No contacts tonight. She’s wearing her at least eight-year-old teal-framed glasses, black leggings, and a Culinary Institute of New York shirt. It swallows her whole. My socks on her feet.
God, I’m gonna lose my mind she’s so cute. And I get to be here. See her like this.
Wildest part: She wants me here.
Dislodging the words from my throat, I meet her at the table. “I tried my hand at cooking. Don’t expect much though.”
Not a second is wasted.
Madison drags everything out onto the wooden surface. Two wrapped tomato-and-mayonnaise sandwiches. A container of fresh blueberries. And a bag of chips, because I know BBQ is her favorite. Lastly, on a gasp, she reveals the chocolate chip cookies. The recipe she taught me.
“They’re a little burned,” I say.
She cuts a scolding look at me, opening the lid. “They’re perfect.”
“They are far from—What are you doing? You can’t eat the cookie before dinner!” I lean across the table, trying to snatch it from her hand, but she dips away, crumbs raining from her mouth as she all but shoves the whole cookie inside.
“Dessert before dinner is always the best!” she says through a full mouth.
I’ve experienced a lot of different moments, modes, and situations with Madison now. But this—eating a casual meal together in her cottage, swapping stories about our week—might be my favorite. I’m tired. She’s tired. Being together though . . . it’s peaceful. It’s perfect.
After we eat, I go lie on her bed, boots hanging off the side so I don’t dirty her blankets. This might seem like I’m trying to start something up, but in reality I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. She curls up beside me, and I listen, eyes shut, while she reads me her notes from the round of interviews she just held.
“I don’t know,” she says, paper crinkling in her hands. “I really like Jeremy. He has a lot of experience. But Amiya . . . we jived. She even finished my sentence at one point. An ideal trait in a sous-chef.”
“I think you have your answer then.” I stroke her head, leaning back against my chest.
I feel her head tilt up and then a poke in my cheek. “Are you asleep?”
“Nope.” But pretty damn close.
“Am I boring you?” she asks, an edge of insecurity in her voice. A history of too many people discarding her if she wasn’t entertaining them, giving them something, fills the air.
I crack an eye open. “Being comfortable enough to doze off with you in my arms is not a bad thing. It’s the dream.”
“The dream,” she repeats, like she’s mulling it over. “Monogamy.”
I laugh. Like it’s our code word now.
She sits up, leans over, and tugs at my boots until they hit the floor with a loud thud. One and then the other. A blanket gets tugged from the foot of the bed up over our bodies as she settles close to me again. She’s warm and her hair smells like girly shampoo. I love everything about this.
I love her.
The words are balancing there on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them yet. It’s too soon, and I don’t want to scare her away.
We laze here together, snuggling and kissing every now and then until there’s a firm knock on Madison’s front door. She tenses, then shoots upright. Neither of us says a word, but we share a glance like maybe the unwelcome person will go away.
But then: “Madison Walker. Let this old lady in. It’s dark and scary out here.”
Wild eyes connect with me over Madison’s shoulder, and not even a second later she’s shoving me out of the bed. “It’s Mabel! Hide!” She raises her voice above the sounds of me sliding to the floor, elbow knocking into the bedside table and knee slamming into the bed frame while trying to unhook the blanket that’s snagged around the ankle of my jeans.
“I’m coming! Just a second!” Madison calls.
I would crawl under the bed, but my shoulders don’t fit. I have no choice but to lie here on the floor and hope Mabel doesn’t walk this way.
Madison cracks the door open, but that doesn’t deter Mabel. She pushes her way in. “I was home tonight and realized . . . I haven’t seen your new place yet!”
“So you just popped over.” Madison is reaching for a positive tone, but lands a little shy of it.
