The lobsters are still alive.
Which means I'll have to boil water later.
Which means I'll have to think about cracking shells.
Which means I will absolutely not think about his hands doing it instead.
This is sabotage.
Luxury, deliberate, perfectly timed sabotage.
And he is two hundred miles away, completely innocent, probably not even thinking about me.
The mugs photograph suggests otherwise.
I delete that thought immediately.
Afew nights later. Lying on my bed. Voice call, his breathing low and easy on the other end of theline while he tells me about a conversation with his agent—something about a book he’s picked up.
I'm listening. I am genuinely, actively listening.
My hand has drifted to my own collarbone without permission.
Tracing the ridge of it. Slow circles. The same path his mouth took when he kissed me there in the dark.
I notice what I'm doing. Stop. Pull my hand away.
Weston Prescott opened a dam.
Opened it and walked away, and now I'm ambushed by my own body at the most inconvenient moments. Aftershocks. Tremors.
This is on him.
I’m going to say that to his face.
I am absolutely not saying that.
Aweek of back-and-forth and the texts have shifted.
Longer. More specific.
He tells me about a conversation with his mother that sits heavy under its brevity and I can read between every line.
I offer one piece of unsolicited advice—gently, carefully, because I know him well enough now to know that unsolicited advice is a landmine for a man who's spent his life building his own maps—and I wait for him to ignore it.
He doesn’t.
Interesting.
It tips late one night.
I'm in bed. Lights off. Phone glowing in the dark.
WEST:What are you wearing?
He's joking. He's definitely joking. Right?
ME:My most devastating ensemble. Boston Bruins shirt, circa 2014. Slight ink situation on the front.
