Page 63 of Single-Minded
“Sweet dreams,cher,” he says, and then closes my door firmly. I smile, knowing exactly what I’ll be dreaming about tonight.
52
Jeez, it’s 3:24 in the morning. Time with Daniel went by so fast, but I can hardly believe I stayed so late. Thank goodness it’s still dark; another couple of hours and I’d be making the walk of shame in last night’s clothes in front of my neighbors.
Before I make my way home, I check my phone and find three voice mails from Carter, and a bunch of texts.
CALL ME, NEED TO TALK
CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS
CALL ME, NO MATTER HOW LATE
The last message was thirty minutes ago. I almost ignore it, wanting to relive every moment of tonight with Daniel instead. But I know if I don’t call Carter back, I won’t be able to think about anything else. Damn my type-A tendencies.
It’s way too late, but I dial his number anyway. I know why he’s calling and I just want to get it over with. Worry unmercifully clenches my intestines as Carter’s phone rings, and I struggle to take a full breath. Every time I start to believe I can not be more humiliated, or more hurt, some new affront comes to light. I brace for bad news.
“You’re up late,” says Carter as he answers the phone.
“What’s up?” I ask. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
“Jesus, Alex, I’m so sorry about tonight,” Carter says. “I realized almost immediately that you must have thought that Michael was the guy I had feelings for in college. You must have been completely freaking out. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t want things to get even more awkward than they already were.”
“Was it Michael?” I ask. “Did you guys get together in college? You said you knew the whole time he was gay. Is that how you knew?”
“It wasn’t Michael I was in love with,” he blurts out. “It was Daniel. I was dating Gabriel, his brother. Daniel is great; you know how great he is. Anyway, after a few visits to New Orleans I realized that I had some pretty serious feelings for Daniel, and that he was unequivocally straight. I didn’t want to hurt Gabriel, or freak out Daniel, so I made up that story, a half-truth, really, about falling for a straight guy in college—the one that got away, you know. Gabriel and I broke up, Daniel and I stayed friends. At first I was dreaming that we’d have some magical Hollywood moment in a rainstorm where he realized he was gay after all and that he was madly in love with me the whole time. His shirt would be sticking to his chest from the rain, and he’d be wearing really tight jeans, and his hair would be sort of pushed over to the side. Maybe a little beard stubble.” He grew quiet.
“It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” I say, letting the image of Carter’s fantasy of rain-soaked Daniel play in my mind.What, I’m supposed to let that image go to waste?
“A lot of thought,” he says. “A lot.But it became pretty apparent very quickly that it wasn’t going to happen. He’s a really decent person, and we’ve been friends ever since. But he doesn’t have any idea about my feelings for him, no one does. No one but you. And I think it would make things awkward between us if he knew. He’s a really good friend, and I don’t have feelings for him anymore. Except lust—but who doesn’t?” He’s rambling, even more than usual. “Please don’t say anything to him, I don’t want it to get awkward.”
“And nothing happened between you and Daniel?” I ask. Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m continually unnerved by the pernicious effects of my romantic past.
“Nothing happened. Nothing even came close to happening. Sadly for me, he’s not at all ambiguous about his sexuality.” I smile. Not so sadly for me.
“I won’t say anything,” I say, exhaling stress as thick as cigar smoke. I’m just so relieved that Carter and Michael didn’t hook up. Or Carter and Daniel. Disaster averted. Finally, after all this time and drama, it seems like things are going my way.
53
Once my call with Carter is over with, I practically float the rest of the way home, replaying every perfect, enchanted moment of the night, like a romantic movie playing in my head.
When I get home, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into a pretty camisole nightie I haven’t worn in over a year. For the first time in forever, I feel beautiful and desirable and flirtatious, and my usual post-breakup bedtime wardrobe of ratty oversize T-shirts just isn’t going to cut it tonight. Ahem,this morning.
Putting my decorative pillows on the dresser, I climb under the covers and arrange my pillows just so. Morley jumps up on the bed next to me, and settles himself at my side. I was out very late, maybe the little guy missed me. Reaching out to touch him, I stroke his fur gently. He hisses and claws at me with his hind legs.
“I love you too, Morley,” I say, pulling the sheet to my neck. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
I sleep until noon.
I can hardly believe my eyes when I look at the clock the next morning. Noon! Morley is meowing loudly near his bowl, and I can hear the familiar sound of one of my nearby neighbors running a leaf blower down the street. It’s Florida, somebody’s always running a leaf blower.
I pad barefoot to the kitchen to feed Morley, laughing at the fact that I can’t seem to stop myself from grinning like a fool, thinking about Daniel and every moment last night (and this morning!), from our first dance together to the final sizzling kisses against the door of my car.
I pour a glass of orange juice for myself and take it out to the lanai to enjoy the sun and the spectacular view of the inlet and the bay. The bougainvillea is still in full bloom, massive bushes of vibrant fuchsia blossoms. Every year about this time I struggle between my compulsive need to have neatly groomed landscaping, and not wanting to touch a single stalk of the vibrant, explosively untamed leaves. The bougainvillea wins, of course, it’s too spectacular to trim back. It’ll return to green again soon enough. Sitting on a lounge chair, I watch the palms sway in the breeze over the water as I sip my juice, and let my mind wander back to Daniel once again, and that first dance.
The doorbell rings, which is unusual for a Sunday. Maybe it’s Zelda with more pot muffins.
“Coming!” I yell as I run toward the bedroom, grabbing a robe from the hook in my bathroom and tugging it on as I scramble to answer the door.
