Hope you slept well.
Would make one of us.
I have a large dark roast with your name on it. Can I drop by?
The last message is time-stamped almost two hours after the first three. I wince, envisioning him waiting for me to respond, getting no answer. Then I envision him tossing and turning in bed, same as I was, and think how easily we could have remedied that. How eagerly I would have done so—climbed him like a bronco and eased his distress.
Professional,I chide myself.You have to keep it professional.
“It’s not the end of the world if I have to wait a couple more weeks for sex,” I say, more to myself than to Maral. Willing myself to believe it.
“Tell that to your vibrator. Don’t think I didn’t notice it living on your nightstand.”
I throw on my jacket and open the door. “Say what you will, but that old girl has never let me down.”
The train ride to Portland is not as scenic as I envisioned. Mostly stretches of industrial buildings, rural residences, and some farmland, where I was hoping for craggy oceanfront-abutting cliffsides,Big Little Lies–style. Maral rolled her eyes when I said as much, telling me to look at a map for once in my life. Then she started detailing the qualities of the western lilies whizzing by outside the windows, lamenting that they’re endangered by commercial and residential development and explaining how environmentally friendly urban planning measures could mitigate its habitat loss—which is about when I inserted my earbuds and powered up my laptop. She huffed a breath and moved to a seat across the aisle.
Sunday morning seems to be an uncommon travel time for this route. The train car is practically empty. Shanthi and Ryan opted to stretch out in their own respective areas, whereas Maral and I planned to go over a few podcast-related items together before I chased her away.
Even though trains bring out my best work—something about the lulling movement induces creativity—I can’t seem to concentrate. I’ve been stuck on the same response to one of the questions Alison forwarded fromVanity Fairfor the last half hour. I’m all too aware of how few words Ryan has said to me since we met him in the lobby after breakfast. He just loaded our suitcases into the shuttle and climbed in, directing the driver to the Amtrak station. Since then, he’s been focused on his phone or getting our tickets or finding the right platform.
He hasn’t even responded to my text. I sent him aSorry I missed these! The coffee was a lifesaveren route to the diner, and he just thumbs-upped it.
It’s unlike me to itch for someone to acknowledge me. I haven’t wanted anything from a man beyond good sex, followed by an almost immediate kiss goodbye at my front door, in years. Things areso much easier when there are no expectations. When you can let your body enjoy the spoils of temptation without having to curate which parts of your mind or heart to share the rest of the time. It’s easy to share only the fun parts when a relationship is all about sex.
And it appears that when that physical need remains unfulfilled, my brain goes into overdrive. Which is saying something.
Just as I’m about to give up on work, Ryan rises from his seat, walking down the aisle in my direction. Why my stupid heart speeds up, I will not consider. He’s probably just going to the bathroom.
But he stops at my row, standing silent for a moment. Like he doesn’t know how to speak. He points at his head, indicating my earbuds. I forgot I had them in, even though my sound’s been on all this time. I pull one out.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I respond.
He opens and closes his mouth once, then twice. Finally, he lets out a breath. “What are you working on?”
“Vanity Fairpiece,” I say.
If he notices my mostly blank screen, he doesn’t mention it. “Is it weird that I’ve done some of my best writing on trains?” he says.
Of all the things.“Not weird at all,” I say. “Me too.”
The sun peeks through the clouds, highlighting gold flecks in his irises. Again, he seems at a loss for what to say. “What music are you listening to?” he asks.
My face warms. “It’s a biography of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.”
He smiles, as if to say,Should have known,and my heart turns to mashed potatoes. Jesus, that smile.
“One of the audiobooks I relisten to when I’m in need of inspiration,” I say.
He nods, his eyes not straying from mine. “Feeling uninspired?”
“Just…having trouble concentrating.”
His breathing is even, measured, but I can see that telltale signin the pulse in his throat—he’s not feeling quite so measured inside. “Yeah. Me too.”
Is he tormented by the same memories I am? The feel of my body in his hands, yielding to his masterful touch? My mouth opening for his, hot and needful?
