Meyer: I get it now. Why people say they抮e so happy they can抰 stand it, or something抯 so great it抯 disgusting. I feel like I might need to be tranquilized.
My feet flutter kick against the footrest as a terrible squeal-sigh pinwheels through me.
Me: I was just thinking the same.
When I walk through his front door later, to him in a pale gray tux, the lapels a navy velvet blue, my dress draped over the couch and waiting for me, it抯 too much to resist.
揙kay, we can抰 fuck up this,?I gesture to my face and hair even as I抦 sliding down his zipper. He smiles and laughs before he spins around a dining chair and falls into it, slacks pooling at his ankles. I strip off my pants all the way as he shirks his jacket. He eyes me hungrily as he loosens his tie, braces his hands on his thighs and watches me quickly undress. He doesn抰 bother with removing my underwear, just mutters a low curse when he sees the lingerie and reaches for me, hooks them to the side as I straddle his lap and sink down onto him.
It抯 torturous, the not kissing. Not tugging into each other抯 hair, simply watching each other抯 expressions, watching where our bodies meet and slide. Trying to come undone while staying so very put together adds a sharp edge to it that rapidly gets difficult to skate. My feet won抰 reach the ground, so he抯 forced to bear the brunt of the work as he pumps and pistons me against him, working out a hypnotic rhythm. His chin dips as he slows, lifting me with a wicked, leisurely curl. 揟ouch yourself.?He quietly commands. And so I do, while he gazes at me intently. There抯 heat in it, and wonder, and agony, and love. A tear leaks out of my eye when I find my release, his lashes fan against his flushed cheeks when he does immediately after.
I make a note to remember how many times I feel beautiful with him tonight. Not only when he tells me that I am, repeatedly, but all the other moments in between. From fucking on that dining chair, to him zipping me into my silvery dress, sweeping the curtain of my hair over a shoulder and kissing the nape of my neck before we leave hand in hand.
When we smile easily and pose for photographs. Some together, others with Kara and Shauna. When we slip up the carpeted stairs inside the venue to our balcony seats where we watch Shauna抯 movie; me snort-laughing, Meyer letting out the occasional chuckle through his nose and shaking his head.
There抯 the moment he surprises a delighted shriek out of me when he hops gingerly onto the banister on our way out, sliding sideways with his arms in the air, feet kicked out for balance.
When we speed walk down the remaining stairs and out the doors, back to the car where we take turns pouring champagne directly into each other抯 mouths, spilling it and licking over the spots that grow sticky on our skin.
Later, in the bath together, with his chest pressed to my back and his beard scraping against the crook of my neck, forearms shifting across my middle while I grip the edges of the tub in ecstasy, his ministrations hidden beneath the bubbles. Afterwards, when he makes us pizza-dillas with pepperoni and mozzarella in tortillas. While I sit on the island in his tie and a fluffy robe, telling him stories about when Marissa and I first moved to L.A., him contributing his own ramen-noodle-day tales, in turn.
We almost miss our plane the next morning. Neither of us remembers to charge our phones, which means we oversleep and I hold us up even more as I shove everything back into my suitcase in a palpable panic. Meyer nearly gives himself an aneurysm over not saying I told you so since he tried to pack for me last night. I think he might be really angry with me, and I mentally draw out all my apologies while we jog through all the jog-able parts of the airport.
But then, when we finally manage to scramble into our seats, the last two passengers to board, I notice that he抯 wearing mismatched shoes at the same time he finds a false eyelash stuck to the side of my neck, and we laugh until we cry and gasp, when a flight attendant has to come calmly ask us to please try to quiet down. We spend the short flight avoiding eye contact so we don抰 burst into any more giggle fits.
The next week passes in this special brand of domestic bliss. Our own version of it; between a plane, a tour bus, and more hotel rooms.
It feels exactly like you抎 think. Like being at overnight camp with your best friend who also happens to supply you with mind-bending orgasms.
I go out on stage two more times, and I feel?fearless about it. Relaxed. It feels as good and as fulfilling as the high I remember, and I have no doubt that this is because he抯 by my side.
There is only one more show for me on this mini tour, though, and it抯 also the same day that Meyer leaves to go back to retrieve Hazel from Ohio. I promise him that I抦 fine, and I think I truly mean it. It feels like all my pieces have settled into place, and I抳e got the set memorized down to the word and each facial expression now, honed to sharp perfection.
Meyer抯 hovering, though. Worried. There抯 a weird, melancholy layer in his words like his mind is elsewhere or churning on more, no matter how I reassure him.
揓onesy??He calls to me now from somewhere inside the room.
揙ut here!?
I smile up at him in his towel when he walks through the door. 揓esus, aren抰 you cold?!?
揘ot for long.?He smirks before he slips behind me on the lounge chair and cradles me against him.
We sit together quietly this way for awhile, sharing the same glass of wine while we look out at the Golden Gate Bridge from a hotel balcony in Nob Hill. And I don抰 know why, but my brain can抰 seem to help it: I start to think that maybe this is all too good to be true. How does one person get this lucky in life? To do something big that fills them with such incredibly overwhelming feelings, with their best friend梑est love梐longside. Something that takes them so many places in front of so many faces. And yet, the view that far outshines them, the faces that I love more than anything, that fill me with the the biggest feelings of all, also exist with me the most quietly. I pull Meyer抯 arms tighter around me.
揂re you packed? You know, you shouldn抰 put that off until the last second. Just a pro tip for you.?I knock on his forearm with my knuckles.
揌a. You don抰 say? Yes, I抦 packed,?he kisses my temple.
揂re you梐re you okay??I ask after a bit.
He sighs. 揧es. I just need to talk to you about something and I抦 being an idiot about it.?
揜eally??I whip around, but can barely make out his eyes even with the city lights shining. 揕et抯 go inside.?
He shuffles around the room a bit, picking up odds and ends. Plugs in his phone with a meaningful look and a halfhearted grin my way.
揗eyer. You抮e scaring me. Come talk to me, please.?I flip over the corner of the comforter and pat the empty spot at my side.
He nods and removes his towel, the dim lighting making the umbrella appear black and white. He slides in beside me and I start to trace it with my fingertips.
揊ee,?more sighs. 揑 was thinking?I know the tour is going to be great. I know it.?I still my fingers and frown up at him.
揑 know that, too,?I say, and that makes him blow out a breath with a nod. 揥e抳e got each other抯 backs. Just like we have from day one, yeah??I add with what I hope is a reassuring smile. His eyes round for the blip of a second, and I almost think I抳e said the wrong thing?But then he smiles back, his fullest one.
揧es. Of course.?
揑s that what you wanted to talk to me about? Again??I nudge him with my elbow.
He shakes his head and his brow furrows. 揗ove in with me? Would you梬ould you want to live with Hazel and I??