“Okay, mine next.” I hand him a small gift bag, excited because I’ve been working on this for a few weeks. He carefully removes the white tissue paper from the top of the bag and pulls out the green crochet club cover I made him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not fair that he gets another one before me, Ken,” my dad interrupts.
Miranda tries to snatch the cover from Paul, “I agree! I don’t have a complete set–”
“I don’t even have one!” Will adds on.
Paul scrunches his eyebrows and purses his lips in disbelief while Miranda makes a fist, thumb sticking out and pointing to Will. “Get a load of this guy. He doesn’t even golf.”
“I’d use a blade cover for my stick.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“I would if she made it for me.”
“You’re full of shit,” she says.
“Language!” both moms say at the same time.
“Yeah Miranda, language.”
Paul shakes his head rolling his eyes at the two of them before giving me a very fatherly side hug. “Thanks honey.” Miranda continues making her point about why Will doesn’t deserve a crochet blade cover before she has a complete set for her clubs. This is getting ridiculous. I interrupt, “I’ll make you both one for your birthday.” That seems to quell the two of them enough for my parents, aka my dad, to give Paul some fancy cigars that they immediately head onto the back porch to smoke.
We spend the next few hours playing gin rummy with my mom kicking our asses. “Losers!” my mom taunts after her third win in a row. I really did inherit the craziest competitiveness from her.
I start fake yawning around 9:30, sharing a look with Will the first time I claim to be exceptionally tired this evening.
By 10:15, I announce, “I think I’m going to go to bed,” then stand up from the table.
“Me too,” my mom agrees, patting my dad on the back.
I head upstairs first, letting the rest of them linger a while while putting away the cards and placing the pie back in the fridge.
Will:make sure your door is unlocked
Nervous excitement moves through me as I get ready for bed. Putting on cute pajamas before turning off the lights and getting under the covers. With the lights off, it'sdarkin here. We’re in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest big city, with zero light pollution and only a tiny sliver of a moon to offer any illumination. When the hallway light turns off and the yellow glow from under the door is gone, the inky black of night coats the room.
An hour later, the sound of my door creaking open and then closed is followed by a very dim light, presumably from a phone screen, appearing at the foot of my bed. Then I hear the small snick of the lock being depressed and a whoosh of air followed by a sharp intake of breath. The bed shakes just a little from Will kicking it and then groans under his weight as he climbs toward me. I don’t expect to then be blinded, but I am. A bright white light sears into my eyes. My hands shoot out on instinct, trying to black the source of the light from continuing to blind me.
“What the hell?” My hands hang in the air for a moment, even after he turns the flash light off.
“I had to make sure it was you.”
“You had to blind me to do it? Every time I blink there’s a white spot now.”
He slides under the covers, maneuvering toward me until his arm is draped over my waist. “Yeah, I did.” I can hear the smile in his voice as he says it. He continues to get comfortable, dropping a sideways kiss half off my chin before he huffs, bringing his hand to cup the side of my face. A thumb sweeps across my skin until he swipes over my lips. “There they are.” And then his lips are on me. He doesn’t deepen the kiss, instead opting to snuggle into me further, shoving his arm under my pillow until we’re pressed against each other.
It's strange being unable to see him at all. It's like all the other senses are heightened, his smell, his warmth, the sound of his breath are all more intense and yet, comforting and safe.
He continues to shift around, the sound of the sheets rustling loud in the silent room. It feels like he’s wearing a long sleeved shirt and sweats, but I can’t be sure without being able to actually see him.
He lets out a heavy and contended sigh.
“Tell me something good,” I whisper.
“You, right now, here. I really missed you.”
I know I’m fishing for compliments when I ask the question, “What did you miss about me?” But the darkness makes me feel a little less exposed when I say it. My heart beats hard in my chest, anxious he’s going to say the only thing he missed about me was sex.
