“They’re… a lot,” contributes Oliver diplomatically.
“And besides, we have Ollie’s parents. They’re Frankie’s Lolo and Lola.”
I smile encouragingly, nudging Dom’s thigh with mine. “And they’re the best.”
Everyone at the table grins, because they are.
Despite this weird little moment, we just… chill. And laugh. And chill some more. I can’t remember the last time I sat around at dinner or at a bar with friends, kind of high and pretty drunk, ordering beer after beer, talking about absolutely nothing, arguing about pop culture, singing along to terrible songs.
We eventually lose Georgia and Oliver to a Hall and Oates song and I’m absolutely, positivelythrilledto be the sole receiver of Dom’s attention. His smiles, his jokes, his little touches on my wrist, on my knee. I get a glimpse of what he was like before he was a father, and I appreciate how I can tell how and where he’s grown up and filled in the boyish, silly blanks to become this positively perfect man.
The band starts a new a song.
Dom gets up, long legs climbing out from under the picnic table. He takes my hand and gently draws me out. “We have to, Lina,” he says about this horribly wonderful song that only sounds good in very specific circumstances, like when you are an edible and a few beers deep at a beach dive bar in Rhode Island, surrounded by drunk locals shouting the lyrics.
I feel like I’m at the bottom of the steep ascent of a roller coaster, just starting the climb, as he keeps my hand in his and pulls me to him and we screamDon’t Stop Believin’in each other’s faces in between laughter and dodging full plastic cups of beer. He pulls me against his chest to avoid four cups in two hands, and the handler yells apologies but I am too busy to notice. Too busy nuzzling against the panes of Dom’s torso, feeling the rolling of firm muscle under my cheek and my palms as he dances, shivering under his hands squeezing my hips, tracing up my waist, dragging over my ribs, brushing the sides of my breasts. Smelling his laundry detergent and the salt air.
The climb continues as we walk back down the beach towards home, alternating between holding hands and piggy back rides, fucking around with Oliver and Georgia and shoving each other into the waves of the ocean, shrieking and cackling like we’re eighteen and don’t have to worry about work or money or kids or general responsibility, and this, this is the feeling that New and Improved Real Life Lina has been chasing.
We walk up to the back patio of the house, lowering our voices but not bursting the bubble.
“We’ll see you guys in the morning,” Georgia whispers at us, and she and Oliver creep away towards the main house.
Dominic’s already moving.
I follow behind the glide of his shadow, down the path, through the hedges, towards the guest house, our house, and I’m at the apex of the roller coaster, looking down hundreds of feet.
He turns around once he reaches the house and leans back against the outside of it, crossing his feet at the ankles and putting his hands in his pockets. Looking at me with a soft, easy smile, body loose and languid, eyes hooded, andfuck, I want to eat this man alive.
I stop a few feet away, admiring the long lines of his body in the light of the moon.
“You look like you’re starving,” he tells me.
“I am,” I reply, waiting for the all clear.
We study one another.
“Come here,” he murmurs, low and slow, a gentle, firm command.
I take a step. One, then two.
Dom remains still, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips the only noticeable motion.
The space yawns with heavy promise.
But then.
“Pssst,” someone hisses just past the hedges. “Dom?”
Dom pushes off the wall. We both look over, and Oliver comes up the path.
He looks at us guiltily. “Frankie had a nightmare. She’s asking for you, Dom. She wants you to come sleep with her,” he says.
I take a step away. Dom and I share a look for a long moment. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Dom tells me, voice dripping with worry and apology and grim resignation.
“‘Kay,” I whisper.
They walk away.
