Page 16 of Baby, It’s Hot Inside

I think again about all those postcards I still have. All addressed and stamped, telling her about the architecture and museums, or how the beaches were different. But those are in a box under the bed and I’m not ready to share them with her.

“Being able to see so much of the world in one small area. The countries are small. Not like Texas where it takes you all day to drive from one side to the other. There you can drive from Frankfurt to Venice in the same time it takes to go from Austin to El Paso. That and all the history. There’s history everywhere. Not just in the museums, but on the streets. The actual streets in some cases are still made of stone. I loved all the history.”

“I never would have pegged you for a history nerd,” she says and I can hear the smile in her voice even though she’s facing away from me. “I was surprised when your mom said that’s what you were studying.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t really something I advertised in high school. I got good grades, but never really talked about my interests with the football team or whatever.”

“Or your cheerleader girlfriend,” she adds.

“Definitely not. We never had any important conversations. It didn’t take me long to figure out that we had nothing in common.”

We’re quiet for a while. And it’s a comfortable silence I don’t feel urged to fill with nonsense. My hand rubs up and down on her hip and thigh. Her skin is so soft. As is her hair, which is piled up above our heads like a red tangle of silk.

“I really am sorry about how I treated you in high school. I wish I had an excuse or a reason. I just—”

She puts her hand on mine and squeezes. “We both screwed up. Don’t worry about it. Just be nice to me from now on.”

“I promise.” I kiss her shoulder. I feel compelled to tell her in some way that she’s always been important to me. “Do you remember when my grandpa died?”

“Yeah, we were...what, juniors that year?”

“I think so. We hadn’t talked much or hung out at all that year, but you left that jar of shells on my porch with a note telling me how sorry you were that he died.”

She sucks in a breath. “I’d forgotten about that. I really liked your grandpa. I know I only met him a few times, but he had the best stories.”

“He did. He was great. Left me the money to do all of this even after paying for college.” I’m quiet for a moment and then I tell her. “I still have them. The shells. They’ve moved with me all over. Every new place I went in Europe, they were with me. You were with me.”

She pulls my arm over her, between her breasts and brings my hand to her mouth for a kiss. “That’s very sweet.”

“You’re very sweet.”

chapter eight

Brock

I wake up and stretch realizing that I slept better last night than I have in a very long time. I’d been attributing my insomnia to long-term jet lag, but now I’m not so sure. It takes me a minute to realize what woke me up though: there’s a repetitive knocking coming from somewhere. I sit up and glance at the empty side of the bed next to me. Ginger.

Maybe she left, but then came back because she forgot something. Or went to get us breakfast.

I wrap myself in a towel, and then pad to the door, swinging it open with a smile. “Did you forget something?” But my smile disappears when I see who’s standing on the other side. “What are you doing here, Chelsea?”

“Were you even going to call me and let me know you were back in town?” The tall blonde pushes past me and steps into my apartment.

“No, I wasn’t really planning on it.” She looks exactly the same and I realize she’s the equivalent to an empty vase – pretty on the outside, useful for decoration, but not much more.

“I saw who left this morning,” she says.

“Were you spying on me?”

She swallows and tilts her chin up. “I came over to welcome you back in town. I didn’t realize you’d have company.” Her arms cross over her chest and she narrows her gaze at me.

Her make-up is flawless and the designer clothes she’s wearing look more in line with Park Avenue than a cozy Texas beach town. I think back to that dress Ginger had one the first night I saw her. Chelsea would never be caught dead wearing something so gaudy or frivolous. It’s just another reason why everything about Ginger calls to me. She’s so authentic, fearless in her ability to be herself.

“I can’t believe you slept with her.”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with you.” I slip into the bathroom and pull on yesterday’s pair of jeans. “I’ll repeat, why are you here?” I ask her again when I step back out into the open space.

She closes the distance between us. “Now that you’re back, we can pick up where we left off.” Her French manicured fingers walk up my chest. “I’ve missed you.”