I chuckled, my ear pressed against his chest. The constant, steady beat of his heart thudding beneath my cheek.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I agreed, leaning down to kiss his stomach. The muscles clenched in response to my touch.
“If you give me a few minutes, I think we could do it again now,” Flynn stated matter of factly.
I laughed harder. “Oh yeah? You think so?” I asked, looking up at him through my eyelashes.
His hair was in messy disarray around his face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were sparkling. His lips quirked into a small grin.
“I don’t even care that I’m all sticky. I want to have sex again,” Flynn announced, rolling me on my back.
I twined my arms around his neck, my legs wrapping around his waist. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” I agreed.
**
A little while later, after getting showers and finally eating our now cold dinner (which Flynn complained about but still ate), I sat in the living room watching television while Flynn sat at a table in the corner, hunched over.
He kept some of his sculpting tools at home for working in the evenings. He had continued with his model business even after taking the full-time teaching job. Though he produced for less than he used to.
While I was away at school, at least once a month I’d get a package in the mail from him. Inside would be his latest sculpture. A miniature Stonehenge or a tiny, detailed Arc de Triomphe. He’d never attach a note but he hadn’t needed to. Those sculptures had been the only message I needed.
I got up and walked over to where he was working and sat down. I watched him slowly mold the piece of clay in his hands. Manipulating it into some semblance of a shape.
I didn’t dare speak until he acknowledged me. I knew that when he was working on his art, he didn’t like to be disturbed. But he liked me watching him. When we had first gotten together, he would often ask me to come to his studio on community college campus to watch him work.
When we were kids and secret friends, I had enjoyed nothing more than to watch him doodle in his notebooks. Flynn seemed to reach a level of Zen while drawing or sculpting that was calming. Even for me.
I pulled my knees up underneath me and rested my chin in my hand. Flynn picked up the small chisel and start scrapping away the excess clay, putting it in a pile off to the side.
The drone of the television in the background and the methodical movements of Flynn’s hands lulled me into a peaceful quiet.
A little while later I was being nudged awake.
“You’re snoring,” Flynn said flatly.
I sat up and wiped drool from my lip with the back of my hand. I had a crick in my neck from falling asleep with my head at an awkward angle.
“Sorry,” I muttered, stretching my aching muscles. Must remember to never fall asleep sitting up ever again.
Flynn slid something across the table toward me.
“Don’t pick it up, the clay is still wet,” he ordered.
“Yes sir,” I muttered, leaning down to get a better look.
“Is that a church?” I asked.
“It’s Westminster Abbey in London. I hadn’t made you a new sculpture in a while.”
I smiled. “It’s pretty. I love it,” I said sincerely.
Flynn lowered his head, not meeting my eyes. “Are you happy here, Ellie?” he asked, throwing me with the change in subject.
“What?” I asked, rubbing sleep out of my eye.
“Are you happy here? I know you didn’t want to move back. You wanted me to come with you. I didn’t. Now you’re here. But I haven’t asked you if you’re glad. I can’t tell if you are. Sometimes you smile and I know you’re happy. Like when you came home and saw the flowers. And when we were having sex, I know you’re glad to be here. But you also look sad sometimes, so it’s hard for me to know,” Flynn said in slow, thoughtful sentences.
“Whoa. Where’s this coming from?” I asked.
