“Well.” Brooke turns her head, her pony flopping against her shoulder. She lifts her cup and weakly smiles up at me. “Thanks for the coffee. I should go.”
Instinctively, and just because I really fucking want to, I move to lean in and kiss her, but catch myself before she seems to notice my intentions. Straightening and shoving my hands in my pockets, I give her a quick nod. “I’ll see you around then.”
I think I see something, maybe a glint of a distaste for my bullshit impersonal goodbye. Whatever it is, it’s gone before I can analyze it, and so is Brooke.
She turns without saying another word. Without giving me another glance.
I watch the soft sway of her hips until she disappears around a corner. I saunter in the direction of my car, my hands curling in my pockets. Tensing, releasing, and tensing again. I think about how else I could’ve responded to Brooke’s irresolution just now. How I could’ve reacted differently, and if it would’ve mattered.
I think about it all afternoon.
Through four classes, while I struggle to keep my attention off the studio window and the bakery across the street, I picture Brooke’s face on the footpath when I first found her out there.
Those big, rolling tears wetting her cheeks. Her quivering lip. The way she startled when I approached her.
I remember the feel of her hands on my chest as she shoved me off, yelling about how she doesn’t know men like me.
Good, I recall thinking. I want to be the only one. Her only one.
Seven o’clock rolls around. Stragglers from the last class finally gather their towels and water bottles and exit the studio. I shut and lock the door, allowing myself one glance across the street.
One more glance.
The lights are off in the bakery. Brooke’s probably home by now. Or out, erasing me from her memory. Replacing me . . .
The thought makes me nauseous. I take a long, hot shower and heat up some soup for dinner.
Sitting at my kitchen table with my bowl in front of me, my laptop opened, I update my website and send out a newsletter via email, informing subscribers of the additional class tomorrow morning.
Maybe I’ll at least have one person show. That’s enough to transform this lie into a truth.
I swirl my spoon around the bottom of the bowl, stirring up the vegetables. Just as I’m about to close out of my email, a new message shows up in my inbox. The sender, [email protected], heightens my intrigue.
The small bookstore down the street.
I move the mouse and open up the message, quickly scanning the short paragraph.
Trish, the owner I met a few weeks back, has mentioned my class to her daughter, who in turn informed her roommates. Excitement is brewing. They are all interested in attending and are hoping for something this week. Maybe something permanent, if they all enjoy it.
My first smile in hours stretches across my mouth. A lightness moves through me.
I type out my response, my suggestion of a day and time. I allude to my enthusiasm as well, and welcome any parents or siblings, offering my standard ‘first class on me’ discount. I send the email and grab my phone to shoot out a quick text to my sister, Ellie, as I pad toward my bed.
She’ll be so excited about this.
I sit on the edge of the mattress with my phone in my hand. Instead of opening up a new text, my thumb hovers over the last message from Brooke. I hesitate, then press on the screen to enlarge it.
Brooke: I’m a genius. Let’s camp out in your loft! That way I can enjoy the tent (and you) and I won’t even have to be outside. FANFUCKINGTASTIC idea, yeah? ;)
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my legs and stare at the screen. I read the message two more times. I breathe deeply, evenly as I picture Brooke admiring the tent pitched in the corner of my room.
By the window, obviously. I’d like her to see the stars.
She climbs in excitedly and tugs on my hand. We tumble down together onto the soft, billowy sleeping bag and clutch at each other. Clothes are stripped. I taste her skin, nuzzling my mouth between her legs. My hands fit to her curves, squeezing her hips, her breasts. She explores my body with her eyes and wild touch, dragging her nails across my back, arching off the floor and writhing against my tongue.
Our wanting is vigorous. Our desire frenzied.
I fall back onto the bed, closing my eyes and reliving that moment as if it were real.
As if it still could be real.
BROOKE
After my emotional collapse in the middle of the city, I leave Mason on the sidewalk and hurry to my car.
I just want to keep to myself the rest of the day. I need space to think, to get a hold on things. Calm the fuck down and breathe a little.
If I had any sick leave left, which I don’t, thanks to my bout of pneumonia this past winter, I would fake an illness and head home instead of back to the bakery.