24. Grant
Grant
I turn out the lights on my way back to bed. The soft glow from the street lights seeps through the window, washing over Annabelle’s radiant skin. I hold her and let myself drift.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to consider the problem we’ve made for ourselves. This wasn’t ever supposed to happen.
I trace lazy circles over Annabelle’s back. Her muscles are relaxed and her breathing is steady. The things that upset her earlier haven’t come roaring back yet, and she’s fully here with me.
This pleases me more than it should. I don’t let myself think about that, either.
Instead, I focus on her bra. It’s a pink piece of gauzy nothingness that has somehow become tangled in the sheets with us, and is now draped over Annabelle’s thigh.
When she pulled off her bulky hoodie and the shirt underneath to stand before me wearing that little lace confection, I nearly choked on my own tongue.
I’ve had fantasies—a lot of them—since that day in the laundry room.
Annabelle’s underwear was plenty enticing on its own, but seeing it on her body was ten times better.
And the body itself? Delicious. She’s soft and petite, with tiny, perfect breasts and a delicate curve to her ass that makes me want to grab handfuls and never let go.
The way she moves her body is untamed and wild and exciting beyond belief.
Our sexual give and take felt natural, like we’ve been doing this dance forever. I didn’t feel like I was performing. I felt like… well, like myself. It was like she knew me, and I knew her.
This is going to be complicated.
Annabelle seems to read my thoughts because she stirs in my arms and looks up at me, her chin resting on my chest. “I should go wash my face.”
Translation: you should leave.
But I don’t want to leave. Not yet. I stroke her hair. “You’re beautiful.”
She rolls away from me, but doesn’t get up. “I won’t be beautiful tomorrow if I don’t do my skincare tonight.”
I spoon up behind her. “Do you have one of those ten-step routines?”
“Only five.”
“Only?”
“Winter air is dry, you know. What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable.” I’ve already slid one arm under her pillow. I pull her toward me. She snuggles up to my body, a wonderful little spoon. One sweet boob falls into my cupped hand like it was made for me. Fuck my life, it’s going to be impossible to leave this bed.
Annabelle hasn’t left it either. She’s making noises about skin care, but it’s more I should than I want to.
She’s had an emotionally exhausting night, and she’s in a vulnerable place right now.
She needs me to hold her. Not all night.
I’m determined to wake up in my own bed.
But I can stay a bit longer. I bury my face in her hair and kiss the back of her head.
She rolls toward me, breaking our connection, and now we’re face to face on two pillows. “I have to say, I’m surprised,” she says.
“By what?”
“I thought you’d be out the door the minute the condom came off.”
I sputter a bit before I find my words. “I have manners. I always take care of my partner. I’ll know when it’s time to go. That time hasn’t come yet.”
Annabelle’s eyes are wide in the dim light and she nods slowly, like she’s taking my measure. “You’re a total pro,” she says. “Really. You know how to give just enough of yourself to leave them wanting more. Damn, dude, you’ve probably got women lining up for this.”
“Not as many as you’d think.”
She snorts. “Which is why you were trolling for trolls at The Frostline.”
“I have regrets,” I say.
“About this?”
“Hell no. This was…transcendent.”
“Ohhh, good word.”
I roll onto my back and open my arms. Annabelle finds the bra, tosses it over the side of the bed, then sprawls herself on top of me.
“So what’s your regret?” she asks.
“That we didn’t do this sooner. We wasted so much time.”
Her sigh seems to come from the bottom of a well. “That’s what people do, you know? We waste time.”
“You’re thinking about what’s-his-name. Magnus. How did you…” I lift a hand and then drop it.
“How did I not know? Because everything was fine. It was always fine. That’s what Magnus said every time I tried to talk to him.
Fine! Until one day, it wasn’t fine. But it wasn’t just one day.
It was all the days. All the days he was living with me but sleeping with Jacqueline.
” She stiffens. “No wonder he wouldn’t touch me. He had her.”
