We are two ballerinas tiptoeing around one another.
Even worse, when I slip into the guest room, making less noise than a mouse, I spot the glass of water and book he’s left on my nightstand and I sigh. While I was working out a way to shimmy through the bathroom window and escape into the night, Lucas was worried about my hydration and—dammit, the book is a psychological thriller, my favorite genre.
Lucas, you manipulative, adorable asshole.
Chapter Twenty-THREE
The next day, Lucas and I are actors, doing our best impressions of adults cohabitating. He’s flipping pancakes when I walk out of the guest room. I take in the glorious, bare-chested sight of him pouring more batter into the skillet. It’s a materialization of a dream every woman has had at least once.
We arrive to work early and divvy up the patients without any arguments. Dr. McCormick is impressed and he says so. Of course, he doesn’t know I’m currently shacked up with Lucas, but I don’t really see the utility in telling him so.
After work, we leave the practice and stroll across the street to Lucas’ apartment while discussing dinner possibilities. I’m hoping for pasta and Lucas was planning on grilled salmon, but he’s willing to oblige me. We trot upstairs and he unlocks the door to his loft.
After I’ve changed out of my work clothes, we uncork a reasonably priced bottle of wine, put the spaghetti on to boil, and take seats on opposite ends of the couch to flip through the month’s medical journals. Lucas subscribes to all the best ones and I tell him so.
“You really can’t put a price on continuing education,” he replies.
“Indubitably.”
“Besides, the subscriptions are tax-deductible.”
Look at us discussing taxes and not having wild bouts of hate sex.
“What a savvy businessman you are.” I’m not even being sarcastic. “Could you pass the wine?”
Instead of passing me the bottle, he tops off my glass and then his own. The bottle is empty and we are still adults cohabitating.
“If you’d like, I could make the pasta sauce,” I suggest, standing with my wine.
“Wonderful.”
While I pull ingredients out of his refrigerator and pantry, Lucas turns on music. It’s cool jazz. Neither of us are actual aficionados, but in this fantasy, we are.
Lucas surprises me by sliding up behind me, offering to help with the sauce. It’s not long before he wraps his arms around my middle and spins me around.
“Let’s pause on dinner for a second.”
“Oh dear, the sauce will burn with talk like that!” I say in an overdone 1950s housewife impression.
He laughs under his breath and tilts my head back to gain access to my neck. He kisses the sensitive little area just beneath my chin.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he swears.
I bat at his chest and pretend to put up a fight, but it’s clear that our performance art piece is quickly becoming a porno.
I hop up, wrapping my legs around his midsection. He steps toward our previous spot on the kitchen island, and I reprimand him.
“Lucas, for God’s sake, the couch this time. I have bruises from the granite.”
I want to lie back and feel his weight on top of me. He carries me there and we tumble down. In seconds, his medical journals are tossed to the ground, crumpled in a heap. His foot collides with his phone and it crashes to the floor. The sound of soft jazz is cut off.
After our fast and dirty pre-dinner romp, we drop the phony act. Instead of swirling wine and discussing international trade deals, we eat soggy pasta with runny sauce while we flip through TV channels, never quite agreeing on what to watch.
“So what do you watch up here when you’re all alone?” I ask.
“Mostly the news, or ESPN.”
“Wooooow, talk about a shocker. Put it on HGTV—I think Fixer Upper is on.”
“How many times can you watch Joanna Gaines say ‘French doors here’ and ‘Put a beam on it’ before it gets old?”
Before I can answer Lucas with How dare you insult Jo, my phone rings.
I stand to answer and eye him with disdain.
“H. G. T. V. Just do it.”
By the time I reach my room, the call clicks over to voicemail, and I hit play once my door is closed.
“Daisy! It’s Damian. How’s it going? It’s been forever. I’m not surprised to get your voicemail now that you’re a big important doctor, but whenever you get the chance, give me a call back. I have an interesting proposition, something I really think you’re going to want to hear.”
Damian is my oldest friend from college; we met during orientation at Duke. Yes, there was a brief romance, but it was far more friendly than amorous. According to Damian, he has that fleeting relationship to thank for discovering he wasn’t bi after all, just regular ol’ gay. At the time, I didn’t know whether to be offended or amused, so I just congratulated him on his self-discovery and we’ve gone on as friends ever since.