“I won’t!”
“Okay.” A long exhale, and then: “I haven’t been on a date in five years.”
I just stare. “Five . . . years?”
When he laughs, it’s a disbelieving, self-conscious kind of laugh. Like even he is shocked by it. “I know. At first, it was because Liv and I had broken up, and Elodie was still a child. And then moving to a new city . . . it was all so much. Eventually, I fell into my routines, and they didn’t end up including dating. The more time passed, the scarier it seemed to start trying again.”
My brain practically short-circuits with this information. Five years. Five years since he sat across from someone in a swanky restaurant and drank overpriced cocktails, since he saw a movie with a 65 percent on Rotten Tomatoes, hoped it would at least be decent, and was frustrated by how aggressively mediocre it was.
Five years since he kissed someone goodnight at the end of an evening, blood spiked with adrenaline, pulse hammering in his throat.
“Well, that’s it,” I say, trying to erase that mental image. “We’ll get Torrance and Seth back together, and then we’ll find you your first date in five years.”
He lifts an eyebrow, like this is a ludicrous proposition. “I’m so out of practice. I wouldn’t even know what to do.”
“That’s easy. You just say, ‘Hi, Ari Abrams, you look absolutely stunning in that sling. It really brings out your eyes. Do you want to have dinner with me?’？”
I might have a fever, and this time I’m certain it’s not a side effect of the medication. I hope he knows I’m joking. That I’m not actually encouraging him to ask me out.
At least, I think I hope so. Despite my New Year’s Eve resolution to start dating again, I’m unsure how to navigate a relationship post-Garrison, especially a relationship with a single dad.
“Good to know,” he says in this light, joking tone I’ve come to like quite a bit. “All the broken-armed women of Seattle aren’t ready for me to sweep them off their feet.”
We talk about Elodie, about his childhood in Michigan, about my brother, about my jewelry-making. Almost never about work, and it’s such a relief. Until the day takes its toll on me and I feel my eyes start to close.
Still, I don’t ask him to leave.
“You’re really good,” I say before I drift off. “You know that? I know any decent human wouldn’t have made me go to the hospital by myself, and maybe they would have made sure I had something to eat, but you’re just . . . a really good person.”
I’m not sure what it sounds like to hear someone smile in the dark, but that must be what he’s doing when I feel his hand on my shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth against my thin T-shirt as he tells me thank you in a soft, sleepy voice.
Yes, he’s good, it’s true—and yet when we’re close like this, when there’s only a fraction of space between my hips and his, I want to make him very, very bad.
14
FORECAST:
A treacherous morning commute leads to gloomy winter doldrums as the week wears on
THE FIRST THING Torrance wants to know is when I’ll be out of the sling.
The second is whether I’m okay.
“Fine,” I grit out as I reach for the basket of English muffins on the breakfast bar in the lodge’s dining room. If anything, the pain is sharper, more persistent than yesterday. The initial shock has worn off. I try to force my usual smile, but that must have fractured on my way down that fateful flight of stairs, too. “The doctor said a few weeks, but I’ll have a better idea once I see someone in Seattle.”
Torrance at least has the decency to realize she said something wrong, her features rearranging into what might be compassion. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked how you were doing first. I was just so shocked to see you like this!”
I had to sleep upright, my arm in its sling elevated on a pillow next to me, and when the pain jolted me awake around five a.m.—RIP my sleep schedule—I was even more shocked to discover Russell sleeping next to me. On top of the comforter, clothes still on, looking adorably rumpled. His glasses were on the bedside table next to him, and something about seeing them perched there made my heart twist.
It must have been uncomfortable, sleeping in his clothes, but he didn’t say anything, just ran a palm along his stubbled face, his other hand tripping along the bedside table until he found his glasses. Then he asked if I needed any help, and I told him I should be able to manage, mainly because I didn’t know if I could handle him undressing me again. I could barely handle the warmth of him in bed next to me.
I probably could have used the help, given that I nearly fell and broke my other arm in the shower. It took me ten minutes to put on a shirt and pants, after which I immediately needed to pee, and it took me another full minute to wiggle my jeans down my legs.
Torrance grabs my plate of food, and I mutter a thank-you as she helps me to a table. Then she and Seth return to a table by themselves, seemingly of their own volition, where Seth cracks a Canadian newspaper and Torrance scrolls through her tablet, leaving me wondering what the hell went on between the two of them last night.
It’s decided that it’s for the best if I head home early. Because I can’t drive myself, Russell volunteers to drive my car back with me, his hair shower-damp, wearing the same corduroy jacket he draped over my shoulders in the hospital yesterday.
“I hate to take you away from all of this,” I say. He just gives me this look, and I struggle to hold in a laugh.
Something changed between us last night, and whether we’re simply closer friends or poised on the verge of something more, it fills me with a buzzing energy I haven’t felt in a long time.
As he rolls his suitcase from the lobby to the car, Torrance gives me a subtle lift of her eyebrows. I glance away quickly.
The only hint at last night’s tension during the drive home is when the audiobook I narrowly avoided on the way up starts playing as soon as I plug my phone in to charge.
“He bent down to worship at the altar of her thighs. God help him, he was going to pleasure her tonight until both of them saw stars—”
“Please kill me,” I say, scrambling one-handed for my phone.
“Oh, uh—did you want to listen to an audiobook?”
I shut it off. “Nope. I do not.”
Though he laughs, I don’t miss the pink tint to his cheeks.
The trip home is pleasant enough, and here’s the Russell I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. Sure, we talk a little about Elodie, and about other topics we wouldn’t have been as open about during our first few meetings. But I want the Russell from last night, the one I can no longer pretend I don’t have feelings for, even if that still terrifies me.
I’ve never dated someone with a kid, and while of course he’s an independent person, capable of making his own decisions, Elodie changes things. After all, he said she’s the reason he hasn’t dated for a while.
Five years. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s been five years since he last had sex with someone. But it could . . . and I can’t say I wouldn’t love to be the person who ends that dry spell. Every so often, I glance at his hands on the steering wheel and remember them on my skin last night. If we slept together, I’d want to see him completely give in. Surrender. The opposite of the measured way he unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my bra.