She’s dropping into a dark place, somewhere she shouldn’t go. This is why I can’t leave yet. Not until I’m sure she’s okay.
“Hey,” I say. “Do you think I can get a glass of water?” I do this at work a lot. Getting my customers to agree to small things makes it easier to get them to agree to big things.
She pauses. “Um, sure?”
“You should drink some too.”
“I guess.”
She’s out of bed now, looking more confident. She can fulfill this easy request. She finds a robe. I find my clothes. We meet in the kitchen, where she pours us water from a pitcher she keeps in the fridge.
Her apartment is an interesting mix of girly girl and working office.
It’s the same floor plan as mine, with some of the same furniture, but that’s where the similarities end.
Mine has a lonely boot rack and a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen table.
Hers has shelves lined with bins that hold envelopes, tape, and pens arranged by color.
The desk I helped her move is alive with sketches, and a corkboard floats above it, crowded with half-finished card designs.
Then there’s the decor. Pink everywhere, but not aggressively so.
It’s more like the color snuck in. Her sofa pillows are pale pink, and the throw blanket has little flamingos on it.
The standing lamp is the same model as mine, but hers has a rosy bow around the neck.
The walls hold frames with inspirational quotes in pastel colors.
Same bones as my place. Completely different soul.
I make sure she drinks several ounces of water, then lead her to the desk. I have an idea that’s guaranteed to make her feel better, but she’s going to need my help. I scan her shelf of paper. She has at least five kinds. “What paper do you make cards on?”
“Depends on the—”
“What’s the best one?” I ask. “You know, for special cards? And don’t say they’re all special.”
“They are.” But she points to a stack labeled 270 gsm.
I take out a sheet and hand it to her. “This will do. It’s time to get to work.”
“Work on what?” Annabelle pulls her robe tighter and puts her heels on her desk chair, drawing her knees up to her chest. She looks adorable, and way too vulnerable. It’s time for her to take some of her power back.
“A card,” I say. “For Jacqueline and Magnus.”
She bolts upright. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t—I don’t—what would I even—” she sputters. “No. It’s impossible.”
“Impossible for you. I’ve seen your cards. But for the two of us? Totally possible. Let me help you.”
Annabelle’s mouth falls open. She blinks. She touches the card stock, picks up a pen, and then drops it on the desk. She blinks at me some more.
“Fuck me,” she whispers with a tiny smile, and I know I’ve got her. This is going to be savage. It will be cathartic. It will be fun.
I pull a chair from the kitchen and sit next to her at the desk.
She’s using the tiered tray she made at The Break as a pen holder.
I pick up a pen at random and hand it to her.
“Write this down. ‘Congratulations on your engagement and your pregnancy. It takes a special couple to turn a secret affair into a public milestone.’”
I mime opening a card. “On the inside it says, ‘I want to wish you success in everything you’ve worked so hard for: a man who cheats, a relationship that started with lies, and the lifelong bond that comes with both.’”
She’s not writing. I point to her pen. “Are you getting this?”
Annabelle covers her mouth. “It’s awful. Do you know what will happen if I make that card? Jacqueline will pass it around the entire salon. All the stylists. The bookkeeper. Whoever replaced me as the receptionist. I’ll be the bad guy.”
“How can you be the bad guy? The only thing you did wrong was endure that asshole for so long.”
Annabelle droops at that and I immediately realize my mistake. I cup her chin and lift her head. “She did you a favor, you know, taking him off your hands.”
“True, true, but this card…”
“We’ll tone it down,” I say. “Write a version that will pass HR but still ruin their week, the way they tried to ruin yours with that wedding invitation.”
Annabelle squints. “Is that possible?”
“Sure. Something like… ‘Congratulations on your engagement. Wishing you clarity, trust, and peace as you prepare for what’s next.’”
Annabelle sorts through the pens on the tiered tray, picking colors. “Not bad. That will keep them up at night, wondering how much I know.”
