"The point is you slept with your sperm donor and he talked about impregnating you while you are already pregnant and this is — Flora, from a narrative standpoint, this is the most deranged thing I've ever heard. And I once watched you eat an entire pineapple on a dare."
"The pineapple was unrelated."
"Flora. Honey. My darling idiot. What are you going to do?"
I pulled over on the shoulder of the county road. The mountain was dark except for the stars and the distant glow of his cabin, yellow through the trees.
"I don't know," I said. And for once I wasn't deflecting. I meant it. The plan — the perfectly organized, bulletproof, Flora-has-this-handled plan — had not included any of this. Not his rough palms on my skin. Not his voice breaking open. Not the honey, not the sourdough, not the word "sweet" in his mouth sounding like he'd invented it.
"I'm going back tomorrow," I said.
"Obviously you're going back tomorrow."
"I'll tell him. Soon. I just need —"
"One more day?"
I closed my eyes. "Yeah."
"You know this can't last, right? The lying."
"I know."
"Okay." Britt exhaled. "For what it's worth? The counter is a strong choice. Very cinematic."
I laughed. It came out watery. "Good night, Britt."
"Good night, you beautiful disaster."
I hung up. The peaks were black against a clear sky. Still feeling his hands on me. Still wearing his T-shirt under my jacket, the cotton soft on my bare arms.
I sent Connie a message.
Hi, any chance I can extend through the weekend?
The reply came in thirty seconds.
Cabin's yours, hon. Nobody books the Juniper in April.
One more problem solved. One more reason to stay I'd have to answer for later.
My phone buzzed. A number I didn't recognize.
You left your sketchpad. I brought it inside so the dew doesn't get to your drawings.
I read it twice. He didn't have my number. I hadn't given it to him — which meant he'd opened the cover, seen my business card, and decided to use it.
The three dots appeared. He was typing.
I'm making coffee in the morning. The new pot, since someone destroyed the last one. You're welcome to come early if you want a cup before we start.
My palm settled on my belly. Nothing to feel yet. Everything to hide.
Tomorrow I'd go back. Tomorrow I'd design his garden and eat his food and try not to stare at his hands and fail. TomorrowI'd get one more day of this, whatever this was becoming, before the truth made it impossible.
But tonight, sitting in the dark with his messages on my screen and his shirt on my skin — he'd texted to tell me my drawings were safe. He'd bought a new coffee pot. He'd invited me to breakfast with a warmth that undid me more than anything he'd done on that counter. The sketchpad, the coffee, the place at his table. Every word a door he was holding open.
I was so far past the plan it wasn't even visible in the rearview mirror.
