Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Danny
? Visit an adult superstore
It only takes three days for me to forget what it’s like for Christina not to live in my house.
She’s dubbed our mornings the pre-day routine as the counterpart to our pre-bed routine.
The pre-day routine usually starts with her climbing on top of me in bed, or me pinning her ass to my lap from behind, and fucking first thing.
Some mornings she’s sleepy and soft and lazy, and other mornings she’s ravenously soaked for me before I’ve even opened my eyes.
She comes on my cock or my fingers or my tongue—or some combination—and I can’t get enough.
I like it best when she invites me into the shower with her, where we soap each other up and go another round or two.
Then she shimmies into her fluffy blue robe, makes us coffee in the kitchen, and grabs a bagel or waffle before heading back up to the Cozy Room, which she lovingly calls The Coze.
She rotates between the chaise lounge, the bay window seat, and her favorite bean bag chair, sipping coffee and reading with so much serenity on her face that I can barely keep my eyes on my own book.
After at least an hour, she finally returns to my bedroom to dress and fix her hair and makeup. Then our day can “officially” begin.
We spend our days exploring Chattanooga—the aquarium, the parks, the museums, the arts district.
We drive up Lookout Mountain one day to traverse the caverns.
We go on a wine-tasting tour of the city.
We eat at a new restaurant every day for lunch.
Some things I’ve done a million times and others less so.
But every place or activity or meal feels brand new with Christina.
She infuses life and light into everything she does.
We laugh and talk, and she always keeps our arms hooked or our fingers laced or her head nestled in my shoulder.
She likes to be home by five so I can cook her dinner while she flits around me in the kitchen, cleaning and organizing for me as I go—“The only way I can contribute,” in her words.
After dinner, she slips back into her pajamas as we clock more Cozy Room time or snuggle on the couch for a movie.
Both get interrupted by more sex. I’m committed to mapping every single inch of her body with my hands and with my tongue.
And she’s committed to driving me clear out of my mind.
At some point, she’ll loll her head over to meet my gaze, and both her eyes and smile will be so sweetly hazy.
That’s when I know it’s time to start the pre-bed routine.
We make our teas, and we climb into my bed.
She cuddles into my side while I read our shared book aloud to her.
When the tea is gone and her breathing begins to slow, I gently kiss her temple and help her sink down onto her side of the bed to drift off.
I didn’t know life could be this good. I didn’t know this is what life could offer.
On Thursday afternoon, we’re walking along the pedestrian bridge over the Tennessee River—one of the longest pedestrian bridges in the world.
My arm is thrown over her shoulders, and hers is wrapped around my waist. The spring weather seems to have blown in overnight, and she’s wearing a floral dress that flows around her legs in the gentle breeze off the river.
She looks over the water that stretches endlessly. “I know work wasn’t allowed this week,” she says. “But man, I keep wishing we were filming.”
“Oh?”
“It’s been such a beautiful week. And we’ve met beautiful people, seen beautiful sights, done beautiful things. It’s like the lovely parts of the South deserve to be captured just as much as the injustices. Maybe you should start a sister channel called Sweet Tea.”
For the second time with Christina, the world clicks into place. “Or you should.”
She looks up at me. “What?”
“I think you have a keen intuition for this work, Christina.”
When her brow furrows slightly, I continue.
“I want to bring you in on developing the script and rough cut for TJL as we’re wrapping up the last items over the next month.
Every idea you’ve contributed so far has been a brilliant choice.
You not only recognize what might be worth filming, but then you can also see how discreet footage might come together to create a narrative. Not everyone can do that.”
She ponders with her gaze back over the water.
“I know you’re right here at the end of your college career, so don’t give this a second thought if you are uninterested or don’t have the time. But if you’re starting to think in terms of what you might capture … maybe this could be worth exploring.”
Christina simply drops her head into the crook of my arm around her shoulders, and we walk on in comfortable silence for several minutes. She’s processing, and she’ll circle back when she’s ready.
We order soft pretzels from a vendor cart, and she settles us on a bench overlooking the water. She tears off pieces of the pretzel with her delicate fingers, licking the salt away between bites.
“My initial reaction,” she finally says, swallowing her last bite, “is to suspect your invitation is born out of pity for my whole I-don’t-belong-anywhere thing.” She tilts her head to me with a small smile. “But you don’t pity me or lie to me, do you?”
So I’ve at least done something right if she knows that. “Never.”
She kisses my cheek. My eyes briefly flutter closed even with the chaste contact.
“My second reaction,” she continues, “is that I want you to experience Sweet Tea docs. You shouldn’t be doomed to UNsweet Tea only. You deserve to capture beautiful things too.”
I’m momentarily overwhelmed, and I have to kiss her cheek like she did mine, sharing in gratitude.
“My third reaction …”
“Do you need some time to compile a PowerPoint, baby?”
She elbows me playfully in the ribs. “My third reaction—out of four, mind you—is that I don’t know how we would categorize TJL.
Is this doc Sweet Tea or UNsweet Tea? We’re revealing injustices, but through an exploration of joy.
There’s pain and goodness, all wrapped together.
So maybe you should just rename your channel Sweet I had to immediately throw up a wall in my heart and shut out the savage realization that we may only have six more weeks together.
I adjusted our shooting schedule to ensure all the doc footage can be collected before graduation, silently putting a pin in March as an ally in a Pride parade, since those events won’t happen until the end of June—well past the guaranteed time I have with her.
I squeeze her hair. “We’ll learn from each other, sweetheart.”
She smiles so sweetly, I have to pull her in for a kiss.
She opens for me, and I taste the salt of our pretzels on her tongue.
Kissing Christina is like that feeling you get returning home after a long trip.
Everything is just how you left it—perfectly familiar, and yet the time away casts the familiar in a fresh light.
You suddenly appreciate what it means to be surrounded by comforts of your choosing.
To be in a space made for you. That’s how I feel every time I kiss this woman: Like she was made for me.
Like I’ve been away but all is right now.
She’s humming mischievously when she pulls away on a grin.
“What’s that, my muse?”
“Well, we’ve been very good about not working this week, but I am itching a bit to film now, especially to test out how it might feel to be on the maestro side of thinking.”
“What TJL item were you leaning toward?”
She leans in to whisper sensually against my ear, her hot breath dizzying me. “Maybe one we can still get plenty of use out of for the remainder of spring break.”
Her instincts being as on point as ever, Christina suggests we film the car ride out to the adult superstore about an hour down the highway. I call ahead to secure permissions.
“We’re a go,” I say, hanging up with the store manager.