Chapter 3 — Isla
The sheets beside me are cool. He's been gone a while.
I lie there for a minute staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what I'm feeling. We agreed on one night. He honored that. When his phone buzzed this morning he got dressed, said something like see you around maybe, and walked out.
This is exactly what I said I wanted.
So why does my chest feel tight?
I get up and the rental feels too quiet. My clothes from last night are still scattered on the living room floor. His aren't. He gathered them before he left, got dressed while I sat in bed trying to arrange my face into something that looked like fine.
In the bathroom mirror I see the evidence. Mark on my neck that will be visible for days. Hair a disaster from his hands. My thighs aching in the specific way that comes from being held up against a wall.
I shower and try to wash away the confusion along with his touch.
It doesn't work.
I make coffee in the generic drip machine and sit at the small kitchen table checking emails on my phone. Trying to focus on work.
Mrs. Jones sent a follow-up about the volunteer training workshop we finalized yesterday. The regional director wants my summary report by Monday.
I type responses and delete them three times because my brain keeps sliding back to last night.
The way he looked at me at the bar. How his hands felt on my body. The sounds he made. How he stayed after, his hand on my hip while I fell asleep.
Around eight-thirty I give up on emails and get dressed. Jeans, clean shirt, hair pulled back. The mark on my neck is visible, but I don't have anything that will cover it completely and, honestly, I don't care enough to try.
I have meetings at the community center starting at nine. Final week means wrapping up projects, making sure everything is documented for the next rotation, saying goodbyes to people who've been generous with their time and trust.
The work matters and I'm good at it. I can focus on this.
The community center is a converted church building with high ceilings and excellent natural light.
Mrs. Jones is already there when I arrive, setting up for the morning workshop on donor management.
"Isla." She smiles and then her eyes catch on my neck. Her expression shifts to something knowing and amused. "Good evening?"
My face heats. "That obvious?"
"Only to someone paying attention." She touches her own neck in the same spot. "He treats you well, I hope?"
"It was just one night. Nothing serious."
She makes a sound that suggests she doesn't quite believe me but won't push. "If you say so."
The workshop runs until noon. Fifteen local nonprofit staff learning database systems and communication strategies.
I walk them through templates, answer questions, troubleshoot their specific situations.
This is the work I'm good at and it pulls my focus away from everything else for three solid hours.
During lunch break I eat a sandwich from the diner down the street and try not to think about Chuck telling me it has the best breakfast in Bloomfield. Try not to wonder if he's eaten there today, if he thought about me at all this morning, if leaving was easy for him.
The afternoon is one-on-one meetings with organizations wrapping up consultations. I review grant applications, give feedback on strategic plans, help a small arts collective figure out their budget projections for next year. Useful work. Concrete problems with concrete solutions.
Around four I'm done and the center is empty except for Mrs. Jones locking up the supply closet.
"That's everything?" she asks.
"For this rotation. I'll be back in six months for follow-up."
She studies me for a moment. "You seem distracted today."
"Just thinking about the next town. Millbrook."
"Mm." She doesn't sound convinced. "When do you leave?"
"Sunday morning."
"Three more days." She says it like she's commenting on weather. Then she looks at me. "Everything okay? You look like you didn't sleep much."
I didn't. Spent half the night replaying Thursday, and the other half trying not to think about it.
"I'm fine. Just a long week."
She nods but doesn't push. "The Anchor's open by five if you need dinner. Walt makes a decent burger."
The mention of The Anchor makes my stomach flip. "Maybe. We'll see."
I grab my bag. "Thanks for everything this week!"
"Drive safe, Isla."
The walk back to my rental is ten minutes in heat that hasn't broken since yesterday.
Inside I change into a clean tank top and stand in front of the bathroom mirror looking at the mark on my neck again.
I could stay here tonight. Order takeout. Avoid The Anchor entirely. Avoid any chance of seeing Chuck.
That would be the sensible thing.
I grab my keys and get in my car before I've consciously decided.
The Anchor's parking lot has three motorcycles when I pull in. One of them is Chuck's.
Inside it's darker after the bright sun, cooler from the AC running. My eyes adjust and I scan the room automatically. Two men playing pool in back. An older couple at a corner table. Walt behind the bar.
Chuck sitting on the same stool as last night, whiskey in front of him, looking at his phone.
He looks up when the door closes behind me.
Our eyes meet and something passes between us that I feel in my stomach, in my thighs, in the mark on my neck.
He doesn't smile. Just watches me cross the room.
Walt appears in my peripheral vision. "Isla. Back again."
I manage a nod. "Yeah."
"Can I get you something?"
"IPA."
He pulls the draft and sets it in front of an empty stool two down from Chuck, a knowing look on his face. I sit and wrap my hands around the cold glass without drinking yet.
Chuck is still watching me. I can feel his attention like heat on my skin. Walt moves down the bar to help the couple and the silence stretches.
I drink my beer and taste nothing. "So, that was it, right? One night, clean ending, just like we agreed."
He looks at me. "Is that what you want?"
The question catches me off guard. "We both said one night."
"That's not what I asked."
I turn on my stool to face him directly. We're close enough now I smell leather, exhaust and underneath something that's just him. Close enough I see the stubble on his jaw, the lines around his eyes, the way his gaze drops to my neck where his mouth was last night.
"What do you want?" I counter.
He's quiet for a long moment. Then, "I spent all day trying to convince myself last night was just good sex. Great sex. That I could move on like I always do."
"And?"
"And I'm not doing a very good job of it." He meets my eyes. "Kept thinking about you. How you felt. How you sounded. How you didn't bullshit or perform, just gave me honest. Been a long time since I had that with someone."
My heart is beating too fast. "I leave Sunday."
"I know."
"So, what are you saying?"
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. "I'm saying I want more than one night. I'm saying three days isn't enough but it's what we've got. I'm saying if you walk out that door right now, I'll respect it, but I'd rather you didn't."
I should walk out. Sunday I'm driving to Millbrook and starting a new rotation, and this will become something that happened once. Simple. Contained.
Instead, I say, "I spent all day trying to focus on work."
"How'd that go?"
"Not great." I take a drink. "Kept thinking about your hands. How you looked at me like you'd been waiting for me specifically. How you stayed after even though protocol says you leave."
"Protocol?"
"You know what I mean. One night stands have rules. You broke them."
"So did you by calling it out right now."
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. "Fair."
Walt comes back and Chuck orders another whiskey. When Walt raises an eyebrow Chuck says, "I'm staying a while."
Walt looks between us and something like satisfaction crosses his face. He pours the whiskey and moves away again.
"So, what does this look like?" I ask. "If we do this?"
"Honestly? I don't know. I've never been good at staying anywhere. You've built your whole life around leaving. Neither of us is exactly relationship material."
"That's a pretty bleak assessment."
"It's honest." He shifts on his stool. "But I do know I haven't wanted someone like this in years. Maybe ever. And three days is better than walking away now wondering what could've happened."
I consider that. Consider him. Consider how my body is already responding to being near him again, how the attraction hasn't dimmed at all, how something in me relaxed the moment I walked in and saw him here.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"Three days. Whatever this is. Then Sunday I leave and we both move on."
"Three days."
The word settles between us, warm and decided. Something that's been tight in my chest all day finally releases.
Walt materializes at the end of the bar. "You two eating?"
Chuck looks at me.
"Yeah," I say. "We're eating."