“Always,” I hurry to confirm. I throw the towel around my lap. No need to be the only naked one here. Also, my thigh muscles are twitching.
Paisley captures the side of her lower lip between her teeth. “I feel a little shy now.”
“You?”
“Yes. Me.”
“Why?”
“Well,” she twists the comforter. “That was probably the boldest thing I’ve ever done.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
Her head snaps up. “Until now, that act was a perk reserved for boyfriends.”
I reach for her hand, stilling the twisting motion. “You coming here with a fake boyfriend in tow was bold. You coming here at all was brave.”
She crosses her arms and looks away, playfully haughty. “You’re saying that because I just blew you.”
I shake my head, laughing once again at something this woman has said. Leaning forward, I wrap my armsaround her and lift. She gasps, then lets herself be lifted, tucked against my chest. She’s careful of my right leg, and I’m grateful. The pain has come back, but I know it was actually always there. The distraction she provided was effective.
Paisley’s head settles on my chest. Using the palm of her hand, she drums a beat on the center of my chest. “That’s the sound of your heart, Klein. It’s still beating fast. I made it race.”
“No past tense.”
Paisley lifts her head, staring deep into my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Present tense. Youaremaking my heart race.”
She shakes her head as much as she can in this position. “It’s the effects of?—”
“You, Paisley. It’s the effects of you.”
“Klein.” But that’s all she says. Just my name.
“Paisley, we’ve agreed to have fun this week. And we are. We will,” I amend. There is so much more I want to do with this woman. I want to make her body sing, her eyes search the ceiling unseeingly. “But that doesn’t mean my heart can’t beat faster around you.”
She looks at me for a long second, and then says, “I’d do well to remember you are a wordsmith. You spend your days immersed in language, toying with words, adjusting them to elicit emotional response.”
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t want to get it, either. She wants to make light of my words, to not allow them their weight.
What is she afraid of?
I’ll give her this one. I’ll let her have a pass. This weekwe’ll have the kind of fun she is asking for. But will that be enough for me?
“Klein the writer,” I say, using one of the nicknames she’s given me. I’m giving her an out, something to fall back on.
“Klein the writer,” she echoes. “I’m going to rinse my mouth out.”
From where I lie I can see Paisley standing in front of the bathroom mirror, squeezing a pea-sized amount of toothpaste onto her fingertip. She adds the toothpaste and a handful of water to her mouth and swishes. Through the mirror she meets my eyes, and I swear even from across the room a faint shade of pink blooms on her cheeks.
She spits, rinses, and blots her mouth with a hand towel. Exiting the bathroom, she comes to stand in front of me. Her lips are pursed for a second before she asks, “Are we good?”
“Good?” I repeat disbelievingly, like a dummy. I’m James Bond realizing his life’s purpose, finally closing his decades-long story arc. I’m Spiderman kissing Mary Jane upside down. I’m Klein Madigan, fresh off alascivious actwith the object of his affection. “Paisley, I’m better than good.”
“Glad to hear it.” She adjusts the P on her necklace. “I’m not going to lie, I don’t know what to do now.” Her floundering is endearing.
“Maybe grab some clothes for me out of the dresser? I’ll get dressed and we can go downstairs.”