“You can sign it: ‘Take care of each other the way you found each other.’ Or, better yet: ‘I hope everything unfolds the way it began.’”
Annabelle bounces in her seat. She’s got a pencil now and is already blocking in letters. “The way something starts often matters most.”
“Not that.” I swipe the pencil out of her hand. “That’s a throw pillow you buy at Target.”
“Is it?” She scans my face, gauging my expression.
“Dammit, that’s exactly what that is. We need to start over.
” She gets up and paces the room, then touches all the supplies on her shelf with her fingertips, like she’s counting off her inventory.
She does it a second time, and I realize I’m witnessing a creative ritual that I’m lucky to see.
“Got it,” she says after the third pass at the supplies. She bolts for the desk and nearly takes the chair out with her knee.
“Are you sure?” I ask, bracing myself for another bland platitude. “Because I can—”
“Shh.” She covers my mouth. “The muses are speaking.”
She puts her head down and gets to work.
Her jaw locks, her head dips, and her breath smooths out.
Her hand is sure and fast, like she’s struck a private deal with the idea.
The apartment collapses to the sound of pencil swooping across expensive paper.
Annabelle is beautiful in her concentration.
The lamplight haloes her hair. Her pink robe matches the room.
It strikes me that people make paintings like this.
I want to butt in, but it’s not my place. I won’t lean over her. I won’t kiss the back of her neck as she works. I won’t make this moment about me. Besides, she’s so deep in a creative trance, I might as well not exist.
I slip across the hall to my apartment. I pick up a tin of butter cookies and resume my place at her side. I feed her bites of cookie as she inks in letters and erases pencil lines. She puts a few last touches on it and hands me the card.
The front is a minimalist illustration done in fine gray lines.
She’s drawn two champagne flutes, raised mid-toast. This isn’t Annabelle’s usual cartoon style.
These glasses are fit for an elegant celebration.
I take a second look. Both flutes have almost invisible cracks running from the rim to the stem.
Centered above the illustration in neat script is the word Congratulations.
Printed below it is the caption: Some beginnings tell you everything you need to know.
The line isn’t emphasized or bolded. It simply exists.
Inside the card: Wishing you all the happiness you deserve.
I open and close it a few times, admiring its searing precision. “Hallmark wishes they could make a clapback this subtle.”
“Hallmark could never.” Annabelle takes the card from me and signs it with a flourish.
She keeps the pen in her hand, loose but deliberate, like she’s decided the moment isn’t over yet.
Then she caps the pen and returns it to the tray.
Her posture opens as she leans back, chin lifted, eyes certain. She knows exactly what she’s done.
“Envelope?” I ask.
“Second shelf, far left.”
I select a gray one and hand it over. She seals the card in, adds the address, and pounds a stamp on with her fist, as if making sure it will stick.
I slide the card off the desk. “I’ll take it to the post office in the morning.”
“Worried I’ll change my mind?” she asks.
“I know you will. But you can count on a heartless bastard like me to mail it.”
I tap the card against my palm. Annabelle gathers her pens. We smile at each other. It’s easy. Unguarded. And I realize that whatever we are to each other—Neighbors? Friends? Vexations?—it’s going to be okay.
She’s going to be okay.
“Now I can leave,” I say.
“One more hug?” she asks.
“I’d like that.”
We hold each other gently this time. No groping or clawing. Just contentment.
She lets go of me and pats my arm. “Sorry to say, I might have to raise your rent. We’ve had another noise complaint from the tenant upstairs.”
“Was it Lizzo and swearing? Or was it the loud sex noises?”
“Can’t imagine where those came from.” She’s gripping my arm now, and her expression has turned serious. “Grant?”
“Yeah?”
“If this is all you’re able to give me, it’s enough. Thank you for letting me use the rage room. Thank you for orgasms, plural. A long time ago, we told each other we’d be adults, and I still think we can.” She stands on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Good night.”
“Remember, I’m right across the hall.”
“I know where you live.”
“Just…if you need anything, I’m here.”