“Good morning,” Logan says from behind me. I twist around. It’s almost as much of a shock to set eyes on him now as it was last night. And just as unsettling.
“Hi ... Can I make you an espresso?”
“That would be great.”
He’s wearing his jeans again and a different sweater—a light-yellow crewneck. And though he’s left it unzipped, he’s already got his jacket on.
“Would you like orange juice, too?” I ask as I start to make the espresso.
“No, just coffee’s fine.”
“And have a medialuna if you want,” I say, pointing to the basket. “They’re like croissants but doughier.”
“Um, sure, thanks.”
When I’m done making his drink, I hand him the small cup and saucer, and our hands brush awkwardly. After downing the espresso in three sips, he helps himself to a medialuna.
“I guess I’ll be off, then,” he says, sticking the pastry in his jacket pocket. “Thanks for putting me up. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, I appreciate you sharing the news in person. Look, I know Ruck was lying, but I want to stay in the loop on this, so can you give me updates? Email’s fine.”
“Will do. And you’ll send me some of Mel’s poems before the weekend?”
“Yes.”
He goes to speak, hesitates, then starts again.
“It’s been good to see you, Bree. And—I like your hair. It’s so different than when I saw you last, but it looks great.”
It had been long during our marriage, past my shoulders. After Mel died, I barely touched it and sometimes went for days without shampooing, let alone using a hairbrush. It was so good not to think about it, but in time I came to see that my haggard look only increased the amount of pity people projected toward me. I finally started paying attention again, and four years ago, I had it cut much shorter and styled. At the same time, I resumed the blond highlights I’d gotten in the past.
“Thank you.”
And then, minutes later, he’s pulling away. Jorge has already opened the gate, so I simply watch from the portico as the small Chinese-made rental car bumps down the long dirt driveway. Finally, all I see is the cloud of dust the car has left in its wake.
Idoappreciate him sharing the news about the letter in person. But at the same time, I pray his presence hasn’t tainted the place that’s brought me so much peace.
Sebastian calls a short time later from the BA airport and then again after he’s landed and made his way through immigration. He’s phoned the vet, as he promised he would, and since Poco is ready to come home, he mentions he’ll pick him up on the way. I don’t say anything about Logan yet. I want to do that in person.
After the call, I change out of jeans into flowy pants and a V-neck sweater. When the two finally arrive, Poco bolts through the door first, giving me the cold shoulder. It seems obvious that he’s blaming me entirely for the induced vomiting.
My partner, on the other hand, drops his bag, takes me in his arms, and kisses me hungrily. Though I feel a tingle of desire the moment his lips press against mine, it’s also relief that rushes through me. Maybe before long, last night will seem like nothing more than a strange aberration.
Bas steps back finally, sliding his hands down my arms until his fingers are entwined with mine. He smiles.
“If you’ve worn this fetching sweater to remind me of what I’ve been missing, it was totally unnecessary,” he says. “By the way, my parents send their love. They said I’m not allowed to come home again unless you agree to come, too.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of them,” I say. “You can tell them it’s a deal.”
“Good. I’m dying to catch up, but I’d like to take a quick shower first.”
“Do you want lunch when you’re done? There’s a plate for you in the fridge.”
“Maybe later. For now, I’ll probably just have some maté.”
“Let me fix it for you,” I say, smiling. As Sebastian heads to the bedroom, Poco trots after him. “And can you please have a talk with your dog and ask him to let me off the hook?”
He glances over his shoulder at me, chuckling. “I’ll do my best, but you know how stubborn he is.”
