Dreamland(69)

I didn’t ask the reason, if only because I already knew.

Our time together was quickly coming to an end.





Because I’d be working the following evening, I wanted our Friday night to be memorable. Doing some quick research on the internet, I was able to arrange for a private catamaran ride at sunset. I winced at the cost but tried to remind myself I only lived once.

I also planned to make her dinner afterward, which required yet another trip to the grocery store, as I wasn’t sure I trusted that the chicken I’d bought before the power outage would still be safe to eat. I also had to figure out a recipe that sounded good but was also supremely easy. In the end, I didn’t make it to the Don until half past eleven.

This time the group of friends was on the beach, and again, a chair for me had thoughtfully been placed beside Morgan’s. Though part of me considered inviting only Morgan on the catamaran, by then I’d come to like her friends and figured they’d enjoy it, too. Their excitement at the prospect was even greater than I expected, however—they kept mentioning how much they were looking forward to it, which earned some grateful expressions from Morgan, as well.

She and I wandered off for lunch together alone. Afterward, we walked the beach and waded in the surf to cool off, and it was easy to imagine a life with her in the future, if only I had the courage to make it possible.

In late afternoon, they regrouped in their rooms to get ready; I did the same at the condo, then met them at the Don for the drive to the docks. Though I should have expected it, Morgan’s friends had their phones out and were taking selfies as soon as we stepped on board, prompting the occasional eye roll from Morgan. It wasn’t a huge vessel—I figured that it was comfortable for up to seven or eight guests—but the girls swooned over the fruit and cheese and complimentary champagne. Surprising me, even Morgan had some, and we all clinked glasses in celebration.

We left the dock and cruised along the waterfront; twice, we spotted dolphins trailing alongside the catamaran. The spectacular sunset somehow seemed closer when out on the water, as though we were actually sailing into it. With the wind in our faces, Morgan leaned into me, and I held her as we skimmed over the gentle waters. Her friends kept trying to get us to pose for photographs, too, but after a couple, Morgan shooed them away, trying her best to preserve the moment for just the two of us.

Once we were back onshore, the girls suggested that we head into downtown St. Pete. Though I offered to go with Morgan in case she wanted to join them, she shook her head and said she’d rather return to the condo with me.

In the small kitchen, Morgan watched while I preheated the oven and popped a couple of baking potatoes in; later I retrieved the marinating chicken breasts from the refrigerator, placing them on a baking sheet. I put them in the oven along with another foiled baking sheet bearing asparagus coated with olive oil and salt.

“I’m impressed,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t be. I googled it this morning.”

When I reached for the tomato to start slicing it for the salad, Morgan wrapped her arms around my waist from behind and kissed me behind my ear. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You can slice the cucumbers,” I said, reluctant to have her move away.

She went hunting in the drawers for a knife, then rinsed the cucumber under the faucet before returning to my side. She was smiling slightly, as though pondering an inside joke.

“What’s so funny?”

“This,” she said. “Cooking a meal with you. It feels so domestic, but I kind of like it.”

“Better than room service?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

I laughed. “Did you help your mom in the kitchen when you were growing up?”

“Not really. The kitchen was my mom’s place to relax. She’d have a glass of wine and turn on the radio and do her thing. My job—and my sister’s—was to clean up afterward. My mom hated the cleanup. I didn’t like it, either, but what could I do?”

The timer on my phone dinged, and I removed the potatoes and baking sheets from the oven. Surprising no one more than me, the chicken came out like the recipe said it should. After loading our plates, I brought them to the table along with the salad and a bottle of store-bought dressing. As soon as Morgan sat, she surveyed the table.

“This isn’t quite right,” she said.

She rose and did a quick circuit of the bedroom and living room, returning with the candles and the matches. After lighting the candles, she turned out the kitchen lights.

“Better, don’t you think?” she said as she resumed her seat.

The sight of her face in the candlelight triggered a memory of how she looked the night we’d first made love, and all I could do was nod.

Morgan genuinely seemed to love the chicken, eating two helpings in addition to half a baked potato and generous servings of salad and asparagus. After clearing the plates, Morgan surprised me by asking if there was any wine left over from the other night. Morgan brought the candles to the coffee table, and I took a seat beside her on the couch, glasses in hand. She was scrolling through the photos from the catamaran. I leaned over to study them, as well.

As pretty as Morgan was in person, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by how photogenic she was.

“Can you text me those?”