After about ten minutes of meditating on her adorable snore, wondering what she might be dreaming when the fingers of her left hand twitch in a sequence that appears deliberate, I quietly rise, put on a dressing gown, and go to the kitchen. I take the kettle from the hob and fill it, then set it on a burner, remembering the moment last night when I realized I was not merely enamored, but—for the first time in my life—in love.
Sage mentioned her parents’ “weird relationship that’s sorta ‘open’ but actually my mom just turns a blind eye to a shitload of cheating.” With a cynical flip of one hand, she concluded, “Anyway, who cares? At least it was enough to discourage me from ever being a romantic.”
As multiple realizations assailed me, my heart stumbled back and forth like someone walking the deck of a ship in a gale.I want to be the one to make her believe in lovecame first. Then a heartbeat later I was crushed by the acknowledgment that I am the wrong person, hopelessly unqualified. Another beat and I thought,What “qualification” does one need other than a genuinely selfless, actionable desire for the other’s happiness, whatever the cost?I want the world for Sage. I would do anything to ensure her happiness, comfort, safety.
After a lifetime of feeling like any personal detail about awoman—even as insignificant as knowing her birthday or preferred coffee drink—is an imposition, a nasty little hook that might be set into me… I’m greedy to know everything about my sweet Salvia officinalis.
As I wait for the water to boil, I pick up my mobile from the counter to peruse my messages, and my stomach drops to see two from “Alfred, Accountant”—the contact name I made up for CJ Ardley. I swipe the thread open.
Alfred, Accountant:I’m finding it a little suspect, hun, that you still don’t have gossip to pass along, especially considering you and shortcake are apparently having a slumber party in Italy.
Alfred, Accountant:If you’re jerking my chain, be warned that I bite.
Fuckin’ hell.
Fake contact name or not, the meaning of that message would be clear if Sage were to see it. I stare out the back window into the garden for a long minute, my heart pounding, and finally dash off a reply.
Me:Playing a long game takes patience and subtlety. I believe you said you’d allow me to “be on top”? Don’t question my methods or the deal is off.
Me:Or do you think I couldn’t find another recipient for the riches I mine?
Once sent, I delete the exchange, sick at heart over my deception. Oddly enough, I feel bad not only for hiding things from Sage but also for lying to CJ and using a blustering, imperious tone that reminds me unpleasantly of my father. I should’ve had the courage to tell Ms. Ardley, that night at the gala,Sage is my friend and I won’t help you to make a fool of her.
Clear and simple, no games.
My God, Badrick is right—I’m such a fucking child sometimes.
I finish making the tea, then go to the bedroom and climb under the covers, sipping and thinking as the sky outside stains along the edge with hints of dawn.
What happens now? She doesn’t “do” attachments. Is this the template, going forward: I fight for each moment with her, perpetually carrying the anxiety that it’s our last? How long until she finds someone else, or simply tires of me?
She emits a small groan, then her left hand slides across the bed as if she’s trying to place where she is. With a deep intake of breath, she rolls onto her back and drags the tousled blue hair out of her face. Looking over at me, she smiles, and my relief is almost palpable.
“Morning, sweetness.” I set my tea aside and lean toward her. “Kiss?”
“At your own risk, pal,” she says in an amused, sleepy mutter. “I just woke up.”
In deference to her reticence, I brush her closed lips lightly, then deliver a longer kiss to her warm forehead. Retrieving the mostly full tea mug, I offer it to her. “You can have this. Or I’ll make fresh if you like.”
“Yeah, I’d take a sip or two.”
She struggles upright and the sheets fall away, exposing her torso. It comes to me again that yes, I must be feeling something very new, because rather than ogling her pert breasts, I find myself looking at the impressions the tangled sheets have made on her skin. I have that sense of wonder at the small living details of her. Those dented lines might as well be the intricacies of origami, the way they captivate me.
I hand her the tea and she drinks a few gulps, then takes one more just before handing it back, swishing it in her mouth in her uninhibited way before swallowing. When she leans to kiss me again, there’s a warmth and familiarity to it that makes me hopeful. I go in for another, then she deepens it, and when I pull her on top of me, she makes a tiny despairing moan against my lips and asks, “What time is it?”
“Just gone half five.”
“Fuuuuuuuuck…” Her forehead drops to my shoulder and she whooshes a sigh against my skin. “It’s a forty-minute drive to the paddock. I gotta shower and get on the road.”
My hands drift down her spine. “Come back tonight?”
“Can’t. The rest of the week is fuckin’ nuts.” She sits up, straddling me, and I noticeably respond. Feeling it through my dressing gown, she wriggles her hips. “Don’t suppose you wanna go to Barcelona in a month? We could hook up there…”
I don’t let it show how the term “hook up” affects me with its sudden revert to distance.
She pivots and hops off the bed, shimmy-dancing toward the en suite, singing Gorillaz “Clint Eastwood” in a slow, sooty drawl. When she turns on the water the same way she did last night—step in, twist the tap, scream, laugh—I’m flooded withthe gratifying sense that this is now a thing I know about Sage, a routine detail of her. It’s like being given a prize.
After a few minutes, I follow her into the en suite, where I go to the washbasin and began to shave. Her singing drops to humming, and I hear the squelch of shampoo suds as she washes her hair.
