Long Ball(57)

I wait until he grabs his underwear and is outside the door before moving, snatching up my bra and the cutest t-shirt that hasn’t been packed yet, and rooting around for a pair of shorts, trying to move quickly to outrun any thoughts of regret or responsibility on my way through my apartment.

I get to the bathroom just as he’s exiting, and duck under his arm. “My turn!” I firmly close the door and lean against it for a second, knowing I’m being coy, but unable to stop myself. I need a minute to myself to calm my racing heart.

What’s he going to be like now that we’ve…been together? Stop overthinking it, Rachel. It’s a one-night stand. The less time we spend together, the better; there’s less chance of complications that way. Besides, he’s just some tough rocker wannabe. Who cares what he thinks?

My eyes are wild in the mirror, shining like they’re lit from within. My skin’s flushed and rosy, but it makes me look like I’m gently glowing instead of blotchy and red, lips sensually puffy from his kisses. The only disaster is my hair, heading towards rat’s nest chic, but I wet my hands and finger-comb it.

What a way to get a makeover. After a few minutes, I’m ready to head back out. Time to face the music.

“What’s this?” I gesture at the sheet he’s spread out on the living room floor and covered with a few dishes.

“Hey.” He grins at me, looking way too good in just his boxer briefs. “Carpet picnic.”

“I haven’t got much in the way of food.”

“You’re telling me.” He kneels on one edge of the sheet. “Luckily, I’m king of impromptu snacking. Have a seat.”

I can’t decide how I feel about this picnic idea. On the one hand, it would be easier to deal with the after awkwardness if he went on his way. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m ready for him to leave.

The second hand wins out. I sit cross-legged opposite him on the sheet, and accept the plate he hands me. “So, what’s this?”

“Peanut butter and olive cracker sandwiches.”

“Uh.” I poke at it. “Do I get a pass?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” His voice lowers an octave and he holds a tiny sandwich to my lips. “Open.”

Oh, boy, I learned that lesson tonight. I open my mouth to let him feed me. Salty, silky, tanginess erupts across my tongue. The cracker gives it a crunch that takes the edge off what would be an off-putting texture.

He winks and snaps into one himself.

I lick my lips. “It shouldn’t work, but it does.”

“Right?” He nods at the apartment, pretty much devoid of everything except cardboard columns. “You weren’t kidding about the boxes. He nods at the apartment, pretty much devoid of everything except cardboard columnWhen do you move, again?”

“Sunday, but the movers come Saturday to get everything. I’ll probably spend the night in a hotel by the airport.”

“You don’t seem that jazzed about it.”

“Moving universally sucks.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “But you’re moving to your dream job. I’d have thought you’d be a little…perkier.”

“It’s not my dream job.”

“So why do it?”

I slowly savor another cracker sandwich to stall for time. Talking about my new, refined life with the tattooed stranger I just slept with is surreal. Then again, he’s safer because he has no idea who anyone in the situation is, and he has no emotional stake in it—unlike Alex or my father. If I dared, I could tell him all of it.

But I don’t dare. I’m a different person tonight—with him—but not that different. So I stick with my stock answer. “It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.”

“I hear that. You just don’t seem like the type of person who does anything she doesn’t want to do.”

Mirth pulls at my lips. “That’s a pretty accurate assessment.” I wash my bite down with a glass of cran-grape juice that’s unexpectedly sweeter and fizzy, and throw him a questioning glance.

“Snack voodoo.” His eyes twinkle in a way that makes my stomach flutter. “I mixed a can of sprite with the juice to give it a little personality.”

“Are you a chef?”

“No.” He drags out the word, seeming amused at my guess.

“Hmm. Then tell me, Dylan-is-not-a-chef, how did you become so skilled in the art of making something from nothing?”

“Well.” He considers, and I wonder if he’s imagining opening up to me the same way I was imagining opening up to him. “I suppose I learned out of necessity. I grew up without much.”

I swallow, hard. It’s an awfully personal statement and seems more intimate than anything we’ve done. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, but his posture is tenser than before—this isn’t something he’s over. “It was just my mom and me. Dad left when I was a kid.”

I look around the room and see the evidence of my privilege all around me. Even with most of my belongings packed away, it’s evident. The number of boxes I have. The quality of this blanket we’re lying on. The apartment itself is luxury. It’s suddenly embarrassing.

“That sucks.” I don’t know what else to say. I feel off-balance having a heart-to-heart with this man. I’m afraid of what words I’ll end up sharing in return.