He’s home.
Merde.
Somehow, knowing he’sinhis house makes it feel closer. Makeshimfeel closer, as if his hot gaze is all over me, and I don’t entirely hate it, save the royal state of me after a Nutella-fuelled morning with a toddler.
I have Rudolf-red Play-Doh in my beard.
In the bathroom, I scrub it out while Esme watches L’Apprenti Père Noël in my bed, and I try not to peep through the open window at the terraced house on the other side of the fence, next to the alley.
Cinnamon Row sits higher and posher than Cosmic Avenue. It makes Galen’s house seem taller than mine, and I have to tilt my head to study his bedroom window.
You don’t know that’s his bedroom.
But for once, the heckler in my brain is wrong. I’ve fitted eight kitchens in Galen’s style of house on Cinnamon Row, and unless he’s camped out in the box room at the front, I’m definitely staring at his bedroom.
So stop.
I manage it. But probably only because the curtains are drawn and there’s nothing to see. Plus the distinct lack of noise filtering out of my own room that has me on high alert, a suspicious quiet that means Esme’s either napping or emptying my sock drawer again.
As it happens, she’s fast asleep, which leaves me at the kind of loose end that spelled trouble even before I found Galen.
Or he found me.
I take a baby monitor downstairs and outside. Sit on my back porch and ignore the workout equipment I lugged out last weekend. It’s the kind of moment where I miss cigarettes, but nothing and no one could convince me to take up smoking again. I don’t want my baby girl to ever scent that shit on my skin. I want her to think I’m strong, and yet the weight bench doesn’t call to me. Instead, my phone does. I dig it from my pocket andreply to a message from Tam, telling him I don’t need him to cook me Sunday dinner, all the while knowing I’ll let him do it anyway. It’s good for Esme to know what Sundays are all about.
It’s good for me too, but I’m not thinking about that as I let the coiled heat in my belly guide me to the app buried deeper in my phone. To the chat thread that has me hyperventilating as I realise I never answered Galen’s question this morning.
HotCraic97:Do you want to?
I’ve fallen into a well-trodden routine of overthinking every response I send him, then typing out the truth anyway. It’s a pointless way to waste time, one I can’t seem to stop, but with the searing memory of his kiss fighting for dominance with the frigid winter air, I give in pretty quickly.
LeLionDuBois96:I think so, but I’m shit-scared I’ll be too nervous to do anything
I don’t know what Sunday means for Galen. If he’s getting in from work or just heading out. If he’s sleeping. If he’s fucking someone.
Lots of someones.
Fuck. Heat rattles me, despite the cold from the icy deck seeping through my clothes, and I brace for his silence. And a long wait for him to break it.
But like this morning, his reply is lightning fast, and throws me for a loop.
HotCraic97:You never need to be scared around me
So far, I haven’t been. Even when I was kissing him. When he was kissing me. So I type out the first words that spill into my crowded brain.
LeLionDuBois96:What if you’re not there?
HotCraic97:What if I am?
I blow out a breath. What the hell is he saying? That he wants to hook up with me? That he’ll hold my fucking hand while I hook up with other people?
Othermen?
Fucking hell. I try to imagine an encounter with multiple participants. WithGalenthere too, and I’m so out of my depth it’s not funny. I find myself trying to recall if Tam ever used apps like FlingIt. Shake my head as it dawns on me that even if my big brother had ever needed to, I’d have been too off my nut to notice. Too self-absorbed.
Too selfish.
Galen’s typing again. Guilt is a wicked beast, but anticipation wins the day. Those flickering dots become my sole focus and I’m in danger of gnawing my bottom lip clean off.
