Page 60 of Saving Ren
“Technically, it’s your bed, and I don’t tend to sleep with someone just because they order the same dish as me from the local Chinese. If I did, I’d need a bigger bed.”
“So what does it take?” I question.
I’ve put no pressure on her in the time she’s been with me. I’ve flirted, that’s just the way I am, and in all fairness, she’s flirted right back, but despite the blue ball’s situation, I’m not a dick and can totally appreciate she’s not in the right headspace to move things forward with us yet.
We’ve kissed, and there’s been a lot of grinding against each other, but one or the other of us, usually her, has pulled back before taking things too far.
I’m hoping some time apart will make her realise that we’re good together, and as much as I don’t want to leave her here alone, I think maybe she needs that time to do some healing both mentally and physically.
I’ve tried to give her space, working till late, or going to the gym straight from work, but I then worry that she’s spending too much time on her own. Her girls call in and out almost daily at different times, but the fact she’s still refusing to leave the house is worrying me.
“It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten,” Lauren’s quiet voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Well, I’ll be right here waiting patiently until you remember.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Sleeping in the guest room while imagining you upstairs in my bed is my absolute most favourite thing in the world, right next to sleeping next to you with all our clothes on.”
“Wow,” she responds with her favourite word. “I detect a note of sarcasm in your tone, Mr Wild. Did no one ever tell you it’s the lowest form of wit?”
“If they did, I don’t remember. Just order the food, Lauren. I’m nearly home and don’t want to have to hang around waiting for it.”
“Laters taters,” she says before ending the call. I’ve noticed she says it at the end of every one of our telephone conversations, and like a few things she says, I still have no idea what it means.
* * *
I arrive hometo the sound of Chaka Khan singing and Lauren laughing. Everything about this situation is as foreign to me as it is to her.
Apart from the few months my marriage lasted, I’ve never shared my home with anyone other than my daughter, and I’ve been mostly happy with it that way. I grew up in a noisy house. Working with my brothers and sister means that our office is never quiet, and when I’m out on site, my workplace is even less so. My home has always been my escape from all of that, but I won’t lie, I’ve loved coming home every night knowing Lauren is here waiting for me, opening the front door to the sound of music playing and the smell of food cooking.
There’ve been a few awkward moments, but it’s mostly been easy having her in my space. I definitely like it more than hate it, because I like Lauren. I like her a lot, and the more time I spend with her, the more I find to like.
I’ve no clue where we’re going with what we’ve got. I’ve no clue what it is we even have; I just know we’ve got something that I’ve never felt before.
Lauren’s still sleeping most mornings when I leave, but in the evenings, once her friends go home, we talk nonstop. Through dinner, and until she falls asleep on top of me, as we lay on the sofa, we talk shit about anything and everything, and that’s something I’ve never had with a woman.
Despite all the talking we do in the evening, I still find myself calling her while I’m at work to ask about her day, or maybe it’s just to hear her voice, I’ve no fucking idea. I’m fumbling my way through this and shit scared that at some stage, I’m going to fuck it up and lose all of the trust I keep assuring her she can have in me.
“Hey.” Lauren’s blue eyes meet mine as soon as I hit the top of the stairs.
I place the bag containing the Chinese takeaway, the two bottles of wine, and my laptop down on the dining table where Lauren’s sitting.
“Little bird,” I greet her before my mouth brushes gently across hers. Then I tell her what I tell her every night when I get home, “You look better today.”
“Thanks,” she smiles up at me, “I think I’m finally working the beaten housewife look.”
“Not funny, Ren,” I shake my head and tell her, getting an eye-roll in return.
“How’s your day been?”
She’s washed her hair and has left it loose, hanging down her back in curls. My eyes scan her face, noting that the swelling around her eye is finally going down, and her bruises are fading to light greens and yellows. The split in her lip has almost healed, and she seems to have almost full range of motion in her shoulder.
“Oh, you know, caught a few waves first thing this morning, then went to the gym, run home from there, took a shower, made a Croquembouche. . .”
She stares up at me, smiling, blinking, and attempting to look innocent.
“What was it you were saying about sarcasm being the lowest form of wit? And what the fuck is a croquet bush?”
