Even worse, I seemed to be developing a fear that Babygirl was going to figure out that I was all wrong for her and get tired of chasing after me. I had realized that I didn’t want her to abandon me. Drifting through the noxious inner workings of my own mind, I stood frozen in front of the open window, naked and still wet from the shower. My skin gave off the scent of the shower gel I’d used… It wasn’t my usual kind, but the smell was not unpleasant, and most importantly, it was clean.
I waited for the sunrise, like I so often did. I believed that, by doing so, I could anticipate my fate for the day and change it, even if nothing actually fucking happened.
The world remained the same, just like people remained the same and my life and even me.
The days crawled by, childhood memories pressing down on my soul, and sooner or later, I was going to have to let go of my last hopes for a better future.
I took one last drag from my cigarette and released a plume of smoke into the air. I soaked in the cold that was all around me. The room was almost completely dark, and so were my eyes as I stared into the void, trying to see myself there. A self that I was never going to find.
I passed a hand through my soft, disheveled hair.
The sides were short, just the way I liked them, but the quiff on top was getting long. I’d have to get it cut; it was always falling over my forehead.
Did Selene like it that way?
I smiled at the thought of me caring about her opinion on the matter.
I didn’t usually give a shit what women thought. I knew that I was attractive to them, that I exerted a certain allure for them, and that was enough for me, except when it came to my Tinkerbell.
I wanted to be perfect in her eyes.
I wanted my looks to be peerless as far as she was concerned.
I wanted to bind her to me, to show her that she would never find anyone else who could make her feel what I made her feel. Again, the enormous selfishness and ridiculousness of those thoughts occurred to me.
I was supposed to be letting her go, and instead I was trying to strategize some way to set her off balance before I went back to New York so she would be thinking of me even when I was far away. The same way I thought of her when I was trying to soothe myself in bed with other women.
Bored, I glanced at the clock on the dresser.
There were two hours and forty minutes before my flight; I had no more time to waste.
Reluctantly, I pulled on my clothes from the night before. I was used to changing clothes several times a day, usually after a shower, but at least the clean smell of them offset some of the urge to scrub the filth from my body.
I got myself in order and gathered up my things before slipping on my leather jacket and leaving the room. I walked down the hallway and tosseda glance at the stairs that led to the upper floor, specifically to Selene’s room. I had held back on bothering her in the night, but I wouldn’t have been at all disappointed to spend those hours with her—and certainly not “talking.” But she had, after all, complied with my wishes and had not sought me out, so I did the same and gave her time to process what had happened, both my insane reaction to seeing the basketball player and the deeply personal confession that had followed.
Feeling thoughtful, and as usual a little annoyed, I went into the kitchen just to get a quick drink of water before I left. Instead, I was confronted with the sight of Ms. Martin, who appeared to have been waiting to deliver a dressing-down. I froze, surprised to find her there, fully dressed, at that hour of the morning. She stared back at me with her penetrating blue eyes, not at all surprised to see me in her kitchen.
“Good morning, Neil,” she greeted me calmly, leaning against the kitchen counter. She was drinking coffee; I could smell it in the air.
“Hey,” I answered, unenthused, taking a few steps into the confined space. The woman gave me a faint smile but never stopped evaluating me with her eyes.
“Selene texted me last night to let me know that you were here,” she told me, clearing the sleepiness from her throat. “What are you doing awake so early?” she went on curiously.
I remained where I was, motionless, while her eyes swept down my body in analysis.
It was one of the rare times when a woman looked at me not with admiration but with caution and perhaps a little bit of anxiety.
“I always get up at dawn,” I answered, glancing down at the stool before looking back at her.
Ms. Martin furrowed her brow. “Make yourself at home. Would you like something for breakfast?” she asked courteously. I sat down on the stool, crooking one knee and letting the other leg stretch out.
“Just a coffee, no sugar,” I answered.
“You’re not having anything to eat?” She grabbed a clean cup and poured some coffee into it, settling it on a little porcelain saucer. Then she approached and handed it gently to me.
“No,” I answered flatly. I was a man of few words.
Actually, I was uncomfortable. It wasn’t my habit to spend the night in strange places or to sleep in a bed other than my own. But my compulsion to see Babygirl was forcing me to do the craziest things.
