The sun has set and the sky is indigo blue. By the time I get to the restaurant, it’ll be full dark. I set my wineglass on the table and grab the empty bottle. “I’ll bring some food back for both of us. Is there anything you want?”
“More wine,” Victor says. “At least another bottle. Maybe two.”
I privately think that’s a mistake, but I’m not Victor’s parent, so I don’t voice that opinion. If Victor wants to get hammered two days before our daughter’s wedding, that’s his prerogative.
I take the empty bottle with me to drop in a recycling bin on my way to the restaurant, then grab two plates at the buffet line. Kelsey and Adrienne are sitting with a group of friends that I haven’t spent much time with this week. Kelsey clearly sees me enter the restaurant but makes a bit of a show of shifting her chair so that her back is to me, an obvious message not to attempt to join them. Adrienne catches my eye and gives me a half-sorrowful, half-exasperated look, but believe me, I’d rather be anywhere but at the table with them this evening.
I fill the plates with a variety of food that I think Victor might like. I’m not a hundred percent sure he’s a vegetarian, but I haven’t seen him eat meat this week, so I choose grilled vegetables, a bean and grain salad that looks delicious, some cheeses, fried plantains, and a handful of other things.
One of the servers catches me balancing the plates while trying to grab some silverware. “You take to your room, señor?”
“Sí,” I reply. “Para el Señor Hendricks y para mí en casita ocho.” Meals are included in the resort price, but the restaurant staff ask for our casita numbers to keep track of who’s eating when.
She holds up a finger. “Un momento.” She disappears into the kitchen area and shortly returns with two silver lids for the plates. They’re flat on top, which allows me to stack the plates and have a hand free.
“Muchas gracias.”
“De nada, señor. You need anything else?”
What the hell. I request another bottle of wine—only one, though—and bring everything back to our casita.
Victor’s still on the balcony and it’s a pleasant evening, so I bring the food and wine bottle out to him. He shows more interest in the wine at first, but he eventually takes a few bites of food, then polishes off the plate I fixed for him.
“Thanks,” he says. It’s the first thing he’s said to me tonight that wasn’t a direct response to something I said to him.
“My pleasure,” I say.
We sit in silence a little longer, drinking more wine, but it’s more comfortable now than earlier. Victor’s not sulking anymore and, maybe it’s the wine, but I’m feeling braver all of a sudden. “I don’t have a plan, Victor, and that’s part of what scares the hell out of me.”
He turns his head to look at me, finally, and says, “Yeah, you always have a plan, don’t you?”
Do I? I guess I do. My whole life is hemmed in by rules and schedules. The right way to do things. Life, like music, devolves into chaos when there’s no structure, no organization.
“Time for bed,” I decide, for now. “You’re going to feel this in the morning.”
“I’d rather feel you in the morning,” Victor mumbles.
I nearly drop the plates and dish covers I’m stacking. “What?”
Victor blinks like he just realized he said that out loud. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll…um…sleep on the sofa tonight. You can have the bed.”
“The hell you will,” I say. I grip his shoulder hard enough to get him to look up at me. “I’m going to return these dishes to the restaurant and you’re going to get into bed. If you’re too drunk to get it up when I get back, you can suck me off and I’ll return the favor in the morning.”
Victor stares at me. His mouth parts. “You still want?—“
“I still want you. We can deal with Kelsey later.”
I didn’t plan this…whatever is going on with Victor, and it’s been terrifying, yes, but also exhilarating. If I can only have him this week, I’m not going to waste any of it.
Twenty-One
Victor
I wake in the middle of the night, cotton-mouthed and disoriented in the dark. Jason is a warm weight against me. No, I'm the one pressed against him. At some point, I'd rolled over and wrapped myself around him like he’s a body pillow. My arm is slung across his waist, my face buried in the back of his neck, one leg thrown over his.
I should move. This isn't part of our arrangement. Sex is one thing; clinging to him in my sleep like I'm afraid he'll disappear is something else entirely.
But he's still breathing the slow, deep rhythm of sleep, and he's so warm, and it's been so long since I've held anyone like this.
