Georgie, All Along (66)
*
FOR A WHILE, we both sleep.
At first Levi says he doesn’t ever sleep during the day; in one of those infinite storytelling moments I was hoping for, he confesses a months-long bout with insomnia a few years ago that made him vigilant about sleep hygiene. But in the end, he dozed off even before I did, his lids growing heavy as he stroked his fingers up and down my back. When I wake up an hour later, he’s still out—breathing like it’s a sleep, not a nap, and after years of having to catch the tiniest slices of rest in the rare empty spaces of Nadia’s relentless schedule, I know the difference.
I won’t let him sleep for long, not after he told me about the insomnia, but I’m grateful for this moment of privacy, because I can’t believe how I feel. The first thing is my body, which is summertime tired, sunshine and being in the water tired, warm and well used. The second thing, the more noticeable thing, is my mind. It’s clear but not blank, excited but not restless.
Hank taps his way into the bedroom, looking curious, and then he comes to my side of the bed, resting his chin on the mattress and giving me his big dog-breath smile. It’s a little gross, but it’s also adorable, and I wonder if he wakes Levi up this way every morning. I slowly raise my hand and press a finger against my lips, as though Hank understands the human gesture for Shh, then I gently disentangle myself from beneath Levi’s arm. Hank wags but stops panting, as though he’s understood me, and when I stand, I remember that my dress is in a heap on Levi’s dock and my bra and underwear are still pretty wet. I grab a hoodie that’s hanging from a hook on Levi’s closet door, pulling it on and cursing my height as I zip it up. I wish it fell a bit farther down my thighs.
Hank follows me into the hall, and I quietly close the door behind me. I know it’s near his usual dinnertime, and he doesn’t make me work to figure it out—he muscles me with his flank toward the bin beside the fridge that holds his kibble. I do my best to follow the routine I’ve seen Levi do before: wait until Hank sits, get his food in the bowl, tell him, “Go ahead, pal,” in the same way Levi does. I know it’ll take a while for him to eat, so I get myself a glass of water and start taking in every detail of this house I can see without doing any real snooping.
Of course, it’s clean in a way that makes me think Levi probably found my parents’ house overwhelming, but it’s not sterile, either. In fact, it’s cozy—vacation-cabin cozy, in a way that’s got my brow furrowing in confusion. I don’t see how this could be the same house that didn’t even have running water a few days ago, unless Levi’s been lax about that sleep hygiene thing since the night he left me. In the galley kitchen, there’s open shelving, ivory dinnerware stacked tidily, occasionally separated by a few colorful hardback cookbooks, everything vegetarian. In the small living room, on the other side of the main kitchen counter, there’s a plush, deep couch that actually has throw pillows. Opposite that, there’s a TV on the wall, flanked by bookcases, and I wander over, tugging the hoodie down as best I can as I go.
It’s not only books on these shelves; it’s decoration, too—a few framed landscape shots of the river, a small wooden carving of a canoe, a glass paperweight in the shape of a bird in flight. I hate to generalize, but every guy’s house I ever went to in LA that was even halfway curated either had a decorator or a girlfriend, and I’m surprised by how much I hate the thought of Levi having recently had the latter.
“Hey,” comes his voice from behind me. The way I startle and shove down the hem of his hoodie absolutely makes it look like I was snooping.
“Sorry!” I say, turning to face him. “I was waiting for Hank to finish eating.”
“That’s okay.” His hair looks bonkers, his beard flatter on one side than the other. He’s wearing a pair of soft, loose pants and a gray T-shirt. He crooks a small smile and says, “It’s not like I chained you up in there.”
I raise a teasing eyebrow, making a big show of taking a step back when he starts to come toward me. “Is that something you’re into?”
He backs me against the bookcase, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the bare skin on my neck left exposed by the not-all-the-way-zipped hoodie.
“I’m more of a rope guy,” he mutters, nipping my skin softly, and I’m pretty sure he’s teasing me back, but my nipples tighten anyway.
He keeps his head bent, inhaling me, humming in the back of his throat.
“Thanks for feeding Hank.”
I raise a hand, rubbing it through the mess of his hair. “You were out.”
He nods and lifts his head, looks down at me. “Don’t think I’ve slept all that well since I met you.”
“You’re great at compliments.”
“I had to think of the most boring shit to keep from going into your parents’ room at night and waking you up. Old church sermons. Golf. Building permits. Anything.”
I laugh, and he kisses me. Swallowing my laugh all up.
“I like your place,” I whisper, when he lifts his head again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s cozy.”
“I was putting it back together for you. Before I asked you to come over, I mean. Hoping you’d come over.”
“I like it,” I repeat, but I don’t mean the house this time. I mean that I like what he said, that he made all this effort. Levi Fanning abandoning his sleep hygiene all for me.