I made him a breakfast sandwich because I was required to return the ribbing he'd given me. But I did him one better than the hastily slapped together sammy I'd packed for myself before hitting the road; I whipped up some silver-dollar pancakes in place of toast. The pancake sandwich was the top dog in my breakfast repertoire.
I didn't wait around to inform Ash of this or watch while he picked at the syrupy tower of pancake, egg, bacon, and cheese. As much as I liked watching him experience all manner of things he'd convinced himself he neither wanted nor needed, this wasn't the time for that. It was the time for pretending away the moment we shared this morning and the one from last night too, and all the other moments when we'd wandered too close to the borderlands between emotionally needy cuddling and emotionally needy fucking. Though I wasn't the one with the erection or the rhythmic thrusting, I'd dragged us straight into that land long enough for Ash to regret it.
And I couldn't leave it to him to know better. For once in my life, I had to know better. I had to avoid hurtling toward the edge with my parachute in shreds. In this reincarnation of me, I didn't rely on men to know better, to do better. I relied on me and that meant teaching myself to trust me too.
Leaving the pancake sandwich for Ash, I retreated to the guest room I had yet to use for its intended purpose. I showered and did my best to assemble asummer weekend dinner party with friends and familyoutfit though I'd never experienced such a thing. Then I spent five pointless minutes fussing with my hair. I knew it wasn't going to do what I wanted, not without backup from a curling wand or round brush, and neither of those had earned a spot in my luggage.
But the fussing gave me something to do. The alternative—being still and quiet and settled enough to hear my thoughts—was too daunting for a pancake sandwich Sunday kind of day.
In truth, I needed several more pancake sandwich Sundays before I could contend with my thoughts. The murky ones I only acknowledged in the worst of times, the dangerous ones that made me examine my choices and motivations in a way that invited gasping, overwhelming shame.
Yes, those thoughts could wait. They always did. And until I was ready to plunk myself down in the thistle and rip out the roots, I'd fuss with my hair and smooth my suitcase-wrinkled skirt. After all, I'd run away from my life with nothing more than a vague note in my wake becauseI had to. I was allowed to fixate on my hair and skirt.
After an appropriate amount of obsessing over insignificant things, I emerged to find Ash in the kitchen, his hand on his hip while he glared at his phone in the other. He wasn't wearing his sling but that was the last thing I noticed because he was wearing a polo shirt that must've been tailored to fit every inch of his torso to perfection. His hair, still wet from the shower, was boyishly floppy. The most bizarre urge to slide my hands into the pockets of his navy shorts and feel the body beneath the fabric consumed me.
Without glancing in my direction, he grumbled, "You didn't have to cook for me."
"I know. I did it anyway." I spotted his plate beside the sink, a streak of maple syrup the only remnant. "Hated it, didn't you?"
This earned me his full attention and he'd barely blinked before saying, "Goddamn. What are you wearing?"
Frowning at my plum paisley skirt and its topography of wrinkles, I held my hands out. "Calm down, Ashville. Long, summery skirts aren't meant to be perfect. I'm currently operating as if this is a crinkle fabric. I'm not changing. You need to deal with—"
"I'm not sure what you just said," he growled as he approached me. He lashed his arm around my waist, closing the remainder of the distance between us. "I didn't catch any of it but I don't want you to change a single thing."
Something happened to me then, something like altitude sickness mixed with a tequila buzz, all divided by hunger pangs as if I hadn't eaten in days. It was a strange dizziness that made my eyelids heavy and my lips part and my bodywant. And it wouldn't let me dismiss Ash's words. I couldn't form a response. It wouldn't take shape. The only thing I could manage was "Where's your sling?"
"Don't need it," he said, still holding me tight.
I watched as his gaze traveled from those heavy lids to my parted lips and then down, down to my sleeveless top in the palest of pinks. It wasn't the top that interested him. It was the space between my breasts, the valley only visible from his vantage point.
I didn't have a lot going on there, nothing more than the average, but the way he sucked in a breath and growled at that valley like it belonged to him only made me dizzier, hungrier.
With his gaze locked on my cleavage, he said, "I need you to know something, Zelda. If we do this, if we go to my parents' place—"
"Well, of course we're going," I interrupted.
In that measured, managerial voice he favored so much, he repeated, "If we go, you won't be able to undo it. I need you to know that."
"Why does that sound like an ominous warning from a practiced skeptic? Like, one doesn't simply sneak into Mordor."
"Because it is, love. You can back out of this. Stay here. I'll handle the explanations."
"Why don't you want me to meet your family? That is, the portion that didn't invite themselves into your bedroom the other day."
He tapped a finger against my belly. "For one, they'd want to keep you."
"What's so bad about that? Your mother and sister are amusing as hell, especially when they literally stared at us in bed and carried on a conversation where they took turns insisting I'm Not Millie. Given this, I'm sure everyone else is equally amusing. And I'm not against being kept. As you might've noticed, I'm not that difficult to collect."
He waited as if he was indulgently allowing me to thatch together my childlike argument. Then, his brows low, he said, "Shall I remind you howyouinformed me that my mother was about to break out the knitting needles because all the grandchildren we're going to give her will need blankets and hats? I'll wager she'll have one finished by morning if I bring you home with me today."
My eyes widened at the thought of his mother's lingering gazes on our visit to the tailor. Yeah, Mrs. Santillian struck me as the type who asked forgiveness rather than permission. "Oh, right, right, right."
"And for two, I don't share." He dipped down, brushing my hair from my shoulder and replacing it with his lips. "I don't share, Zelda."
He kissed my neck the way he knew I liked and I slipped my hand under his shirt the way I knew he liked, and for that beat and breath, the only thing that mattered was the way we fit.
"What you're saying is," I started, "you won't have as much time to be obsessive and tyrannical when your family decides I'm their new favorite thing? Because I'm good at being the flavor of the week, even if there is some wishful knitting involved."
