Oh God…last night.
I rubbed my throbbing temples as thoughts of last night replayed in my mind. What on earth was I thinking? What were we thinking? I rubbed the pad of my thumb against my lips, remembering the feel of Porter’s lips on my own. Once we caught our groove, our tongues and lips met, touching, moving, and teasing as if they’d known each other’s landscapes for years. Decades even. A kiss like that, where two people melt into each other, isn’t just happenstance. I’m not one to believe in soul mates, destiny, and all that nonsense. Well, not anymore. History has proven that a kiss that good, that amazing, could only bring me heartache in the end.
I threw myself back onto the bed and felt something poking me in my back. Remembering, I threw Big Papi on the floor. I sat up, my head now ringing like a cathedral bell. You’re no longer twenty-one, Ari. I needed coffee. An IV of it preferably.
As I staggered around the kitchen, the chime of the doorbell startled me, nearly sending my coffee cup flying. Who on earth could it be this time of…？ I looked at the time on the coffeemaker. It was nearing early afternoon. I was so hungover from liquor and orgasms that my agenda was escaping me. I wasn’t expecting anyone, was I? What if it was Porter? What if he wanted to finish what he started? My heart began to pound as loudly as my head, both sounds melding into a syncopated thump.
I walked to the front door and looked out the peephole. It was Mr. George, my lovely contractor, holding some blueprints and what looked like wood. Thank God! I looked at myself in the mirror next to the door. I tightened my fluffy robe around my waist, brushed my hair back and flicked the crusty boogers out of the corners of my eyes.
“Hey, Mr. George…did we have a meeting today?” I asked as I opened the door.
Mr. George walked in and politely put on his boot covers. “Yes, Ms. Ari. We did. Remember? I wanted to show you some more ideas for the master bath and some wood samples. Just got in some nice ones for the laundry room cabinets.”
I slapped my hand to my head, signaling my forgetfulness. I was supposed to meet him after choir practice. I ushered Mr. George into the kitchen and offered him a seat at the island. Mr. George was a short, graying-at-the-temples, man from Ecuador who had come to this country with five dollars and a dream, eventually building a multimillion-dollar renovation business alongside his wife. He was so well-known that the popular home improvement television networks had offered him a show. But, as he always recalled when telling the story, he turned them down because he’s about the work, not the fame. Network show or not, Flores Construction and Renovation was still famous in the city for their beautiful restoration work of craftsman style homes like mine. Now that he was a widower, Mr. George put all his energy into work. Sometimes, I would catch him looking at a photo of his wife on his cell phone and my heart would ache. Maybe someday someone would look at an old photo of me that way.
Sitting at the island that Mr. George had beautifully crafted, we both smelled the coffee that was finally finished brewing and smiled at each other. Without a word, I took down a cup for Mr. George, pouring him a generous amount. He hummed, “Hmmm… Café Bustelo?” I nodded, knowing that it was his favorite and mine too. I went to the fridge, retrieved the half-and-half, and pulled the raw cane sugar out of the pantry. Along with a spoon and napkin, I sat all of this on the island in front of George, who looked up from his iPad with concern.
“Rough morning, Ms. Ari?” he asked as he poured a little cream into his coffee and stirred. I noticed that he always made his coffee the exact shade of his forearm.
“More like rough night,” I answered as I poured too much cream and spooned an unhealthy amount of sugar into my cup. Clearly, I looked crazy; I hadn’t bothered to run a brush through my hair, I was in an old, fuzzy robe, and raccoon rings of mascara were around my eyes. My stomach rumbled with discomfort, signaling I needed to consume a little more than overly sweetened caffeine. I went to the bread box on the counter and selected two slices of raisin bread, placing them in the toaster. I leaned against the counter to wait.
“Well, I won’t be long, Ms. Ari.” George rolled out the blueprints and pulled out his iPad. “Listen, I know you’re sure of what you want. But I think we can do a tub and the shower you want in the master.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what would I have to lose to get this, Mr. George?”
The handsome gentleman gave me a sly smile. “Just a little closet space.”
I shook my head. “No way, Mr. George. I need the extra closet space. Have you seen all my shoes? You know better than to ask a woman to give up closet space.”