Chapter Three #3
He huffed against my skin. That almost-laugh. "I'll buy another one."
We ended up on the kitchen floor. Backs to the cabinets, legs tangled, eating sourdough and honey with our fingers because neither of us could manage real food.
He'd given me his T-shirt. Soft, worn, hanging to mid-thigh and smelling like him.
I pressed my nose into the collar before I caught myself.
His thumb circled my kneecap. Absent, easy, as if touching me was a habit he'd already picked up.
I watched the slow motion of it and my eyes burned.
Not the orgasms. This. The quiet. The closeness.
The sourdough. His thumb on my knee in a cabin that smelled like honey and sex and the spring coming through the open window.
I needed to leave before I told him everything.
I pulled on my clothes in the half-dark while he watched me from the kitchen floor with an expression I couldn't read.
I kissed him at the door, quick, hard, a kiss that said I'll be back and don't ask me to explain.
I walked to the car on autopilot and didn't remember the drive until I was on the county road.
I made it to the end of the gravel road before I called Britt.
"I slept with him," I said.
Three seconds of silence. Then: "The donor."
"On his kitchen counter."
"Flora Diaz."
"It gets worse. He said things. During."
"What kind of things?"
"Things about filling me up. About putting a baby in me."
The silence this time was so long I checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"Britt?"
"I need you to understand," Britt said, in a voice that was shaking with the effort of not screaming, "that you are already containing his genetic material.
You are currently pregnant with this man's baby, and he dirty-talked about putting a baby in you, on a kitchen counter, and you did not stop him to mention that this particular horse has left the barn. "
"It didn't seem like the right moment."
"When is the right moment, Flora? When you're showing? When the baby comes out six-foot-two with a beard and opinions about nectar sources?"
"She could look like me."
"She?"
"Or he. I don't know yet. That's not the point."
"The point is you slept with your sperm donor and he talked about impregnating you while you are already pregnant and this is — Flora, from a narrative standpoint, this is the most deranged thing I've ever heard. And I once watched you eat an entire pineapple on a dare."
"The pineapple was unrelated."
"Flora. Honey. My darling idiot. What are you going to do?"
I pulled over on the shoulder of the county road. The mountain was dark except for the stars and the distant glow of his cabin, yellow through the trees.
"I don't know," I said. And for once I wasn't deflecting.
I meant it. The plan — the perfectly organized, bulletproof, Flora-has-this-handled plan — had not included any of this.
Not his rough palms on my skin. Not his voice breaking open.
Not the honey, not the sourdough, not the word "sweet" in his mouth sounding like he'd invented it.
"I'm going back tomorrow," I said.
"Obviously you're going back tomorrow."
"I'll tell him. Soon. I just need —"
"One more day?"
I closed my eyes. "Yeah."
"You know this can't last, right? The lying."
"I know."
"Okay." Britt exhaled. "For what it's worth? The counter is a strong choice. Very cinematic."
I laughed. It came out watery. "Good night, Britt."
"Good night, you beautiful disaster."
I hung up. The peaks were black against a clear sky. Still feeling his hands on me. Still wearing his T-shirt under my jacket, the cotton soft on my bare arms.
I sent Connie a message.
Hi, any chance I can extend through the weekend?
The reply came in thirty seconds.
Cabin's yours, hon. Nobody books the Juniper in April.
One more problem solved. One more reason to stay I'd have to answer for later.
My phone buzzed. A number I didn't recognize.
You left your sketchpad. I brought it inside so the dew doesn't get to your drawings.
I read it twice. He didn't have my number. I hadn't given it to him — which meant he'd opened the cover, seen my business card, and decided to use it.
The three dots appeared. He was typing.
I'm making coffee in the morning. The new pot, since someone destroyed the last one. You're welcome to come early if you want a cup before we start.
My palm settled on my belly. Nothing to feel yet. Everything to hide.
Tomorrow I'd go back. Tomorrow I'd design his garden and eat his food and try not to stare at his hands and fail. Tomorrow I'd get one more day of this, whatever this was becoming, before the truth made it impossible.
But tonight, sitting in the dark with his messages on my screen and his shirt on my skin — he'd texted to tell me my drawings were safe.
He'd bought a new coffee pot. He'd invited me to breakfast with a warmth that undid me more than anything he'd done on that counter.
The sketchpad, the coffee, the place at his table. Every word a door he was holding open.
I was so far past the plan it wasn't even visible in the rearview mirror.