grab her hand and ask, “Is he okay with strangers?”
The woman looks sad as she says, “Yes, but place your hand where he can see first. He’s deaf, so you have to show him when you’re going to pet him.”
“You hear that?” I tell Olive, whose eyes are wide and filled with a familiar sympathetic gaze as she does exactly that.
While she gives Sora attention, I ask, “Are you putting him up for adoption?”
“He’s been available for months,” she says, her lips frowning even deeper. “He’s a senior dog with a disability; it’ll be difficult to find him a place.”
“Poor baby.” I go on my knees, let Sora see me before joining the petting spree. He turns on his back, revealing his stomach, and it makes my chest ache.
Exposing his belly this way to someone he’s just met means he’s way too friendly, leaving him vulnerable to attack, which is probably how he got the scar running under his chin.
“What will happen if nobody adopts him?” Olive asks, and the employee looks at me with wide eyes.
We both know what usually happens, but I’m not sure if I’m the right person to show Olive how cruel the world is to animals without a home—and I’m not entirely sure if Sora is in the same danger as so many dogs tend to be.
“Well,” says the employee, Dainese—I read the sticker tag on the side of her blue shirt—“we have these treats, the bone-shaped ones in that jar right there.” She points to the container filled to the brim with them.
“Each time someone buys one of those, we keep the funds for Sora. It helps us keep getting him more treats, and have the ability to keep him longer, take him for fun walks to the park and the beach.”
Both Olive and I shoot up and say, “I’ll buy some,” at the same time.
Dainese chuckles, but her doe-eyed gaze is filled with gratitude as she stands and helps us with the treats. Sora remains lying on the tiny blanket, staring at all of us, and I have to tell myself I have no way to care for this dog, and I cannot reasonably bring him back to Anders’s home.
But he has the cutest round dark eyes, and I see such pure gentleness in them that tears fill my eyes.
Dainese pulls out an individually wrapped treat. “They’re five dollars each.”
I’ll probably overdraft for this, but I say, “I’ll take ten.”
When Olive reaches into her polka-dot wallet, I grab her hand. “Olive, get the big guns. Let’s clear it out.”
“You got it,” she says, then sprints off in search of Bethany.
Dainese laughs as she runs my card. “I can spot a true dog lover a mile away, and you’ve got the heart of one.”
I nod. “I volunteer at this shelter in New York every week. I love them so much.”
She raises her brows. “Not from here?”
I shake my head. “Here for a couple of months.”
Dainese reaches over and hands me a business card. “If you ever have the time to volunteer while you’re visiting, I work at a tiny shelter by Folly. It’s not much, but we love what we do, and there are never enough hands.”
I pocket the card in the tiny bag I received from a vendor. “Will do.”
Olive returns with Bethany in hand. “I got her.”
“Oh.” Bethany takes one look at Sora and hands over her black card. “We’ll take it all.”
“Thank you!” Dainese squeals.
“Leave the treats,” Bethany says when Dainese reaches in the container. “Consider this a donation. Add a zero to whatever it is. Sell the rest if you can.”
Dainese begins this stammer of gratitude, and though it has nothing to do with me personally, I hold Bethany’s hand in mine and squeeze. “Thank you.”
Bethany pokes my nose. “You softie.”
We wrap it up here, and the employees scramble to put together a bag with human treats and a thank-you card for Bethany before we go.
“Now,” Bethany says, “I’ve worked up an appetite. Let’s get some food.”