joined.
She cried out and I could feel it as if it came from my own vocal cords.
“Grace,” I whispered as I disappeared inside her. “Grace.”
Close to sleep, her lips fluttered against my ear.
“’Night,” she said sleepily.
“’Night.”
Her tongue slid in my ear, warm and electric.
“I love you,” she mumbled.
When I opened my eyes to look at her, she was asleep.
I woke to the sound of her showering at six in the morning. My sheets smelled of her perfume and her flesh and a vague hint of hospital antiseptic and our sweat and lovemaking, imprinted into the fabric, it seemed, as if it had been there a thousand nights.
I met her at the bathroom door and she leaned into me as she combed back her hair.
My hand slid under her towel and the beads of water on her lower thighs glided off the edge of my hand.
“Don’t even think about it.” She kissed me. “I have to go see my daughter and get back to the hospital and after last night, I’m lucky I can walk. Now, go clean up.”
I showered alone as she found clean clothes in a drawer we’d agreed she could commandeer, found myself waiting for that usual sense of discomfort I feel when a woman has spent more than, oh, an hour in my bed. But I didn’t.
“I love you,” she’d mumbled as she drifted off to sleep.
How odd.
When I came back to the bedroom, she was stripping the sheets from the bed, and she’d changed into a pair of black jeans and a dark blue oxford shirt.
I came up behind her as she bent over the pillows.
“Touch me, Patrick,” she said, “and you die.”
I put my hands back by my sides.
She smiled as she turned with sheets in hand and said, “Laundry. Is that something you’re familiar with?”
“Vaguely.”
She dropped the pile in a corner. “Can I expect that you’ll remake the bed with fresh sheets or are we sleeping on a bare mattress next time I come over?”
“I will do my best, madam.”
She slid her arms around my neck and kissed me. She hugged me fiercely and I hugged back just as hard.
“Someone called when you were in the shower.” She leaned back in my arms.
“Who? It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“That’s what I thought. He didn’t leave his name.”
“What’d he say?”
“He knew my name.”
“What?” I unclasped my hands from her waist.
“He was Irish. I figured it was an uncle or something.”
I shook my head. “My uncles and I don’t talk.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re my father’s brothers and they aren’t any different than he was.”
“Oh.”
“Grace”—I took her hand, sat her beside me on the bed—“what did this Irish guy say?”
“He said, ‘You must be the lovely Grace. Grand to meet you.’” She looked at the pile of bedclothes for a moment. “When I told him you were in the shower, he said, ‘Well, just tell him I called and I’ll be dropping in on him sometime,’ and he hung up before I could get a name.”
“That’s it?”
She nodded. “Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Not many people call me before seven, and when they do, they usually leave a name.”
“Patrick, how many of your friends know we’re dating?”
“Angie, Devin, Richie and Sherilynn, Oscar, and Bubba.”
“Bubba?”
“You met him. Big guy, always wears a trench coat—”
“The scary one,” she said. “The one who looks like he might just walk into a Seven-Eleven one day and kill everyone inside because the Slurpee machine isn’t working.”
“That’s the guy. You met him at—”
“That party last month. I remember.” She shuddered.
“He’s harmless.”
“Maybe to you,” she said. “Christ.”
I tilted her chin toward me. “Not just me, Grace. Anyone I care about. Bubba’s insanely loyal that way.”
Her hands ran the wet hair back off my temples. “He’s still a psychopath. People like Bubba fill emergency rooms with fresh victims.”
“Okay.”
“So I don’t ever want him near my daughter.
She cried out and I could feel it as if it came from my own vocal cords.
“Grace,” I whispered as I disappeared inside her. “Grace.”
Close to sleep, her lips fluttered against my ear.
“’Night,” she said sleepily.
“’Night.”
Her tongue slid in my ear, warm and electric.
“I love you,” she mumbled.
When I opened my eyes to look at her, she was asleep.
I woke to the sound of her showering at six in the morning. My sheets smelled of her perfume and her flesh and a vague hint of hospital antiseptic and our sweat and lovemaking, imprinted into the fabric, it seemed, as if it had been there a thousand nights.
I met her at the bathroom door and she leaned into me as she combed back her hair.
My hand slid under her towel and the beads of water on her lower thighs glided off the edge of my hand.
“Don’t even think about it.” She kissed me. “I have to go see my daughter and get back to the hospital and after last night, I’m lucky I can walk. Now, go clean up.”
I showered alone as she found clean clothes in a drawer we’d agreed she could commandeer, found myself waiting for that usual sense of discomfort I feel when a woman has spent more than, oh, an hour in my bed. But I didn’t.
“I love you,” she’d mumbled as she drifted off to sleep.
How odd.
When I came back to the bedroom, she was stripping the sheets from the bed, and she’d changed into a pair of black jeans and a dark blue oxford shirt.
I came up behind her as she bent over the pillows.
“Touch me, Patrick,” she said, “and you die.”
I put my hands back by my sides.
She smiled as she turned with sheets in hand and said, “Laundry. Is that something you’re familiar with?”
“Vaguely.”
She dropped the pile in a corner. “Can I expect that you’ll remake the bed with fresh sheets or are we sleeping on a bare mattress next time I come over?”
“I will do my best, madam.”
She slid her arms around my neck and kissed me. She hugged me fiercely and I hugged back just as hard.
“Someone called when you were in the shower.” She leaned back in my arms.
“Who? It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“That’s what I thought. He didn’t leave his name.”
“What’d he say?”
“He knew my name.”
“What?” I unclasped my hands from her waist.
“He was Irish. I figured it was an uncle or something.”
I shook my head. “My uncles and I don’t talk.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re my father’s brothers and they aren’t any different than he was.”
“Oh.”
“Grace”—I took her hand, sat her beside me on the bed—“what did this Irish guy say?”
“He said, ‘You must be the lovely Grace. Grand to meet you.’” She looked at the pile of bedclothes for a moment. “When I told him you were in the shower, he said, ‘Well, just tell him I called and I’ll be dropping in on him sometime,’ and he hung up before I could get a name.”
“That’s it?”
She nodded. “Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Not many people call me before seven, and when they do, they usually leave a name.”
“Patrick, how many of your friends know we’re dating?”
“Angie, Devin, Richie and Sherilynn, Oscar, and Bubba.”
“Bubba?”
“You met him. Big guy, always wears a trench coat—”
“The scary one,” she said. “The one who looks like he might just walk into a Seven-Eleven one day and kill everyone inside because the Slurpee machine isn’t working.”
“That’s the guy. You met him at—”
“That party last month. I remember.” She shuddered.
“He’s harmless.”
“Maybe to you,” she said. “Christ.”
I tilted her chin toward me. “Not just me, Grace. Anyone I care about. Bubba’s insanely loyal that way.”
Her hands ran the wet hair back off my temples. “He’s still a psychopath. People like Bubba fill emergency rooms with fresh victims.”
“Okay.”
“So I don’t ever want him near my daughter.
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