“Ronnie. Her seafood shack is closed, we always hang out.” She looks at me, and I can see the guilt already starting to creep into her expression. “I’ll cancel. She’ll understand.”
“Don’t.”
“I can’t just leave after we...” She gestures between us.
“Had incredible sex and a major neurological breakthrough?” I grin at her. “Sure you can. Go. I’m a big boy.”
She hesitates, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I give her a gentle nudge. “Go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back.”
That earns me a look. Soft and unguarded, like she’s not used to someone telling her to go do the thing she wants instead of the thing she’s supposed to.
She disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower starts a minute later. I swing my legs out of bed, find my shorts, and head downstairs. The drawing pad is still on the counter where I left it.
I pick it up. Flip to a clean page.
While she’s getting ready, I draw.
Natalia in the ocean this afternoon. The first time she let the water take her, the sun on her face, her eyes closed in a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. I draw the shape of her smile, the way her hair floated around her like a dark halo.
I draw the memory of it, because it’s a memory I want to keep.
I’m working on the curve of her shoulder when the bathroom door opens.
My mouth goes dry.
The navy wrap dress is a fucking problem.
It’s not revealing, exactly. It’s worse. Itsuggests.
The whole thing is held together by one tie at her hip. One tug and it’s done. And I know exactly what’s underneath it because I had my hands on every inch of her twenty minutes ago.
I grip the edge of the counter.
The idea of anyone else looking at her in this dress sends something hot and primitive through me. Like I should drag her back to bed, lock the door, and keep this side of her for myself.
“You look...” I clear my throat. “You should leave. Immediately. Before I make you very late.”
She laughs, grabbing her purse and leaning in to kiss my cheek. Careful with the lipstick.
“I don’t care about the lipstick, Nat.”
I pull her in and kiss her properly, and she giggles against my mouth, fighting me until I let go.
“If you smudged my makeup?—”
“You’re smudge-free. Go.”
I walk her to the door, my hand on the small of her back. She steps through and I hold onto the tie of her dress, letting the fabric drag through my fingers until the last inch slips free.
“Don’t wait up,” she says from the porch.
“No promises.”
I watch her car pull away, taillights disappearing into the twilight. The screen door slaps shut behind me, and the house goes silent.
I stay with the sketchpad a while. No agenda. My hand moves and I let it, filling pages with nothing that matters. The porch railing. Her coffee mug by the sink. The shape of the dunes through the window. The only sounds are the scratch of the pen and the hum of the refrigerator. It’s a good quiet. A settled quiet.
