Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
YOU HAVE A GRAMS?!
HUDSON
She hasn’t moved into the ‘guest’ room officially, but each time she comes over, which has been every day since Tuesday, she brings more things over.
One. At. A. Time. We agreed, she’ll live here while we do this song and dance for Immigration and everyone else.
And last night is the second night she’s spent here, but I think she’s waiting for the wedding to make it ‘official.’ All the paperwork is ready, it was just getting an appointment, which we secured for Wednesday, less than a week away.
The longer we can make it seem like she’s been living here, the better.
And while it would be easy enough to keep her next door, there’s something comforting about her under the same roof.
Though I wouldn't admit that thought to anyone but myself in the shower, and even then, that’s not the thought of her I have as I turn the water to ice to try and shake it out of my head, and well— enough, Hudson, enough.
While immigration interviews are intense and require a level of intimacy like ‘what color is your husband’s toothbrush’ and ‘how many pillows are on the bed,’ the proximity of her here, in my apartment, in my home, is intimate in a way no one else has been.
Which is saying a lot, considering the ‘guests’ I have usually don’t sleep in a separate room.
If they sleep at all. Which is ironic because the only time Louisa really spends here is to sleep.
Her bedroom door left ajar, yielding to the hallway, to me. Strange that now, even asleep, she isn’t trying to put every possible lock and barrier between us. Open just enough to let the air move, not enough to be an invitation.
I’m not lingering.
I was passing by.
The distinction matters less than I’d like it to, given that I’ve stood here longer than passing requires.
But there’s the smallest light creeping out from the crack in the doorway.
Too warm for a phone screen, too low for a lamp.
I shouldn’t look, but against the better judgement I used to have, the same judgement that seems to have flown out the fucking window when she showed up at my door, I tilt my head slightly to catch a view through the sliver of space left open.
The night light is small, from the far corner plugged into the wall.
And for some reason, that makes me smile.
She doesn’t hide her vulnerability, at least not well.
But she’s open to everyone she encounters.
There’s no one she meets whose name she doesn’t learn, on the chance they may see each other again.
And when they do, they greet her like an old friend.
And yet, here is this small hidden thing that no one else would know.
Just me, lucky enough to see it. A quiet, private vulnerability plugged into a corner.
Whatever the reason, habit, comfort, or fear, it’s a secret she hadn’t thought to hide from me, or perhaps she just didn’t think I'd be looking. Which I shouldn’t be.
I feel like a thief, standing here in the hallway, stealing a glimpse of her that doesn’t have a witty comeback, that isn’t filled with her resentment of me.
She’s kicked the blankets half around her feet.
Twisted in a way that makes sense for her.
A large t-shirt swallows her torso as she’s asleep on her stomach in the middle of the bed.
Her hair hides most of her face except her full lips, which are popped open, much like the door, just the slightest amount, like she’s waiting for something.
Or, just that the drool on her pillow needed a way to escape.
Her ass is covered only by a pair of underwear that I’m doing my best not to have seared into my memory, but I know I’ll be unsuccessful.
The look of her is incomparable, sexy in a way she has no idea, in her most natural form. And the smell of her sleep punches me in the face right where I’m standing. The realization that I have no sense that can suffocate anything my senses have consumed in the last minute.
‘Enough,’ I tell myself, in just a fraction of a whisper for the third fucking time. I tell myself that a lot recently. I need to wake her up, that’s why I’m standing here, not just as a creep. But it’s Friday morning and I, no, we, have a schedule to stick to. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I step back from where I have become too comfortable in the doorframe stealing the glances of her, now steeling myself back to a place of composure.
Pretending that my pants haven't tightened due to the swelling of my cock thinking about her, something I’ll have to deal with later.
I just take the deepest breath I can as I run my fingers through my hair, regaining the distance we need to make this work.
“Louisa?” I say her name, gentle as a question, as I knock on the door. Though historically gentle has never been the dynamic when my fist hits the woodgrain of a door, or wall, between us.
