“Hey, yourself,” I say, and as I smile back, I wonder if he has it in him. He doesn’t even remember that he said it, I can tell. He’s back to the guarded man he becomes when he emerges from his front door each morning. He doesn’t trust me just yet.
“How do you like your coffee?”
“Black,” I say, and I’m rewarded by a wink. He disappears into the kitchen and I hear him grabbing a second mug from the cabinet. I found the shelf where he keeps them last night, and he only has three: a his-and-hers set bearing the logo of a Las Vegas casino, and a blue Christmas mug with a snowman wearing a Santa hat.
He brings me the Santa hat mug, and I notice that he keeps thehismug cupped in his palm so that only the plain back of it is facing me.
“I’m sorry—” he says, at the same time that I ask him how he’s feeling.
We both laugh. I don’t even plan it. The breathy sound just comes out of me, because I’m so happy I could burst with it. Last night, I was strong. I did what was best for us both, and because I didn’t give in and let him make a drunken mistake, he’s glad to see me. He’s brought me coffee and asked me how I take it.
He sits on the recliner adjacent to the couch, and he reaches over to tuck a piece of hair back behind my ear. My lips part. I want more of his touch. I want his hands grasping my hips again, his mouth on my neck. But I only smile and take a sip. The coffee is bitter and dark, and it’s exactly what I need to keep my bearings.
“I’m sorry for whatever I said last night,” Edison tells me. “Or—or did.”
Now it’s my turn to reach out. I put my hand over his on his thigh. His knuckles are calloused, and his hand so much larger than my own that I can barely wrap my fingers around it. His skin is bronzed from the hours he spends doing construction in the baking sun. Mine is shock pale by comparison because I slather myself in sunblock and spend so much of my life undercover. His hands have built and carried and created. Mine have dismembered and buried and destroyed. But I work in secret and every inch of me looks the part of the helpless girl I’ve been playing since I was a child.
This would make a lovely photo, I think. We don’t need the wedding bands or the airplane armrest. We just fit as we are.
“You were a perfect gentleman,” I assure him.
He stares down at our hands, and I wonder what he’s thinking. His expression is soft, his lips slightly upturned.
“I have to get to a meeting,” he says after a long silence. “I have theday off, but I don’t blame you if you want to get home. After last night, I mean, but I’d like to see you—if—”
“Edison.” At my interruption, he looks at me. I’m smiling. “Just ask me out.”
He laughs into his coffee and then takes a long sip. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he says, much more smoothly, “There’s a fair in town for the summer. I’d love to take you.”
I drove past this on my way into town. A giant Ferris wheel and a roller coaster. Music, laughter. It’s perfect, like a scene right out of a romantic movie. “Okay.” At my nod, his eyes brighten. Yesterday, he was alone, mourning his love and drowning in alcohol. Today, there’s sunlight and hope again.
I draw my hand back away from his. Let him feel my absence. Let him miss me a little bit.
He walks me to the door, and as I turn to leave, he captures my wrist, spinning me to face him. Softly, he lifts my chin with a finger. For a breath we stare at each other. He smells like the body wash in the shower, and coffee, and aftershave. His angled jaw is smooth now, and his eyes are bright with morning sun.
His hand grips my waist, and the way he squeezes me makes my knees go weak.
This time, when we kiss, he’s with me. There are no ghosts. No alcohol. Nothing to regret.
“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs when I draw back. I reach up and sweep my fingers through his damp hair, and his hazy smile brightens. He waits for me to get in my car and back out into the street before he goes inside, turning once to watch me drive away.
When I turn at the stop sign, a girlish squeak comes out of me. I drive home in a manic excitement, licking my lips to catch the lingering flavor of his coffee.
I do a terrible thing on the drive home, and it’s something I could never confess to my sisters. I dream of pinning Edison to the ground to kill him, and then, when his eyes are full of fear, I would laugh instead. Kiss him. Melt my muscles against his.
I dream of carrying his child inside me, and getting married in a venue with sweeping windows and a view of the Arizona mountains. Mornings lingering in bed. Vacations. Twining our fingers together over the Aleutians. Napping with my head on his chest on a warm beach as he twirls my hair around his fingers and breathes slow.
I dream of helping him to kill this mysterious figure who has wronged him. I would share Edison’s hatred of whoever it is, and our love would only deepen to have such a secret. We’d never say a word about it. Only a loaded glance as we drove by the spot where we buried him, his fingers tightening gratefully in mine, so happy that he’s found me.
By the time I pull into my parking space, I’ve spent a lifetime with him.
I look up at the stairs leading to my front door. No Dara out smoking on the balcony. The curtains are drawn. They’re deep red, lined by a sheer white layer that makes her apartment always appear to be on fire.
Even though Dara isn’t outside, I’m quiet when I ascend the stairs. She never misses a beat, and if she knows I’ve been out all night, she’ll want details. After recording that “Stairway to Heaven” clip, she’s invested.
I make it inside, and Moody is on me the second I’ve closed the door. “Where the hell have you been?” she demands through gritted teeth. She’s still wearing the Rolling Stones T-shirt she had on last night when I left, and her hair is still in the same neat ponytail. She hasn’t gone to bed.
The worry in her eyes nettles me, but I haven’t forgotten that I’m still mad at my sisters, tired of being treated like a pet hamster they can keep in a tank. I square my shoulders. “I was with Edison.”
