“What’s that?”
“Shotgun.” She pumped her fist, dancing a little in victory. “Frickin’ finally.”
He knew exactly how she felt.
Epilogue
lovelillibetI used to think that when I grew up, I’d automatically have fancy pajamas. Satiny, lacy things that actually match. I figured it would be like getting boobs, which never worked out for me either, to be honest. Unfortunately, it turns out you have to buy all that crap (pajamas, I mean, though you could buy boobs, too, if you had the money), and then take care of it, and I’m pretty sure most of that stuff is hand-wash.
Which is why I still sleep in T-shirts I’ve had since middle school. They’re halfway to being vintage.
Sincerely, Libby
Image: A pile of ratty T-shirts strewn all over an unmade bed.
#whatisanegligee #silkcostshowmuch #handwashthis
“This bed is my new favorite place,” Jefferson said the next morning. It was their private, clothing-optional island. If they had a source of fresh drinking water, he might never leave.
Libby fed him another bite of the reheated malasada from Keoki’s care package. “Better than a sleeping bag in the woods?”
“Depends on the company.” He stretched, careful not to dislodge Libby from where she’d perched beside him, one long legdraped across his hips like she was holding him in place. As if he had any desire to move. “You made it sound a lot worse. Your bed.”
“I was in my exaggerating phase.”
“And now?”
“Goldilocks era. Everything is exactly right.” She bent to brush a sugary kiss across his lips.
“You even have art.”
She leaned back, gazing at the ceiling above them. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“Kind of hard to miss.” Though in all honesty, it had taken him a while to register the giant painting suspended over the bed, given the more pressing distractions.
“I know. It’s weird. Like I enjoy lying here staring at myself. Maybe I should put mirrors on the ceiling.”
“I’ve heard worse ideas.”
Libby fought back a grin. “I guess it wouldn’t be me if there wasn’t something bizarre.” She settled a hand on his stomach. “You don’t mind?”
It wasn’t until she tipped her chin up at the familiar pink-and-green nudie painting that he was able to think beyond the movement of her fingers sliding up his chest. “I could get used to it.”
Jefferson was talking about all of it. The two of them in a bedroom, however it was decorated. But Libby shook her head, a little sadly.
“You can’t, actually. Jean moves it around. Once I opened the freezer and it was all rolled up so the head was staring back at me.”
“Keeps you on your toes.”
She made a hum of agreement. “Are you tired?”
“Sleep is overrated.” He ran a hand up the curve of her calf. It wasn’t jet lag making his heart race. Jefferson had never asked his body to contain this much happiness. He was a two-liter of carbonation and caffeine, all shaken up.
Being with her had always felt easy, since that first day on the beach. Now that all the walls of make-believe had been torn down, Jefferson could see the change in Libby. It was the same lightness he felt in himself. There was no more holding her breath, waiting for the crash. This Libby belly-laughed and fed him breakfast in bed and sprawled all over him like he was her personal body pillow.
And she told him stories. About silly things, like the time she and Jean spent the day at the airport holding up signs for fake passengers they were pretending to meet, just to see the double takes as people wondered if these two college kids were really picking up Bruce Springsteen or the second runner-up roller derby champions from Toledo, Ohio.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to someone all night, peeling back layers until they were both half drunk with lack of sleep and the thrill of discovery. Lying together in the dark, she’d shared more about the work she wanted to do, connecting with people on a deeper level—instead of flitting from one person to the next, more interested in the surface than in what was underneath.
