Page 107 of Pick-Up
It’s not that I’m afraid of being caught. I mean, I don’t want to be outed. But I don’t think that’s what it is for Ethan either. As we look at each other, wordlessly, it’s easy to read the uncertainty in our expressions. What is this thing? What just happened? What does it mean for our actual lives? Anything? And is it going to happen again? Should it not, for all the reasons? And, if so, is it worth the complication?
We are definitely not getting a chance to sort any of that out right now.
“I guess I should go,” Ethan says. But he doesn’t move.
The blanket has slipped lower on his lap, revealing the indentations below his abs. I don’t want this to be the last time I’m privy to that sight. The last time I get to hoard him for myself.
Tomorrow, after the short morning shoot, I fly home. The rest of the staff stays on for one more night to do pick-ups. Tie up loose ends. We arranged it that way, so there was no way I’d miss Halloween.
I didn’t realize the loose ends would be us.
“I wish we had more time,” he says. In some ways, we have all the time in the world. We live in the same neighborhood. Run into each other daily. Bump into each other amid Crispix and tangled earbuds. But I know what he means. More time to figure this out. To concretize it. To make it something or nothing before the number of players expands. Before we go home, get stressed, and most likely pretend this never happened.
The thought makes me so sad. Most of all because it feels impossible.
“Me too,” I sigh.
But it’s time. Not just because Stephanie is back or because we’re due at drinks and dinner soon. But because he’s got his daughter to call. I’ve got my kids to FaceTime. We’ve got work we ignored and text chains we abandoned. News stories to read and photos to post. We’ve got to return to the world. The world, which includes his ex-wife.Kaitlin.
Slowly, surely, he peels back the blanket and climbs out of bed. It feels lighter with him gone in a way I hate. He is backlit against the sheer window shades, the muted sun setting behind him. Despite my guilt and agita, I enjoy the view. Both views.
He wraps a towel around his hips again. Shrugs at me with that small crooked smile, like he’s not sure why he’s bothering to cover up, then crosses to the door connecting our rooms. At the last minute, he reconsiders, turns around, and comes back to my bedside. He leans over me, his breath soft on my face, and kisses me slowly, firmly. For a long time. Like a promise. Now, he takes his time.
I am tempted to pull him back down as it escalates, wrap my arms and legs around him and start from the beginning, but I know I can’t. For so many reasons. Instead, eventually,regretfully, we break apart. He takes a last look at me before he leaves.
“Please don’t freak out,” he says.
It’s so weird to think that he once belonged to someone else. Who was he then? Who was she? Is there a world in which he gets to be mine?
But there’s little time for thought. As he disappears beyond the other side of the connecting door, he takes the languid pace with him. If the clock moved at half speed for the last dreamy hours, now it plays catch-up.
It’s time to get dressed for dinner. Begrudgingly, I get up too, throw on my robe. I “showered” before. But now I have to shower.
As soon as I’m up, there’s a knock at the door. Not the one to Ethan’s sex den (its new name). The main one. To the living room.
“Hello?” Stephanie calls. “Sasha? Are you alive in there?”
Will she see what just happened all over my face?
I walk over and open the door. “Hey, Steph.”
She’s the picture of post-beach day bliss. Her wide-brimmed straw hat is still perched on her head, her hair below it a tangle of saltwater strands, even with the keratin. Her cheeks bear just the slightest hint of pink. She looks relaxed and happy.
Having spent the day swimming and lolling in the sea, she is wearing less makeup than she usually does. And, honestly, it looks better. She’s kind of glowing. I realize, at the sight of her smile, that I really like her.
“She lives!” Stephanie says. “I just wanted to see how you’re feeling.”
How I’m feeling? I don’t know. The best and worst I’ve felt in ages! The most I’ve felt in years. I look at her in confusion. How does she know?
“Post-sting,” she clarifies.
The sting.Right. So much has happened since then. My jellyfish beef seems like the least of the issue.
“Aw, thanks.” I smile back. “It’s not bad at all. The doctor came and gave me some meds, and now I barely know it’s there.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Good meds?”
“How do you feel about ointment?”
