We baked, watched movies together, and received an impromptu dance lesson from Sofia as she instructed us on how to do an informal version of the Viennese waltz in the living room. If I thought I knew how to count, doing so while moving — and trying not to step on Dean’s toes as he led me through the steps — showed me a whole new outlook on numbers.
The sad part was that all the while, we were playing pretend in front of Sofia.
On Saturday, the morning after my period made its perfectly timed arrival, Dean began preparing for his upcoming fight at Castello di Vetro. It was on Friday, and while I wasn’t thrilled about him walking into another fight — especially since his last one hadn’t gone so well with Murphy — my worries were temporarily set aside at the comment he made as he worked out at the end of his bed.
After performing at least two dozen crunches while I sat on the bed in a hoodie munching on a bag of potato chips, Dean rolled onto his front, pushed himself up into a plank, blew at thestrands of black hair hanging in his eyes, and muttered, “I’m out of shape.”
He proceeded to do several push-ups.
I paused mid-chew and looked him over. “Which part?”
He huffed a laugh and tucked his elbows in closer to his sides to do a different kind of push-up. Every muscle in his core and arms was moving with the motions, somehow becoming more defined than they were seconds ago. His golden-brown skin and the tattoos wrapped around his toned edges began to shine with a light sheen of sweat.
My eyes caught on the muscles rolling in his shoulders, beneath the wings etched there, and I quietly put my bag of potato chips aside and lay down across the end of the bed. Resting my head in my hand, I simply watched.
When that set was done, he sat back on his haunches and smiled so easily at me — so damn handsomely with the little dimple that appeared in his cheek.
“You know you don’t have to watch, right?”
“I know.”
“But you will anyway?” The smile remained in the corner of his mouth as he brushed his black hair back, steadying his breath.
“One hundred percent. It’s like an anatomy study. For drawing.”
“Aren’t you meant to have the sketchpad and pencil for that?” His right eyebrow lifted, emphasizing the scar there.
I tapped my temple. “I have a good memory. Now, please, continue.”
He chuckled and lay down on the floor, tucking his hands behind his head to begin another set of crunches with the waistband of his basketball shorts sitting below his hip bones.
The rest of the weekend was filled with moments like that. Soft and sweet. The kind that should last forever. The kind that were easily taken for granted. I found myself counting each one andstoring them in a safe little box, somewhere in my mind for when the inevitable happened.
I had tucked that one away when Kira joined me on our pastel blue couch to begin our impromptu Sunday evening girls' night in — a night that was overdue and needed. With large bowls of popcorn in our laps, red wine, and macarons between us, we were ready to begin our movie marathon of horror and rom-coms.
We started a cult-classic horror first and spent part of it watching from behind pillows as the heroine spoke to the masked killer on the phone.
“Well, don’t go outside!” Kira exclaimed, throwing her arms wide at the TV.
“I hate and love cliches,” I said from behind the safety of my pillow, waiting for the jump-scare.
Our eyes were glued to the screen in anticipation. My palms were clammy, and Kira was already lifting her pillow as a precaution.
Until Kira’s phone buzzed obnoxiously on the coffee table and we screamed.
“Oh my god!” I laughed, sliding off the couch and onto the floor as the buzzing continued.
Kira, perched on the arm of the chair, had a hand pressed to her chest as she quickly paused the movie. “This is why I don’t watch scary movies. Jesus Christ.”
I let my head flop back on the couch cushion. “Are you going to answer it?”
“You know the rules.” She gestured to the TV again. “Don’t answer the phone.”
“What if it’s Seb?” I smiled knowingly.
“Pfft, doubt it…” She glanced at her phone as it buzzed again, and then promptly stepped off the couch and picked it up to answer. “Hello?”
As she took the call, I headed to the kitchen for drink refills, noting the subtle ache in my abdomen as the pain meds wore off. I checked the time for how long had passed since the last two tablets I took. More than enough time had passed, so I reached for the pain meds above the fridge and popped another two. Downing them with a sip of wine, and then another as my eyes settled on the freezer door in front of me, where the business card from that psychologist remained untouched and partially hidden behind bills and several takeaway brochures.