I can hear her scrambling in the sheets, frantic and a little confused. But I’ve stepped out of view. Her groggy voice coming through, “Wh-what?”
“Can I come in?” I ask, though it’s minutes too late for that.
“Sure.” The shuffling of the blankets, her pulling them up over herself, providing a semblance of modesty.
As I push the door open, she’s sitting upright in bed.
The comforter pulled up almost to her neck.
The pillow crease on her face. And eyes that look like she’s trying to blink herself into alertness while her brain is buffering on.
And I think my face betrays me with a smile, based on how she responds.
Which is warm. She’s that kind of person, maybe more flower than person, and when you show her warmth she blooms in your direction for you to experience the beauty.
“What’s up?” she says, as she’s brushing the hair and sleep from her face in equal measure.
“We’ve got somewhere to be,” I say. “Can you be ready in twenty minutes?” She just looks at me. “It’s casual,” I add. Her eyes are large and filled with the question and then eagerness of ‘what the fuck is going on?’
She comes out forty minutes later, changed into a pair of jeans and a striped cardigan, her hair is tied up and brushed out of her face, which is strange when she so often has it down. She looks like, I’m not entirely sure, but it’s not the her I’m used to seeing.
“It’s Friday,” she finally says. As if this explains it. Which it does. But I’m not about to admit that to her, yet. When she has directly and indirectly asked me about my Friday morning routine more than once. Though never did I think she would be a part of it.
“I have a calendar, Louisa” is all I reply. Taking the last sips from my coffee mug before dropping it in the sink.
“It’s early,” she says as she checks her phone.
It’s earlier than most people would wake their fake fiancee without a pre-agreed upon reason.
“Is this like—” she stops, starts again, “are we going somewhere for Immigration? Should I have prepared something?” Her face looks almost concerned, so I respond quickly.
“No.”
“Then what… is this, like…a date?” Her voice sputters out somewhere between confusion and disgust. I laugh in response and see her face pinch in insult. Noted, not funny.
“If you consider breakfast with my grandmother a date, sure.” Her face shifts from suspicion into something else.
The surprise blooms across her high cheekbones, along with the smile that rounds them.
It looks like actual excitement, joy even.
And then she turns her back to me, because her face can’t hide that she’s pleased, and she would hate to give me the satisfaction of showing it.
She hurries to the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Which is interesting because I can’t for the life of me figure out the variable between when she chooses coffee and when she chooses tea. I will though.
“Bring it with you,” I say, stepping next to her to reach for the cup and transfer it into a to-go thermos, with a secure lid. “We can’t keep Grams waiting.”
“You have a Grams?” she says, like it’s the most interesting thing she’s learned about me yet. That the studying of files about my first pet, or who I lost my virginity to, this was the thing she hadn’t considered, despite it very much being a part of the documents.
“It was in the packet,” I remind her. Because not only do I have a grandmother, I spent most of my childhood with her as Mom and Dad were more focused on ‘winning’ than ever being a parent to the only ‘asset’ they had to share post divorce.
“Yeah, sure, you have a grandmother. I got that part… but you said GRAMS. Like a cutesy grandma nickname, I know you have a grandmother.” She stiffens her tone with the important clarification that she apparently needs me to understand.
“I just didn’t know you have a Grams!” She doubles down on the point like there’s a distinction. Which in her mind, I guess there is.
“You’ll like her,” I say, holding the door as we make our exit.
“I already like her,” she says with a devious smile. “Anyone with the patience to spend time with you voluntarily, that’s someone I need to know.”
She lives exactly twelve minutes from us, on a tree-lined street in an independent-living facility that is really more senior-citizen condo than anything I would have considered a nursing home.
The building itself is old red brick, quiet and substantial, which I always feel represents the dignity of the people inside well. Part of why I chose it.
I don't talk about my parents, and it’s not an accident.
It’s a decision I made early and have maintained with consistency.
The facts are available in the folders I gave her, names, dates, the broad strokes, but the folder doesn’t have the texture of it.
The weight of being the one thing two people couldn’t agree to share because they despised each other so deeply.