A few chores around the house keep me busy for a while. Dishes. Some routine cleaning and tidying upstairs. Sorting a month’s worth of junk mail. Litter boxes. Topping off water dispensers for both animals. Ian and I keep the place pretty neat, though, and our animals are relatively low maintenance, so there’s only so much to do unless I want to start pressure-washing the driveway or something.
It does kill some time, though. Once I’m done, I park on the couch to catch up on some Walking Dead. Can’t exactly watch that with Ian around. Ariel jumps up beside me, flops down and rests her head on my leg. Rosie sits on the back of the armchair, peering down at us.
For the next couple of hours, I lose myself in watching a bunch of allegedly intelligent people routinely paint themselves into corners and fall victim to zombies. Ian’s probably right that it’s a stupid show, and I can’t get through an episode without at least one facepalm and a muttered “Are you kidding me?”, but it’s entertaining as hell. And Daryl’s hot, which makes up for pretty much everything.
Halfway through the sixth episode of the evening, my phone vibrates. A million imaginary texts flood my mind, and for the two seconds it takes me to get the phone from the coffee table and look at the screen, I’m suddenly and irrationally convinced that every possible worst case scenario is taking place.
But Ian’s name comes up, followed by: On my way home.
All the worry vanishes in favor of the fluttery, giddy feeling I used to get when we were dating. When he’d text me to let me know he was heading over to my apartment, and I’d start counting down the minutes until he was there. Because I knew exactly how long it took for him to get from his place to mine, just like I know down to the nanosecond how long it takes to get here from Michael’s.
Maybe I left a chore or two undone. There’s got to be something I can do for the next forty-seven minutes.
I look at the TV screen. This episode is halfway over, but that’ll kill at least some of the time. Hmm.
I click off the DVR to see what’s on TV. After flipping through a few channels, I land on a baseball game. It’s in the fourth inning, so he’ll be home long before it’s over. And at least it isn’t football. I kind of know what’s going on.
But holy shit, boring. Forget it.
I turn off the TV completely and start playing games on my phone instead. Just as I hoped, they hold my attention, and before I know it, Ariel’s head snaps up, making her tags jingle. A second later, the garage door rumbles to life, and Ariel is off the couch, bounding toward the door.
It’s just as well she has no dignity and does the running, jumping and barking. At this point, it’s either her or me.
Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me? He’s been gone a few hours.
Having sex with another man.
Having sex with Michael.
Just like I’ve been doing for weeks.
Then Ian steps into the foyer. Ariel goes crazy—I know the feeling, sweetheart—so he crouches down to pet her and at least try not to get whipped in the face by that tail. Meanwhile, I sit up but don’t stand yet. Can’t look too eager, right?
Get a grip, idiot.
On the armchair, Rosie stretches and yawns, looking as indifferent as possible, then sits up and stares at Ian expectantly. When he’s done greeting the dog, he stands, and on his way to the couch, stops to pet her, and she bumps her head against his arm, purring loudly.
I shoot him my most pitiful expression. “So I’m third in line?”
“Hardly.” He rolls his eyes, sits beside me and puts an arm around my waist. “But I have to appease them so that when I say hello to you…” He draws me in for a kiss, and it’s one of those deep, languid kisses that turns my brain to mush. When our lips separate, he finishes: “…we don’t get interrupted.”
“G-good point.”
“So.” He winks. “Hello.”
We both laugh, and he kisses me again, briefly this time.
“So, um.” I clear my throat. “How was he? I mean, how was it? The night. With Michael.”
Ian chuckles and touches my cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, you know that?”
“Flustered. I’m—”
“Yes, you are.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “And to answer your question, everything went fine.”
“It went fine?” I fold my hands in my lap because I can’t remember how to look casual. “It wasn’t a surgical procedure, Ian.”
He laughs nervously. “What do you want me to say? I had a great time, and I’m pretty sure Michael did too. There isn’t much more to tell.”
“You enjoyed yourselves, though, right?”
Color blooms in his cheeks, and he can’t quite look me in the eye. “We had a good time.”
“Ian?” I tip up his chin. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He kisses my hand, and this time he does meet my gaze. “I guess it’s just a little weird coming home from another guy’s bed. Even his.”
“Tell me about it.”
He’s about to say something, but Rosie picks that moment to stomp across me and flop down in Ian’s lap.
I chuckle. “Somebody missed you tonight.”
He scratches her tummy. “How badly did she terrorize you?”
“She only bit me once.”
“She bit you?” He eyes me. “What did you do?”
“Told her she couldn’t sit on the kitchen counter.”
“What?” He wags his finger at her. “What have I told you, kitty?”