Page 49 of Come Back to Bed
She gives me a look. It’s the look that I recall, from my earlier years as a single man, as the look that women give you when they’re pissed at you for not calling after sex.
But she’s the one who told me not to call.
That was supposed to be the point.
“I was going to text you last night,” I whisper. “But then I was invited to this thing and I figured it would be fun to surprise you.”
“Oh yeah? And is it fun for you? Because I am definitely surprised to see you here.”
“I’m having the time of my life.”
“So happy to hear it.”
After five more seconds of her scowling at me, I say in a hushed voice: “You told me not to text you the day after.”
“I know that!” she hisses. “I’m not mad about that.”
“Then what are you mad about?” And now I’m trying to navigate the mine field that is a woman’s feelings after I’ve had sex with her. We might as well be dating.
“I’m not mad at all! I’m totally cool—you’re the one being weird about everything!”
“Yeah. That seems like an adequate assessment of the situation.”
“You know what—fine. I’m not going to do this.” She huffs, then lowers her voice so much that I can barely hear her. I have to lean down to make out what she’s saying. “Iwasannoyed that you didn’t send the obligatory text the day after, and IknowI told you that you weren’t obligated to do that. But apparently when you blew my mind last week, my brain cells accidentally got reorganized into the brain cells of a woman who needs a little reassurance after being intimate with someone for the first time.”
She takes a deep breath, and I don’t even pretend not to watch her breasts rise and fall. However, the thing that’s really knocking me on my ass and turning me on right now, isn’t those gorgeous mounds. It’s her straightforward honesty. Now there’s a trait I’ve never looked for in a woman, but now that I’ve seen it in action, I can’t get enough.
She continues: “But I’ve recovered now. The brain cells are back in place. I am not mad at you for not texting me the day after we had intercourse and I am still grateful that you brought my laundry up. And to be really honest, I probably just wanted to be mad at you because it was easier than thinking about how…”
“How what?”
She bites her lower lip and shakes her head. “Nothing. Anyway. We’re good.”
“Good.” I lean in a little more to whisper in her ear. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how great it was and how hot you were, and I want you back in my bed tonight.”
I stand back from her just as Mrs. Benson returns to the kitchen, oblivious to the fact that Bernadette’s giving me a hot look and I was about one second away from throwing Miss Farmer over my shoulder and charging up to my apartment. This is going to be a long night. My only consolation is knowing that it’s going to be just as long for Bernadette as it is for me.
Most of the other guests have arrived, and they do nothing to make me think that Bernadette may have been exaggerating when she warned me about Mrs. Benson’s dinner parties. I know why I agreed to come tonight, but I have no idea why she’s here. Except that she’s a nice person who seems to like retired ladies. We’re introduced to Pearl, a fiftysomething woman who used to work in a human resources department with Mrs. Benson. She calls our hostess Regina, and I’m pretty sure that Pearl and Regina either hate each other or have had a secret lesbian affair that ended badly. There’s a married couple (whose names I didn’t get and will never remember), who seem to have agreed to come tonight because they were looking for a sub-let in this neighborhood last month. Mrs. Benson invited them up to see her apartment and they’ve kept in touch because one day she “might” sub-let this place and move to a smaller one that doesn’t have so many memories of her dearly departed husband. And there’s Mrs. Benson’s accountant—Carl. Carl is a little older than me, significantly shorter, not bad-looking, and he walks in wearing a vest and a fedora. He doesn’t remove the hat until he’s made sure everyone has seen him in it, and then he carefully places it on top of the coat rack by the door. I want to punch him in the face as soon as I meet him because it is obvious that he was invited tonight so he could be introduced to Bernadette.
He puts one hand on her elbow when they shake hands and then he goes in for a hug. It’s nauseating. “The lovely Bernadette. I hear you’re a painter,” this Carl guy says to her with a smirk. “What restaurant do you wait tables at?”
Oh come on.I hate him. I can tell she does too. I can’t wait for her to unleash the sass on this poor unsuspecting idiot. But she just smiles politely and tells him that she works full-time as an executive assistant to a famous painter and doesn’t have time to do any painting herself currently. A standard answer.
Great—now he’s going to ask who she works for and I’m going to have to hear her say his name like she’s twelve and he’s a boyband.
But again, she surprises me by saying “his name is Sebastian Smith” in a very casual way before excusing herself to go visit the poodle in the bedroom.
Is it weird that I feel a slight twinge of jealousy because she cares about another dog besides Daisy?
“Matt!” I turn to face our hostess, who is yelling at me enthusiastically. “Last but not least—come meet my niece, Liza!”
As Mrs. Benson drags her niece towards me, I can confirm that Bernadette was not the one she intended to introduce me to. Liza appears to be in her early twenties, has dyed jet black hair, is perfectly pretty despite wearing far too much make-up, probably has an eating disorder, and gets tears in her eyes as soon as she sees me.
“Oh Jesus,” she mumbles. “Seriously, Regina? In what world?!”
In my peripheral vision, I can see that Bernadette has returned from the bedroom and is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching in amusement.
“Liza’s parents are in Chicago for the weekend, and I wanted to make sure she eats something.”
