When Dylan wakes up, I’m sitting next to him, watching the TV on mute.
“What are you doing?” He sits up and gives me a kiss.
“Just hanging out.”
He runs his thumb over my cheek. “You look tired.”
“Really?” I don’t want to tell him I couldn’t sleep. “Maybe because it’s morning.”
He kisses me again. “Check your bank account. The money should be there.”
He gets up to use the bathroom. While he’s gone, I throw on some clothes and run to the mirror to look at myself. I do look exhausted. I pinch my cheeks to try to redden them. My makeup is in the bathroom, unfortunately.
So I do what he said. I check my account, and sure enough, another twelve thousand, five hundred dollars was deposited. My finances have never looked so robust. I’ve got twenty-five grand sitting in my checking account, and all I need to do is get up the nerve to face the mother I haven’t seen since I was four years old.
Dylan comes out of the bathroom and glances over at the dresser.
“You made another sculpture?” He points at the second towel-covered blob, the one I made of him. The first towel is still covering my huge hunk of unused clay.
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I see it?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe someday?”
“Maybe someday,” I agree.
He looks at me more closely, but I change the subject. “Thank you so much for the quick deposit, by the way. You have no idea how much this helps me out.”
He assesses my expression, looking like he wants to ask for details. But he doesn’t.
“All set for Tubac then?” he asks me.
“Yeah, sure.” If I can stay awake, it should be a great trip.
“I’ll drive if you want,” he offers.
“Okay,” I say casually, trying to hide how grateful I am.
I pack up my stuff and call for the bellhop. I’m giving up my own room to stay with Dylan tonight. I push away my nerves as the dolly arrives, and we pile my bag and clay onto it.
Everything will be fine. It’s just one night. I’m not committing to him for life or anything. If things turn sour, we’ll be saying goodbye tomorrow, anyway.
* * *
“Are you sore today?” Dylan asks as we pull out of the parking lot.
“What?” I practically shout. I’m not used to having men talk to me so openly about intimate matters.
“Are you sore? You know, it was a lot, last night. Not that I’m complaining.” He grins at me.
Iamsore. But my embarrassment outweighs it.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
“I’m a little sore,” he admits.
