She’s grinning. Her hair is half tucked into the neck of her jumper. Izzy always seems at home wherever she is, but right now she looks particularly comfortable. This is good. This is progress. When we’re in bed together, Izzy relaxes, but when we’re not, she’s usually wary, as if I’m about to sprout devil horns.
“What?”
“You just cannot handle messing anything up, can you?” she says, teasing.
I eye the lasagne. It is very dry and brown at the edges. Pedro’s oven must be more powerful than mine. Izzy starts to laugh.
“You are ridiculous. It’s a lasagne! Nobody cares.”
“I care,” I say. “I want you to have the best things.”
She sobers at that, looking at me, round-eyed.
“Lucas,” she says, softly now. “You can relax. It’s just me.”
It’s just me. Like she isn’t fucking everything.
“After all, what’s the point in having a fling with someone you don’t care about if you can’t let things hang a bit, you know?” she calls over her shoulder as she heads back inside. “Just enjoy the fact that you give no shits about what I think of you, and try not being perfect for once.”
I look back at the sky and then close my eyes as the caravan door swings shut behind her. Ai, porra. We’re getting absolutely nowhere.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
She doesn’t stay over at the caravan. I spend the whole next day fearful that I’ve scared her away, but then, at one minute past five, my phone buzzes, and my heart leaps in response, like Pavlov’s dog salivating. A message at this time almost always means the same thing. Come to mine later? it says.
I wolf down my dinner at home and check my reflection on my way out, trying not to notice the tension in my jaw. Every time we do this, things get better and worse all at once. There’s no way to argue that this is anything other than foolishness—I am clearly going to get hurt. I’m getting hurt already. And still I knock on her door, feeling that double kick in the gut when she opens it dressed in delicate, pale pink lingerie.
“You look incredible.” My throat is dry.
She blushes at the compliment; it touches her shoulders and throat, and I lift my hand to trace the heat on her skin, feeling her pulse quicken under my touch. She pulls me inside and into the bedroom, onto the covers, under them, into her, and just like every time, I let myself believe that she’ll ask me to stay the night.
Her phone rings when she’s close, almost there, sweat beading on the skin between her breasts. Her head is tipped back so I can see the full bareness of her throat. These moments are always the ones when I am most hopeful. When she comes apart in my arms, she’s absolutely herself, hiding nothing. If she’s ever going to really see me, then I sometimes think it’ll be in a moment like this, as we teeter, eyes locking, bodies letting go.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
And she does. The phone rings out, and she gasps against my lips just as I gasp against hers. She grips me so fiercely, and I hold her just as tightly, and for a moment I wonder if she might not want to let me go.
The phone rings again, and this time she groans, loosening her grip and rolling away to answer it.
“Grigg,” she says, reaching for her dressing gown. “Do you mind if I answer? You can just chill here if you want.” She hesitates. “Or go, if you’d rather . . .”
“I’ll wait,” I say quickly.
She disappears into the living area, then I hear the door to her spare room closing behind her. I look around her bedroom. I’ve never been in here without her before. The colour scheme matches the living area, and matches Izzy: soft pastels, faint polka dots, and fluffiness.
I catch sight of the bath through the bathroom door and wonder. There is no specific rule about baths, but running her one would feel like a step up from leaving the minute we’re done, and she did say I could stay here. What was her plan for afterwards?
I head into the bathroom. There is a gold-edged mirror above the basin, and make-up cluttered across the surfaces. I’m just turning on the taps when I hear her voice.
“The sex is incredible,” Izzy is saying.
It is almost perfectly clear through the bathroom wall, even with the water running. I retreat to the door after a split second’s hesitation, but then she says, “But I’ll never be his girlfriend, will I?”
I freeze. I can’t hear Grigg and Sameera’s response, just a tinny rattle of voices.
“I mean, the sex doesn’t really change anything. He’s still . . . Lucas. That guy.”