"About seven. Are you hungry?" I ask, looking for my phone. I don't particularly want to brave the outside world. Out there, it's cold and gray, but in here, it's warm and bright. This is the kind of weather food delivery was invented for.
"Yes—shit, going back to Brooklyn is going to be a nightmare on the subway." She rubs her eyes and roots around the floor for her discarded clothes.
"You know," I muse. "You don't have to go home. You could stay the night."
She looks back over to me, pulling her pants up. "I don't have a change of clothes. Or a toothbrush. Or a hairbrush."
"What a conundrum." I smile, proud of myself for thinking ahead. "I just so happen to have an extra toothbrush. It's new—in the package and everything, you cancheck—and while I don't have clothes for you, I do have a comb."
"Wow. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get into my pants." She laughs and shimmies her hips. Considering she's still shirtless, it's a mesmerizing sight.
"So what do you say?" I ask, ripping my eyes away from her incredible breasts. "Sleepover?"
"Ah, alright. You wore me down, Dusty. Honestly, it's probably for the best—shorter train ride with the cupcakes tomorrow. Let me just ask Eve if she can check on Huey…." she trails off, searching for her phone.
"How is my little orange son, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while."
"Your—he's good, weirdo." She laughs, not looking up from her phone. "Alright, the boy is taken care of. What do you want to do?"
"I was thinking we could get some delivery. Would you prefer pizza, Chinese, or Thai?"
"Ooh!" Her eyes light up. "Thai—Pad See Ew? With peanut sauce?"
I smirk. I knew she would say that. Good thing I already ordered.
Our bellies and hearts full (I hope—mine is, at the very least), we snuggle on the luxurious sofa and browse the streaming services for something to watch. I know Brooke likes old movies. Like, really old. Like pre-Hays Code old. I wasn't sure where to find any of those, but she has a subscription to something that hasallof them. I make a mental note to set up a subscription for myself.
She picksMadam Satan, and we descend into a world of old-timey adultery and zeppelin debauchery. I used to give her so much shit for these old movies. I'd tease her relentlessly, proclaim them to be boring, and go fuck around in our suburban neighborhood.
Needless to say, teenage me was a fucking idiot.
I mean, I'm still not really a movie guy. Or a TV guy. I stare at screens all day for work, and I don't often find myself wanting to look at screensmore. But if Brooke wants us to watch a movie? I'm watching the damn movie. I'm taking notes in my mind. I'm analyzing the plot. I'm surreptitiously looking up the actors. My mission is to take an interest inherinterests, and I do not fail missions.
Unfortunately, my movie-watching companion is much more interesting than the transatlantic accents of yesteryear. It's so cute every time she misses the fried tofu puffs with her chopsticks. That familiar knot in my stomach makes its unwelcome return—I want this. I want her. Not just sexually, though that's fucking incredible.
I allow my fantasies to play out in my head while watching the film. I imagine her career rising through the ranks at Atmosphere, eclipsing my own. I imagine her tumbling into my condo in Chicago after work, stressed and anxious, but all of it melting away when she sees me. I imagine us living out those silly fantasies from high school and college. Maybe some cousins for Orion and Nova, you know, down the line. If she'd be open to it, I mean.
Sure, I've always thought of myself as a future dad. Nurturing the minds of tomorrow and supporting their interests. Taking care of them when they're sick. Actively listening when they have their first teenage heartbreak. Celebrating their wins. But if Brooke isn't interested in that? That's fine, too. I know she loves her cat. I'd be perfectly content to add another kitten to the household.
Jesus, I've got it bad. She's not even my girlfriend. She's my ex—the one who got away, so to speak. But she doesn't feel like she got away. Not when she's snuggled into my side, her breathing slow and even, every muscle of hers totally relaxed.
How can I make this happen? My whole life, I've had a plan. She threw a wrench into ours with that heart-shattering letter in sophomore year. I reeled; I flailed; I floundered. But I found my way. I'm sure I can find my way back into her heart again. Would it be inappropriate to pull out a SMART goal sheet?
When she's asleep, maybe. After I tuck her into bed, I'll get out the laptop and get to work. I can see the template in my mind—
I briefly shake myself. She tenses under my arm but quickly relaxes again. Writing up a SMART goal sheet is probably the least romantic thing on earth, but maybe I can just… wing it?
I know I want her. Ithinkshe wants me back. Do I have the skills to attain this goal? Based on the fact that she's currently tracing abstract shapes on my chest indicates that yes, yes, I do.
But time? My tenure in New York has an expiration date. I have to get back to the Chicago office eventually. I'll move on to the next acquisition, the next onboarding phase, and on, and on. Fuck it, I'll make the time for Brooke.
As long as she'll have me.
Waking up with Brooke snuggled into my chest is the best feeling on earth. She stirs, and I watch her blink slowly, taking in her surroundings. When her gaze lands on my face, a genuine smile blooms, and it's infectious.
"Good morning," she whispers.
"Good morning. Coffee?"
