When we’re both in a state of a food coma, we drag ourselves to the couch and continue watching RuPaul. I’m pleasantly surprised when Dom tells me he actually watches it every now and then. I guess we do have one thing in common.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Of course.” He hooks an arm around my shoulder, pulls me close, and kisses my head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because I’m not used to being happy. To celebrating holidays. To . . .”
“Living?” he finishes for me softly. “It’s okay, Lynne. I’m here to teach you. And I have all the time in the world.”
No one has all the time in the world, I think.
When Dom gets comfortable on the couch, I warn him that it is deeply contaminated with Colt’s and Nora’s bodily fluids.
“That’s nasty,” Dom says, lowering me against the cushions and kissing a path down my neck. “That all the memories on this sofa belong to Nora and Colt. How about we make new ones?” he suggests, pulling down my sweatpants, his grin lopsided, drowsy-eyed, and absolutely beautiful.
“Please. I have the belly of a six-month-pregnant woman.” I pat said stomach.
“So do I.” He does the same, his palm against his flat abs.
Minutes later, we are writhing on the couch, panting and grinding, seeking our release. Now I get it. Why Nora and Colt did it on the couch.
When you like someone, you want to leave footprints of your time together.
A few days later, when I sleep at Dom’s place, I wake up to a note. It’s stuck to the ship I bought for him, which he keeps on his nightstand.
Have an early shift.
Made you coffee. Seph texted that he has fresh scones.
Second floor. Apartment 294.
（you’re off doughnut duty today）
Love, D x.
I like that Dom is not afraid to remind me that he loves me, even though I haven’t said it back yet. I like that he puts me first. That he wants me to have fresh scones.
After plucking the note from the ship, I make my way to his bathroom and use the toothbrush he bought me. He keeps it in a drawer when I’m not here. I’m still wearing Dom’s white dress shirt. It reaches to the edge of my knees. I grab a mug from the row hanging by his sink and pour myself a cup. I open the fridge to get some cream and stop to check the magnet pictures on it, from hospital events. Dom looks happy in all of them. In one, he hugs a gorgeous blonde woman. It looks completely innocent, but it’s a reminder that Dom is not just my boyfriend; he is also a red-blooded, gorgeous man who is out and about in the world.
I decide that now would be a great time to meet the mysterious Seph.
Dom and I have been going out for a few weeks now, and other than my introducing him to Nora and Colt, we’ve been keeping our lives completely separate. Well, with me, it’s not really a choice. Nora and Colt are the only people I know in Salem. But Dom has an entire universe—a brother, parents, friends, aunts, uncles, college buddies, and a CrossFit team he meets every week. I tell myself that the fact I haven’t met them yet is a testament that he wants to spend alone time with me more than anything else. But sometimes I wonder.
I slip into my boots and take the elevator down to the second floor. Despite myself, I find that I’m a little nervous when I knock on Seph’s door. All I know of him is through Dom’s stories, and it’s all pretty intimidating. He is a dockworker. Sarcastic, wry, and not very social. I once asked Dom if Seph had a girlfriend, and his reply was: “He has many. But he doesn’t always remember their names.”
So, a real charmer, as you can see.
There’s no answer from the other side. I knock again, because, let’s be real here—fresh scones.
The door cracks open, whining as it slides an inch. I hear thuds of socked feet hitting a wooden floor behind it.
“Help yourself. I’m hopping in the shower,” a gruff voice instructs callously.
Okay, then. Feeling like an intruder, but not wanting to flee the scene, I push the door open and head for the kitchen. If apartments had personalities, Dom’s would be Mother Teresa and Seph’s would be . . . I don’t know, Genghis Khan?
Dom’s place is neat, minimal, organized, and clean. Seph lives in chaos. Cigarette butts overflow an ashtray on the wonky coffee table, and there’s an open can of baked beans with the spoon still inside. The few paintings in the apartment are resting against the walls, rather than hanging on them. There’s a mountain of laundry near the closed bathroom.
When I arrive at the kitchen, I spot another pile—this time of unwashed dishes. There’s also a basketful of scones. Pristine and inviting, like it has been photoshopped into this horror scene. I pick two, wrap them in a kitchen towel, and stand there, feeling like a useless piece of furniture.