Why stop now when I could sit wedged between Ash's mother and sister while he did a poor job at pretending he wasn't studying me in the mirror? While my phone burned a hole in my back pocket—and the pit of my stomach—despite being switched off since yesterday morning. While I sewed that parachute together as I hurtled through the clouds toward the hard earth.
There was always a parachute in pieces. With all things, my hands were filled with scraps and I was left to patch them together. I knew what would happen if I didn't and every time, I went on diving out of that plane only to get it together at the last minute. I'd come close enough to hitting the ground enough to know I didn't want to become paint on the earth but I couldn't stop myself from rushing toward it time and time again, as if I was trying to run all the way through disaster.
When Ash flicked a glance at my shoes—hot pink low-tops—and frowned, I responded with a smile. He didn't want to smile back, that much was clear, but his gaze softened. Warmed. Just as I had every single time he'd given me his hard and tough and followed it up with a glimpse at his ooey gooey center.
By now, he'd accumulated a full page of tallies in the "like" column. Even with his scowling and frowning, his growls, his moods, his unnecessary jabs. He was precious under all that grump and I lived for the prize of an ooey gooey center because I knew it wasn't won by many.
Hell, I hadn't expected to win it in the first place. It'd made sense to stay last night as that was a full-on emergency contact type of situation. I'd planned on climbing out of his bed once he was fast asleep and relocating myself to the sofa, far away from the awkward-but-admirable erection he'd pressed against my thigh. Far away from his hungry snuggles.
I'd expected I'd find him in fits of fury this morning, cursing everything and everyone for the disruptions his schedule had incurred. I'd expected he'd pretend all of yesterday's ooey gooey goodness hadn't happened. He hadn't napped on my shoulder or rubbed my thigh like it belonged to him. He hadn't twisted his arm around mine and let all his fear shine through while the doctor reduced his shoulder. He hadn't insisted I join him in bed and he absolutely, positively had not flattened me underneath him and slept like he wanted nothing but me for the rest of his days. I would've been content with that burst of amnesia. I would've appreciated it too, as I couldn't make sense of the alarming rightness of being possessed by him, caged in his arms and kissed on the head while his mother and sister reminded him I wasn't Millie.
And the trouble with all this, the thing I really should've known from the start, was I wasn't meant to like him or his ooey gooey. I was supposed to encounter this man, this beautiful, flawed, tender man…and walk the other direction because he wasn't for me. Not me, not now. Probably not ever. It didn't matter whether his glares gave me the best belly flips or his growls actually raised my body temperature. That fitting in wasn't something I'd experienced once, not in any of my thirty-one years on this planet, and even though we fought and it wasn't always fair, this fit better than anything else, ever.
But this wasn't how I was supposed to start over. I wasn't supposed to argue with a man on my getaway flight and fall into bed with him and then make friends with his mother and sister. No, no, no. I was supposed to leave, figure myself out, make a plan and stick to it, find a place to live for more than a weekend, buy some houseplants and Fiestaware, get militant about organizing my closets. Maybe then, after sustaining both the plants and the crockery, I could allow men into my life again. They'd be astounded by my aggressively structured spice cabinet and find my spider plants sexy as fuck. They'd respect my self-sufficiency and never,everpresume to trample it. I'd know how to be myself then, with my grass-green plates and my windowsill garden and my hard-won independence. I wouldn't be the grown woman who ran away anymore. I'd be the woman with the life she'd built for herself, one precisely labeled cupboard at a time.
There was something critical about starting all the way over and allowing myself to feel everything I did while arguing—and cuddling—with Ash didn't fit in that process. He couldn't and he wouldn't, if this morning's tantrum was to be trusted. He wanted me as his assistant and, as it turned out, we'd also share his apartment until I found alternative arrangements.
I'd start over with my plants and crockery and closets then.
Mrs. Santillian ("call me Diana") shifted on the tufted leather sofa to face me. "So," she started, a whole load of meaning in that tiny word, "Zelda. Tell me everything."
From the tailor's pedestal, Ash glared. "Leave her alone, Mom."
"You have the very important task of standing still, Ash," she replied, wagging a maternal finger in his direction. "Please don't stop to interfere with our girl talk."
"This is pointless," he continued. "I have plenty of suits. Why do I need a new one?"
"Because I only get married once," Magnolia answered.
He glanced down at the dark blue fabric. "I have navy suits."
"I'm sure you do," she replied. "But you won't match the other guys and I don't want my photos to be odd because you can't deal for half an hour."
"This is ridiculous," he muttered.
"So is your attitude," she sang.
"Zelda," Mrs. Santillian drawled, tucking my hair over my ear, "tell me all about you, sweetheart. Your hair is lovely. So thick!" She studied the stripe of blue and I shrank, both emotionally and physically as I anticipated her disapproval. I'd learned to shrug off judgment ages ago but it was more difficult when it came from people who mattered and I knew this woman mattered. "Who is doing your color? There's a gal at my stylist's shop who is a whiz with all the funky colors you kids are doing these days. I'm sure you'd love her, if you're ever looking for someone new."
"Oh, thank you," I said. "I had this done in Denver so—"
"Denver? Ash, didn't you just return from Denver?" Mrs. Santillian asked, whipping her head toward him.
He met my gaze in the mirror, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Last night."
Mrs. Santillian stared at me while I continued watching that muscle. "Is that where you met? In Denver?" she asked.
To the tailor's frustration, Ash jerked his shoulder up. "Essentially, yes."
"Then," Mrs. Santillian continued, "this is new? Recent, I mean."
"Amusing is what it is," Magnolia murmured, tapping her fingertips against her lips.
The corner of Ash's mouth tugged up into a hint of a smile. My belly flopped and my toes tingled and I wanted to step onto the pedestal and claim my space under his chin and in his arms because I fit there. The only appropriate way to respond was, "I'm going to be helping Ash in the office. That's all."
"Oh, sure," Magnolia replied, bobbing her head and rolling her eyes. "'In the office.' That's an experiment with an obvious outcome but good luck anyway. I'm rooting for you both."
Mrs. Santillian patted my hand. "No explanations required, Zelda. I'm just thrilled to meet you."
