He dips, pressing his lips to mine, and my hands defy all known self-restraint, frisking over the moisture-glossed landscape of his torso.
“Dinner in an hour,” he breathes huskily against my mouth. “Sound good?”
“Sure.” I grin, feeling like eating is definitely not what I want to be doing right now. “Whatcha cooking tonight?”
“That spicy beef stew from your favorite Eritrean joint.”
“Dang.” I think of the dish I always order from the cozy little place near my apartment. He’s confident, I’ll give him that. “Pretty ambitious of you.”
Apparently, I’ve tasted his lobster dinner that we had on our first date, like, a dozen times.
“Found some time today. Skimmed through the recipe.”
“That’s real sweet of you. You sure you wanna take on that challenge?”
“Absolutely. And no, you’ve never tried this one.” His grin is infectious. “Not my version, at least.”
He saunters off, giving me a view of that glorious ass. Two firm mounds of steel.
He told me that he wants to fill our relationship with countless fresh memories, even if it’s just something as simple as dinner. Not that the spicy beef stew is simple. And for all his thoughtfulness, it’s not exactly a meal that screams “pre-coital appetizer.” Spicy Eritrean cuisine turns me into a human balloon.
And yet, despite our newly minted pact of honesty and transparency, I reckon that particular nugget of information can remain my little secret.
Bits of the past are tiptoeing back into my mind, albeit wearing fuzzy socks. As JP steered us up the mountain road, an echo of me, cross-legged and cackling while we quibbled over the superiority of rock over pop, materialized. Submerged in the bath together, as I reached for the bubble bath, I was hit by a splash of déjà vu.
Even the other day, as Libby spun around to ask if I wanted a cup of coffee, I was sideswiped by the oddest sensation of been-there-done-that. Obviously, we have, many times. The memories are trivial. But to me, they’re precious breadcrumbs on the path back to myself.
They might never fully return, and I’m learning to be okay with that. Perhaps everyone’s memories get a little mixed up and distorted over time. After all, what we remember is just how we saw things from our own point of view.
My phone buzzes on the table and I let out a groan, not wanting to leave the cocoon of the hammock. JP saunters over, snatches the phone, and casually scans the caller ID before handing it to me.
“It’s your mom,” he says.
I exhale heavily, not having spoken to her since our argument. Even responding to her texts feels like an epic feat.
JP raises an eyebrow. “She’s still your mom. You should talk to her.”
“Fine,” I grumble as JP gently lifts me up so he can slide into the hammock behind me. I feel the hammock dip and sway as he settles in. I lean back into the warmth of his chest, enveloped in his embrace as his strong arms wrap snugly around my waist. He plants a soft kiss on my bare shoulder.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, striving for a sunny cheerfulness. The hammock begins to sway gently as JP initiates a rhythmic motion.
“Lucy, I’ve been calling for days! Why haven’t you answered?”
“I’ve had a lot going on,” I mutter.
“I know, I just… I didn’t like how we left things. I thought maybe I could come into the city and take you to dinner?”
I pause, surprised. She never suggests coming to Manhattan.
“If this is about lecturing me again…”
“No, no,” she cuts in. “I want to spend time together.”
JP’s hold on me tightens, his body a wall of comfort behind me. His voice is a low rumble near my ear. “Tell her we’ll swing by after Bear Mountain.” One of his hands trails up to sweep my hair aside, baring my neck for him to kiss.
“Who’s that?” Mom questions sharply.
“Tell her you’re bringing your boyfriend,” JP says, louder this time.
