The Ex Talk(64)

Last night might have been the hottest night I’ve had in a long time, maybe ever, and it’s been a while since I slept this soundly. And yet . . . waking up alone makes the whole thing feel dreamlike. Distant.

But I can’t forget what he said about personal and intimate and the possibility that this meant something to him, even if I can’t quite unravel what it means to me.

I hear distinctly breakfast-like noises from the kitchen, and then some of Steve’s little snerfling sounds. I put on a hoodie and meet them there.

Dominic’s standing beside the stove, fully dressed and freshly showered, moving a pan from a burner to the sink. I don’t know if he forgot a razor or didn’t bring one on purpose, but the scruffiness makes me itch to run my hands over his face again. Except it’s been a while since I navigated a post-hookup breakfast, and I’ve never done it with a coworker.

I’m unsteady on my feet as I reach the table.

“Morning,” Dominic says, sounding much too chipper. “Pancakes?”

And there they are, a stack of blueberry pancakes, a pot of coffee, and two plates.

“You made pancakes?” I bend down to scratch Steve behind the ears.

“I’ve been up for a couple hours,” he admits. “Ran out to the store to get a few things. And I took Steve out. Hope that’s okay. I wanted us to get an early start, if possible.” As he says this, he glances pointedly at my pajamas.

I pause halfway to the bottle of syrup. He made pancakes, which feels like a point in the let’s-do-this-again-soon column. But he wants to get back to Seattle as soon as we can, which doesn’t. I’m not sure how to reconcile those two things. “Oh—yeah, that’s fine. Thank you. I’ll shower and pack as soon as we finish.”

He smiles, but it’s a little strained, and it makes the sugary breakfast turn to chalk in my mouth. Is that . . . regret?

The things he said to me last night don’t match up with that smile. You have no idea how hot you are. I want you to come with me. A tangle of sighs and limbs and desperation.

I’m suddenly not hungry, but I force down as many bites of pancake as I can.



* * *



—

We talk about nearly everything else on the ride back—podcasts, our families, the weather. But we don’t talk about what happened. I could easily bring it up—nice orgasms last night, huh?—but if I do, and if he tells me it was some kind of extended experiment brought about by our predicament, I’m not sure I could handle it. Not while trapped in a car with him. Not when we finally feel like friends. I’d rather hold on to the maybe, so I embrace the silence.

By the time we stop outside his place, I have two and a half hangnails and a raging stress headache. The street is only half-familiar, like I visited it in a dream, but I’m able to spot Dominic’s apartment right away, tucked between the columns of identical buildings.

He unbuckles his seat belt, but he doesn’t move to get out. “Hey,” he says, and I turn to look at him, my heart pounding against my own seat belt. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

I do my best to project an everything-is-fine tone. “Yep. Bright and early.”

And then, in one swift motion, he leans over and slides a hand into my hair, dragging my mouth to his. The kiss starts out sweet until I part my lips, eager to taste more of him. He matches me, pressing back with an urgency that leaves me gasping for air.

A crooked smile, and then he’s gone, the kiss convincing me that whatever we started on the island wasn’t done yet.



* * *



—

“Something happened,” Ameena says, and it’s a good thing I didn’t go into broadcast journalism because my face is utterly incapable of keeping a secret. My mouth twitches, or my nostrils flare, or my eyes dart back and forth.

It was early afternoon when Dominic and I got back to Seattle, so when Ameena texted about an estate sale, I jumped at the chance to meet her. And when she asked how it went, I couldn’t keep a straight face.

“Something definitely happened,” TJ agrees, holding up a pillowcase with a clown embroidered on it.

“Absolutely not,” Ameena says, and he slowly sets it down.

I walk to the end of a row of kitchenware. Of course, it reminds me of the antique shops we went to, and I find myself wondering if there’s any cast-iron here.

“Fine, fine, something happened, and I am maybe in the middle of a crisis,” I say, and I try my best to put it all into words. Not just the parts that involved no clothes, but our conversation Friday night, and the hike, and the way he held my dog. After five years, I’ve gotten used to telling Ameena about my relationships with TJ around, which of course means TJ also knows Dominic and I are lying about the show.

“You do have a thing for guys and animals,” Ameena muses. “Remember that guy Rodrigo and the kittens?”

Ah, yes: Rodrigo the data analyst, whose cat had just given birth to a litter of six little fluffballs. After a while, I had to admit I was more interested in cuddling with the kittens than with him.

“They couldn’t even open their eyes yet, Ameena. They couldn’t open their eyes.”

She snorts, pausing to dig through a box of shoes. This week she finds out about the Virginia job, and I can tell she’s on edge by the way she passes up a pair of yellow T-strap sandals.