Molly drives like it’s an art form. She’s not aggressive, but she’s skillful—elegantly weaving across six lanes to reach an exit that comes out of nowhere, making room for cars about to get cut off without disrupting the flow of traffic, maintaining conversation as she zips along the steep, winding mountain roads that lead up to her house.
Her authority behind the wheel is sexy. I can’t wait for her to drive us to the desert. I hope the route is really difficult.
“Home sweet home,” she says, pulling into the driveway of her small, white, Spanish-style house. It’s surrounded by purple bougainvillea bushes and cacti that shoot up from the earth like jaunty flower-capped erections. The air smells like jasmine.
It’s so her. I love it here.
Inside is a mix of dark wood and comfortable white linen furniture. The floor has Spanish tile and the rooms lead into each other through archways original to the 1920s house.
She’s already lighting scented candles on every surface, making the rooms glow.
“Want a snack?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m famished.”
She leads me into her yellow kitchen, with light blue cabinets that have vintage crystal knobs she found on eBay. The care she has taken to restore her house, and the pride she takes in telling me about it, is dear to me. It’s another one of those unexpected facets I’ve discovered about her as we’ve gotten to know each other’s adult selves.
I fantasize about buying a rambling old Craftsman and fixing it up with her. Somewhere with a big yard and plenty of fruit trees. A home of our own.
“Toast?” Molly asks.
She has learned about my midnight toast habit. “Yes, please.”
She puts some bread in the toaster—the sourdough I like from the farmers market in her neighborhood—and leads me out the door onto her patio. We stand there, holding hands, staring out at the glimmering lights of Los Angeles. There’s a slight breeze blowing and the air is cool, but not cold. The smell of my toast wafts from the kitchen and I inhale deeply and kiss the temple of the woman who knew to make it for me.
It is in this exact moment I know I can really do it: I can move to Los Angeles.
“I never get tired of this view,” I say. “I’ve missed it here.”
“It’s only been three weeks.”
“Felt like three months.”
She squeezes my hand.
We go back inside and she slathers normal butter on one slice of the toast and peanut butter on the other and mashes them together into a saturated mess, just how I like it. I take my signature sandwich and devour it over the sink. It’s so much better when she makes it.
When I finish, I tidy up the counter.
She watches with a wry look. “Finished, inspector?”
“Yes. Take me to bed.”
We walk to her room—a pretty, girly space with white velvet drapes and a queen-size bed with a puffy stack of pillows that I immediately want to nestle into after my long day of work and travel.
I grab Molly with both arms and pull her down onto the duvet. “Come here, kid.”
She lets me wrap my entire body around hers and squeeze her like I’m an overly exuberant squid. Her body feels small and soft and heavenly beneath mine.
“Thank you for having me,” I say into her hair. And I mean thank you for loving me. Thank you for the honor of welcoming me into your life.
She laughs. “My pleasure, Miss Manners.”
Still no mention of Dezzie. I wonder if I should bring it up. But Molly seems relaxed. I don’t want to ruin her mood.
I drown her in more kisses from her eyes to her throat. She squeals and pushes me off.
“You’re crushing me!”
