Page 52 of The Last Love Story
One of the selling points of this place was the central air for both apartments. What no one mentioned was that the damn thing breaks down regularly. It passed all the tests the home inspector did, but a week after moving in three years ago, it broke down. It broke down one other time that summer, and since then, it breaks down multiple times each summer.
It’s always some little fix. I half wonder if they’re using disposable parts when they fix these things, but I’m desperate for AC, so I don’t question anything.
The second summer I lived here, I put a small unit in my bedroom window and paid for one for the unit below me as well. I can work out of my bedroom, eat my meals in my bedroom, and generally survive in my bedroom. Most importantly, I can be cold while I sleep. If I’m not, I don’t sleep at all.
“What was that?” Justin asks.
“The bane of my existence,” I groan. Off his confused look, I continue. “The air conditioner just went out.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Only during the summer.”
He gives me a flat look, then realization hits. “That’s why you have an air conditioner in your room too.”
“Yep. I’ll call the repair place.”
He waves a hand, then plucks their card off the fridge. “I’ve got it. Take your smoothie and go get your AC running, so you won’t be overheated. I can make the call.”
“Are you sure?”
He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Let your husband handle this.”
I stare at him for a beat. “I suppose I can let you be the man of the house.”
He nods toward the hallway. “Go on.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
He stares at me until I finally leave the room, and I have to admit, there’s something nice about having someone else to help handle all the little things.
I can’t stop thinkingabout Justin. We ordered takeout for dinner so we wouldn’t have to heat the kitchen, then we sat on the back porch for a bit, relaxing, since there was a nice breeze. It’s obvious he’s more equipped than I am to handle the heat, but all I can think right now is that he’s out in the stupidly hot living room, while I’m in here enjoying all the cool air.
He’s used to it, I tell myself.
He grew up in Georgia.
Maybe he likes sleeping warm.
Or maybe he’s on the couch tossing and turning and can’t sleep at all.
It should only be one night because they’re coming to fix it tomorrow. I have a pre-op appointment, then need to go get some easy to put on clothes and a few other things I need before my surgery on Friday. Justin jumped in and said I still need to do all that, and he’d wait here all day.
I look at the empty space next to me and close my eyes.
I’m the worst wife ever.
Forcing my eyes open again, I throw the covers off and climb out of bed, telling myself I’m doing this for the right reasons—so my husband won’t melt—and not the wrong ones. Like wondering what it would be like to sleep next to him. Or cuddle with him. Or—nope.Not going there.
When I walk out to the living room, Justin is lying on his back on the couch, no blankets on, an arm tossed over his face, and chest glistening with sweat.
“Justin,” I loudly whisper, trying not to wake him up too aggressively.
He jolts awake. “Huh? What’s going on?” He blinks at me a couple of times, then lurches forward. “Are you okay?”
He’s sleeping out here overheated, and he’s worried about me?
