12
Stretching, I roll over and open my eyes. Sunlight streams through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floors—I don’t have hardwood floors.I bolt upright in bed, disoriented for the few seconds it takes me to remember that I fell asleep on Elijah last night like it was my job. When I glance over to his side of the bed, it’s empty except for a folded, gray piece of paper with my fake name written across the front. I pick it up and openit.
Demi,
I’m sorry. I had a spur of the moment meeting with aninvestor.
You were too beautiful to wake. I hope you’ll forgiveme.
Coffee is in the kitchen. Call Simon at the number below to take you back to your apartment. NoUbers.
Elijah
Sighing,I drop the note to my lap, then scrub my hand over my face. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.In his bed.With this note in my hand. And more importantly, I shouldn’t be disappointed that he’sgone.
A small panic attempts to wind through me, and then I remind myself this is casual. That a man who fucks for a hobby is not a man who gets involved with a woman. This is experimenting. Maybe a midlife crisis. There should be no problem here. He’s attractive and fun to be around. Most importantly, no matter what happens, there is already an expiration date, so that voids the possibility of disappointment. Shaking my head, I throw off the covers and climb out of his lavishbed.
I use his bathroom, slip into my dress from last night, then go to the kitchen for coffee. I smile when I notice the cup on the counter and a spoon placed next to the sugar bowl. Such little things shouldn’t hold meaning, but that’s where all the meaning is held. Just like in art. It’s the tiny details that make somethingbeautiful.
I am soscrewed!
I drink my coffee, staring out at the city that lies behind a haze of drizzle, and I pretend everything isfine.
After I finish my cup, I put my mug in the dishwasher, then Ileave.
I don’t call Simon, but I don’t call an Uber, either. Even though there’s a light sprinkle, I walk the few blocks down Water Street. I cross Washington and pass DUMBO Kitchen on the way to the York Street Station. A little over a month. I shouldn’t care about how long it is before he leaves when this isn’t going past fourdates.
It’s not going past fourdates…
______
Later in the afternoon,I’ve polished off a pint of low-fat Neapolitan ice cream, watchedCruel Intentions,and “avoided” a text fromElijah.
On the subway, I assigned him a special ringtone—that weird sci-fi-ish, UFO sound no one ever uses—so I won’t accidentally open his texts and have him see my read receipt. He’s texted me twice, and each time I stare at the phone like it’s Pandora’s Box. I know better than to open that shit. The man is like Eros, some weird god of seduction and desire. That’s the only explanation as to how I ended up fingering myself in front of half of PierPark.
The credits to the movie roll on the TV, and curiosity finally gets the better of me. I snag my phone from the coffeetable.
Elijah: I hope you enjoyed your coffee thismorning.
Against my will, I swoon. I recall how it felt to fall asleep in hisarms.
Elijah: I’d like to see you onFriday.
I exhale. Six days away. Again. As much as I want to run far away from this, as certain as I am that this is destined to end in a flaming pile of shit, I still respond with:okay.
The way Elijah Banks made me feel last night—buzzed and high and sexy and alive—would make any woman weak forthat.
