The magic is definitely over.
By the time I check my messages and text mom back to assure her I haven’t been chained to a wall in some lair in Mexico and am not sold into sex slavery by a perverted billionaire, I hear the gurgle of a coffee machine.
It never occurred to me to ask Andrew whether he drinks coffee. Thank God he does, because that would be a show stopper. I can handle a workaholic CEO with a body designed by Crossfit and a tongue that should qualify for the Ironman Triathlon, but if he doesn’t drink coffee I’m outta here, because that’s just not human.
I also take this chance to snoop.
I hear him talking out in the living room. It sounds like a tense discussion, so I avoid invading his privacy. Last night he welcomed me into his bed and I welcomed him into my body. This morning it’s time to go back to reality, where boundaries do, indeed, exist—and respecting those is important.
Even if I really, really need caffeine right now.
Snooping and respecting boundaries seem like contradictions. But they’re not. Bear with me. I can explain. Everything I know about Andrew is either from him directly, from Shannon, a little from Declan, some from my incessant Google searches, and from my oh-so-careful physical examination of as many nooks and crannies on that hot body as I could reasonably search on Date #2.
This is a chance to learn more.
“Damn it!” he shouts from the other room. The coffee machine sighs.
I am totally not going out there right now. More ammunition for snooping, er...research.
His closet is bigger than my bedroom. He has an affinity for purples and smoky blues, the heathered colors that come from tailors so exclusive they don’t have retail stores. His suits line up like good little soldiers, and nothing is out of place. This is one of those closets where the shoes aren’t on the floor, or in little cubbies. I reach for a drawer handle and the drawer tips out at a forty-five degree angle, revealing dress shoes in neat lines, three shelves deep.
I tuck the “drawer” back in and leave.
I look out the window and see his little balcony. It really is just two chairs, a table, and an umbrella. Unlike all the other balconies, he has no plants. Nothing. Not a single bit of decoration. It stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the apartment, which is carefully designed and color-coordinated, the look and feel textured and nuanced by someone who knows what they’re doing with space.
Weird.
His nightstand is a goldmine. There are a few fitness magazines, a tablet computer, and a bottle of lube. I squeeze my eyes shut and close the drawer. Hey, if he ever snooped in my bedroom, he’d find way more than just a bottle of lube in my nightstand drawers. I single-handedly keep the battery industry going during dry spells.
His dresser drawers are full of rolled socks and underwear, folded t-shirts and jeans. Polo shirts. Workout clothes. Each type of clothing has its own drawer. A hand-carved wooden bowl on one dresser contains an old-fashioned analog watch, some change in various currencies, and a few tie pins. Cuff links.
And a single photo rests on his dresser.
It’s him, Declan, Terry, his dad and his mom, all on a boat somewhere on the ocean. I’m guessing it was taken shortly before his mother died, because Andrew’s around fifteen or sixteen. He’s tall, but not as tall as he is now, and he has the lean look of a teen boy who is just about to fill out as testosterone performs its destiny.
A breeze flows from the left, shoving all their hair to the side, and they’re laughing. Andrew is looking at his mom, Declan’s staring into the camera, Terry is holding his mom’s shoulder, and she’s not quite looking at whoever took the picture.
James is just smiling, the grin so bright it’s blinding.
Tears hit me like I’ve been shot from behind, like an arrow pierced me between ribs and struck my heart, the feeling so sudden and unexpected I gasp, an animal sound filling my raw throat.
This is what a real family looks like. A happy family. One filled with joy and love.
And it can all end in seconds.
We have no pictures like this in my house.
I doubt they even exist.
At least Andrew has this. Had this. Had a world where people looked at each other like that.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I hear Andrew say, his voice loud but controlled. I sniff and turn away. If I keep looking at that picture a part of me will fall apart, and right now, I can’t have anything else inside me vibrate on a different frequency, because too many of those and the dissonance will make me shatter.
I’m dragging the bed sheet everywhere, covering my nakedness, and I decide it’s time for coffee. As I reach the threshold between Andrew’s bedroom and the living room, I hear:
“Dec, it’s not like that. Amanda’s not one of those.”
I freeze.
Declan? He’s been shouting at Declan?
About me?
“Look, I know. I know.” I hide myself, able to watch him pace across the stainless steel and granite kitchen, his body flickering between low-hanging ceiling lights that drape in regular intervals across a breakfast bar.
“And I won’t. I won’t hurt her this time.” He swipes a frustrated hand through his bedhead hair, leaving locks standing straight up. He’s agitated.
“I know she’s Shannon’s best friend—”
A string of loud, angry sounds comes through his phone. Even I can hear them, and my mouth curls up as I realize Declan is playing the part of the protective older brother.
But for me.
What did Shannon tell him?
“And this is not a one-night stand, Dec. She’s still here.”