Page 4 of Your Every Wish
Emma
Dex is moving around his bedroom like a tornado. He’s always like that after sex. A twister with boundless energy. Almost manic.
“Come back to bed,” I plead, feeling immediately bereft of his body warmth.
“Emma, it’s five a.m. I’ve got to get to work, and you have to go.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Can’t we have breakfast together?” I sit up, clutching the blanket around my bare breasts. “I’ll make us biscuits and eggs. ”
“I don’t want biscuits and eggs. I want my bedroom back. Come on, it’s time for you to skedaddle.”
“Okay. But let me make the bed first.” I slide my legs out from beneath the covers and immediately regret it. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Then get dressed.”
I force myself out of bed and press my naked self against Dex. “Mmm, you’re nice and toasty.”
He squirms away. “Don’t you have that little column of yours you have to write?”
I pretend not to hear the condescension in his voice. Dex doesn’t approve of my job writing “Dear DilEmma Girl,” an advice column for the local paper. He thinks I’m woefully underpaid, which I am, and that I’m in no position to be doling out advice, which I’m probably not.
“My deadline isn’t until five.”
“Well, maybe if you get done early you can spend some time looking for a better job,” he says as I slip into the shirt he wore last night. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting dressed, like you told me to.”
“Uh-uh. That’s a two-hundred-dollar Façonnable. Here.” He reaches into a puddle of clothes on the floor and tosses me my blouse.
I finish getting dressed, and make Dex’s bed, tucking the top sheet underneath the mattress just the way he likes it.
Dex is in the kitchen, making one of his green protein shakes. His apartment is in a high-rise with big glass windows that look out over San Francisco Bay. From the living room you can see the Bay Bridge. I love to watch the boats with their billowing white sails glide along the water.
Everything is neat as a pin. Dex is kind of anal when it comes to cleanliness. No glasses in the sink or books off the shelf, or stray shoes on the floor. Everything is tucked away exactly where it’s supposed to be. He has a lady come twice a week to clean and is the only person I know who has a laundry service.
“Have you thought more about what we discussed last night?” I ask, running my hand through his hair. Dex has the best hair. It’s thick and a rich mahogany, more brown than red, and reminds me of fine antique wood.
“There’s nothing to think about. As I told you, it’s a bad idea, Emma.”
“It would only be for a few weeks. Just until I get my inheritance and have enough money for a first and last month’s deposit on a new place. Besides, it would be so much fun. I could cook you dinner when you get home and we could binge-watch stuff on Netflix.”
“We can do that without you living here, you know?”
“I wouldn’t be living here, just staying until I can make other arrangements.”
“That’s the thing, Emma, you’ve had months to make other arrangements and . . . well, here we are.”
He has a point. Like all writers, I’m a procrastinator. But finding a place to live in this city on my budget isn’t easy. Because like most writers, I’m broke.
“I’ve tried to find something.” I plop down in the barstool next to his. “I really have. But . . . I don’t have to tell you how expensive San Francisco is.”
“It wouldn’t be if you had a job that actually paid a living wage. But you insist on working for peanuts. Look, we’ve been over this a million times. I’m not in the market for a roommate.”
“A roommate? Jeez, Dex, I would hope I’m more to you than a roommate.”
