“You tell yourself what you want to believe.” I brush his lips with mine, feeling his smile against my mouth. This must be what a bit of heaven tastes like. “By the way, I’m entirely sold on crafts now.”
“You’ve done an excellent job,” he says proudly. “Now you’ll need to untie me and wind that back into balls for next time.”
My damn foolish grin is near permanent, because he said there’ll be a next time. God, what is this feeling? I’m on some kind of high that I didn’t know was possible. Oh, I have it bad for a certain Scot who is full of talents and mystery. The more we’re together, the more I want to know. The way he looks at me makes me think he might be feeling something similar too, all soft-eyed and glorious. What other secrets does he have?
“And Charlie?”
“Yes?”
“I think it might be time for tea after all that.”
We laugh with glee. Of course we’ll have tea and of course we’ll continue on like this again after, till it’s time for my own band rehearsal later. We’ll live in the quiet of the snow that continues to fall, the snowflakes beyond Ben’s window dancing and bright. And like Ben had said earlier, my dark barista heart is full of something unexpected. Something overwhelming and grand.
But can I trust this feeling? Familiar worries start to creep back alongside reality as my breath steadies. Ben’s not part of my scheduled plan. Like uni. Like getting ready for Christmas. I don’t know what to do about it all, other than savor this fantastic afternoon with Ben in his room and ignore reality for one more day.
Chapter Eighteen
At home the next day, my primal reptilian brain is in the driver’s seat. I’m up super early to make up for all of the slacking and distraction over the last few days.
After the bliss of yesterday with Ben, coming home alone to my room was disorienting. Even though I have the loom of the whiteboard’sto dolist hanging over my bed telling me exactly what I need to do and when, I’m well behind now on my planned uni work between the weekend and the last couple of days. Bliss has been replaced with stress, a sobering comedown after my escapades with Ben.
When Emily calls at the usual time for me to talk to Carys, there’s a moment where I’m tempted not to answer. It’s already bad that I missed yesterday’s call, leaving a heaviness in my chest.
“Hey,” I say. “Gotta keep this short. I’m in mid-thought on my essay and I’m gonna literally lose the plot if this is more than five minutes.”
“No problem,” Emily agrees easily and puts Carys on straight away.
But I’m distracted, and Carys picks up on my vibes, and she’s unsettled too. “Play wif dawg,” she instructs, squirming. Emily’s holding the phone steady but Carys careens in and out of the video call.
“Wish I could, baby. I can’t.”
“No?”
“No,” I confirm, feeling heavy. “Sorry.”
“No! Bad Daddy!” She grabs at the phone and the image of her blurs with her hand over the camera.
She bursts into tears, and I feel horrible. “I’m really sorry…”
But she drops the phone or Emily does and the call’s cut off. It’s just as well. Seems I’m failing at being a dad as well as my uni work. Ugh.
I’ve made a right mess of things.
So far, Emily hasn’t asked what’s up. Even if she did, I’m not sure what I could say by way of explanation.
Torrid fling with an indie rocker that I couldn’t say no to instead of thinking about our daughter.
Shit, now I feel even worse.
I stare at the crooked curtain rail over the window, which becomes the target of my anxiety. Instead of the lectures, or arranging a call with Emily, I become laser focused on taking down the rod and installing it properly, now taking on vital importance. The curtains are dusty, though. I drag out our motley assortment of tools from the cupboard under the stairs that heaves with the hoover and the summer barbeque equipment for our tiny garden.
And that’s not nearly enough to take the edge off. So I take the hoover and vacuum everything: cushions and crevices and the darkest corners of the house best suited for cobwebs. I polish the windows to see the abundant snow outside like a guilty reminder, and then the mirrors till my reflection gleams.
My laundry pile’s only grown bigger, and I haven’t done the Christmas shopping yet for Carys or my family.
One last rational scrap of me remains. The rest of me has given over to a spiral of gloomy thoughts as I neaten my room for the third time: I’m down to dusting invisible dust. Not that I’m a clean freak or anything, but cleaning and organizing makes me think I’ve some control in my life, according to my therapist. By the time I head out the door for my noon shift, there’s been laundry and tidying and even dusting of the walls and windowsills. I was already behind on house cleaning duties after a weekend spent mostly with Ben.
All of this, of course, is my effort to process what’s happened with Ben, who is some kind of ecstasy I haven’t earned. Perhaps he’s a hallucinogen. Perhaps I’m having a relapse. I’ve cleaned for hours to keep from rushing to my phone to text him something lame and rambling, like I’ve been kidnapped by spies and can’t see him again, or the more to the point “I’m far too weird to date” text every guy wants to see, especially after connecting for real, as well as having fantastic sex. And, well, meeting someone like Ben doesn’t happen to someone like me.
