Great Big Beautiful Life(80)

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had one,” I confess. I just happened to grab the ingredients in my last-minute grocery run.

“Do you think that eating these is a betrayal of Margaret?” he asks, and I try to subdue my surprise that he’s mentioned her.

“Why would it be?” I ask.

“Peanut butter banana,” he says. “That was Elvis’s thing, right? Not Cosmo’s.”

“True,” I allow, “but I don’t think Cosmo Sinclair had a famous sandwich of choice. And aside from that, I doubt they were ever enemies. I think the media just loved to speculate about that.” My eyes cut back to him. “Unless she’s told you otherwise?”

He gives me a sly, slightly disapproving look.

“Oh, come on,” I say, lightly shoving his shoulder. “You’re the one who brought her up.”

He sets his sandwich down on the plate beside his knee, keeping his eyes on it as he chews. “So now that we’ve been here longer, does anything about this job seem…weird to you?”

“How so?” I ask.

He drinks some water before meeting my eyes. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

I remember what she said—that he was basically an animated suit of armor—and debate telling him, but that seems like crossing a line, different than talking generally about our time together.

“I think it’s a little strange that she’s making us audition like this, but she’s not very trusting, and I can understand why.”

“It’s not that, exactly,” he says, shaking his head, lips parting like the words are right there and he hopes they might spill out. “I guess I feel like she’s testing me. And I’m not sure how, or why. And maybe it really is just about choosing which one of us she’d rather work with, but I don’t know.”

“Well, in a week and a half, maybe we’ll know,” I say.

“Maybe,” he agrees, clearly unconvinced. “I meant what I said. I don’t have to do this. I can find a different book.”

I push my own plate aside and scoot forward against him, his arms wrapping tight around me. “I meant what I said too,” I say. “We’re in this situation because of her. Let’s let her choose how it ends.”

“If you change your mind,” he says.

I rest my head on his shoulder. “I won’t.”

He holds me a little more tightly, burrows his mouth against the crown of my head.



* * *



? ? ?

I stir awake on the couch to the sound of birds, but the room is mostly dark. It takes me a minute to remember why.

The storm.

The plywood window coverings.

Hayden.

There’s a soft clink in the kitchen, and I blink away the sleep in my eyes to see Hayden putting a mug in the dishwasher. On the table beside the couch, the lamp has turned on at some point, the electricity evidently restored.

Hayden catches me watching him. “Hey,” he whispers.

It feels like my heart is splitting open in a smile. “Hey.” Despite his size, his footsteps are nearly silent as he crosses back toward me. “Leaving?” I murmur.

“Storm’s over, so my interview’s back on.” He crouches in front of me, his hand palming the entire right side of my head, like the basketball player he never was. “Go back to sleep.”

He leans forward and kisses me once on the lips, my eyes drooping shut, like if I can’t see him leave, maybe it won’t happen.

I listen as he approaches the front door, then give in, slitting one eye open as he turns back, his hand on the knob. “See you tonight?” he asks.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” I joke. “Don’t want to forget anyone’s half birthday party.”

“No, never,” he agrees.

“Tonight,” I say.

He opens the door, and another beautiful day of Georgia sunshine pours in around him.

He looks like an angel. I mumble something along those lines and then close my eyes and let sleep pull me down into itself.



* * *



? ? ?

When I next wake up, with a crick in my neck and sweat coating my skin, light is spearing into the room. I sit up, bleary eyed, and nearly scream when someone appears in the window directly across from me.

It’s just the bearded maintenance guy from the rental company, prying the plywood off the windows. He gives me a cheery wave, and when I return it, he flashes me a thumbs-up.

For some reason, I return that too. Then he goes back to his work, his whistle mostly muted by the glass between us.

I gather the blankets off the couch and carry them back into the bedroom, my stomach flipping at the smell of almond caught in the sheets. Last night we’d drifted off together on the couch, and twice we’d woken up already moving together in our sleep, then kissed and touched each other until we were shaking with need, only to eventually, against all odds, fall asleep again.

Or I did anyway. Hopefully Hayden did, or his full day of interviewing will be grueling.

I toss the blankets back onto the bed and grab a change of clothes before heading into the bathroom for a shower.

Afterward, hair combed and sunscreen on, I make a cup of coffee and take it out front. The maintenance guy has left, and out on the driveway, two trash barrels are stuffed with fallen branches and debris from the storm, including one of the bungalow’s shutters, which looks like it ripped off and broke in half at some point in the chaos.