Subject: Such a moody raspberry
But I think I love it.
Chapter Eleven
Erin
I was wearingtinted lip gloss.Motherfucking lip gloss.
There was no clear reason why I was freaking out about seeing Nick tonight, but I absolutely was. I sawed my teeth over my upper lip and adjusted the pillows behind me again. There was no reason to worry about any of this. We were already married, for fuck's sake.
I checked my watch again, and then stared at the time on my laptop screen, as if I'd discover some major divergence between the two. I didn't. It was still a few minutes before midnight here, and if I really set my mind to it, I could've twisted myself into an emotional pretzel before our agreed-upon meeting time.
The screen pinged with an incoming video call, and I ran my hands through my hair one last time before answering. Nick's face filled the window, a smile tipping up his lips.
"Skip," he said on a sigh. His eyes crinkled and his hand went to the back of his neck as he grinned at me, and I couldn't bring order to the wave of emotions hitting me at once. He was there, close enough to touch—but not really—and it was like going back to the tireless nights we shared on the Cape. And there were maps on his wall.
I pointed at the screen, angling my head to get a better look. "Are those old maps?" I asked.
He shook his head, laughing to himself. "The words you're looking for are 'Hello, my husband' and 'I've missed the hell out of you and your frighteningly large cock.' Try that, Erin."
"Hello, my husband. I've missed the hell out of you, and the penis that torments my dreams," I said, an angelic smile spreading across my face. "Do I see that you favor old maps?"
Nick glanced over his shoulder, at the brick wall lined with nine square frames. The movement showed off the tendons in his neck, and I found myself leaning forward as if I could drag my tongue along those cords and taste him. "I do," he said, still looking at the block of maps. "Lauren likes flea markets and vintage shops, and Connecticut is a good trip."
I was still gazing at his neck, now focused on the dark stubble covering his Adam's apple, and it took an extra second to comprehend those words. "Lauren picked those out? In Connecticut?" I asked, squeezing my legs together because I could almost feel his scruff between them.
"No, that made no sense," he said, shaking his head as he looked back to the screen. "Lauren likes flea markets, and there's a big one in Connecticut. She drove there last spring, while Matt and I biked. We met her there and had lunch, and I saw these great old maps from the Civil War."
"And then you biked back," I said.
"Yeah," he said, as if riding a bike from Boston to God-knows-where Connecticut was the most regular thing in the world.
I pointed to the maps again. "Are you a fan of the War of Northern Aggression?"
That earned me a sheepish look. "Not yet," he conceded. "But I keep telling myself that as soon as I finish this fellowship and pass another board certification and have a life that doesn't involve power-napping in on-call rooms, I'll read a book or watch a documentary on the Civil War or…anything." He cast another glance over his shoulder. "I'm preparing for my post-residency life. I'm told that hobbies are allowed."
"How much longer?"
"It's July now, so less than five months," he said.
"Stonewall Jackson was a hypochondriac," I said, and full seconds passed while Nick registered my words, then his eyes widened, understanding that I was giving him some Civil War trivia. "The Confederate general. He was always worried about something, and resorted to old wives' tale treatments like sucking on lemons for his upset stomach, dunking his head in cold water for his bad eyesight. He didn't like sitting. He thought it was unnatural for his organs to be compressed."
"Fuck, I've missed you," he said.
I nodded, not quite ready to say the words yet. I wanted to, but I was afraid that with them would come a torrent of others likeWhen can I see you again?andHow are we going to make this work for months, years?andDo you even want to make this—whatever the fuckthisis—work?andI don't understand how it's possible to feel so much, so soon, and when I stop to think about this, it's terrifying. So I said, "Yeah, me too."
"You look good," he replied. "Really good, Skip."
AndRight now, I wish things were different.
"So what's going on with you these days?" I asked.
Nick was thoughtful for a moment, bobbing his head as he looked away. "I had some really good oatmeal this morning," he said. "A bowl of warm dirt would've been great after spending all night in surgery, but I think it was the little chocolate chips that made all the difference. I snagged them from the frozen yogurt bar, but the cafeteria police don't mind me." He uncapped a stainless steel water bottle and took a sip. "What do you eat for breakfast, Skip?"
"I spent four years in the Mediterranean. Espresso is the only breakfast anyone needs," I said, and the words weren't even out before he was shaking his head in disagreement.
"And that's why you're pocket-sized," he said, holding out his palm as if he'd solved the last great mystery of my existence. "For Christ's sake, Erin, have a banana."
