Verynaughty.
A part of me wants to go back to being naughty…or back to sleep, whichever comes first. It wants to stay in this delicious moment, feeling cozy, relaxed, and safe in his strong arms.
But now that I’m awake, the rest of my brain is insisting we get down to business. It wants to think about everything thathappened last night. About the bar and after the bar. About my crumbling resolve, my rash decisions, and all the things I said.
God, the things I said…
The lines I crossed.
The promises I broke.
Promises to myself, ones the logical parts of me agreed were for the best, at least until after the stress of my ex’s wedding was behind me. But last night I took my vow to hold Nix at a distance, crumpled it up, had kinky sex on it, and threw it in the trash.
I wince as I replay all the things I confessed in the Ranger Rover before I dragged Nix up to my bed. I didn’t hold back, that’s for sure. Not even a little bit. Holding back seemed silly at the time—pointless even—but now…
Well, now, the sun is up and demanding I think this through with a clear head.
But my head isn’t going to clear while I’m tangled up with Nix, still high from last night’s cornucopia of orgasms and pheromones.
Nope. It’s time for some alone time.
And coffee.
Very hot, very dark coffee.
Moving slowly, I slip out from under his arm, then out of bed, easing off the mattress with a held breath. As I pad over to my bureau to grab a pair of yoga pants to pull on with the T-shirt I wore to bed, I glance over my shoulder, but Nix hasn’t stirred. He’s still out cold, sleeping the still, boneless sleep of the very young or the very tired.
But then he did engage in alotof physical activity last night. The man played an entire game of grueling pro hockey before the sex Olympics even got started.
He’s definitely going to need strong coffee this morning, too.
I decide I’ll bring him one, as soon as I decide if what I did last night was crazy.
Downstairs, I start the kettle and load fresh grounds into the French press. When it’s steeped the perfect seven and a half minutes, I pour a mug. I cradle it between my palms, letting the heat seep into my skin as I wander out into the backyard, leaving the French doors open behind me.
The mosquitoes are brutal in Louisiana, even in mid-October, but the fall chill this morning has them lying low, a mercy I appreciate as I wander barefoot through the grass.
It’s cool and damp under my bare feet, reminding me of mornings just like this as a girl, following my mother out to pick flowers for the flower arrangement we’d work on after breakfast. I’ll always treasure those memories, but as an adult, I craved more than beauty in my garden. I’m the kind of person who enjoys a harvest to put on the table.
In the summer, I have tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, lettuce, and herbs running wild around the periphery of the beds. By this time of the year, all of those except the hardier varieties of lettuce are gone, replaced by root vegetables I’ll be harvesting into November if the weather holds.
I pause by the edge of the tilled earth, amazed as usual, at how quickly the weeds invade. Turn your back for a day or two, and suddenly three-inch spikes of bright green are poking up between the kale and carrot tops. But at least the carrots and cauliflower remain unmolested by critters this year. I finally followed my aunt Jasmine’s advice and planted a “trap crop” of mustard greens.
A “trap crop” is a lower-cost plant sewn specifically to lure the bugs away from the high-value veggies.
Mustard greens are a fantastic one. Not only do they offer protection against aphids and cabbage worms, but they also attract beneficial insects, like parasitic wasps that lay their eggsin aphids, further reducing the critter population. As my gaze tracks over their rumpled, pockmarked leaves, I silently thank them for their sacrifice.
Not every beautiful thing is beautiful on the outside. Some things are beautiful because of how much they give, the way they lay their lives on the line for the survival and flourishing of others.
The thought reminds me of Nix, of the way he puts his safety on the line for the vulnerable. At first, I assumed he must have a touch of a savior complex, which isn’t the worst thing, I guess, when it comes to complexes. It’s noble to want to help people, even if your ego is more involved than it should be, and we all fumble for control in an out-of-control world in our own ways.
But now that I know him better, I realize his ego has little to do with why he lifts his fists.
He’s one of those rare people who sees that the game is rigged, but chooses to stand and fight for justice anyway. He’s an idealist, but not one of the naïve ones. He’s stared clear-eyed into the past, absorbed its wisdom, and deduced that the chances of the human experiment ending on a high note aren’t looking great.
Most people who reach that place throw up their hands. They grow nihilistic or bitter. Or they numb the pain from all that clear-eyed seeing with their drug of choice, whether it be sex, booze, success, or simply staying so busy there’s no time to think about what we’re doing here if it’s all so hopeless.
If all the things we’ve been told to want are hollow, and no one has the answers.
