Page 70 of A Deal with the Devil

I open my eyes to the sky alight with the colors of the sunrise. The soft bed sheets wrap around my legs from a restless night’s sleep. I can still remember the feel of him above me and in me, the sound he made when he came. The way he looked—mouth open, eyes squeezed tight, head thrown back. One day, the memory of him like that will dull, and it’s probably for the best because right now, it’s almost too sharp to bear.

My skin smells like him. My lips, and other areas, are sore from him. I feel him everywhere, and the only way to recover from this is to wash it all away and start fresh.

I shower, lathering my sensitive skin in soap to disguise his scent. Once I’m dry, I pull on shorts and a tee, throw all my shit in a bag. As much as I love this house, I just want to leave now. I need to move forward, as soon as possible, and I don’t think I can do it here.

He’s already in the living room, already showered. I don’t think he’s ever woken before me in his life, which means he’s probably as desperate as I am to get through the awkwardness of our trip home.

“Aren’t you the early bird?” I ask. My good cheer sounds as forced as it feels. “Sex with me transformed you into a new man. I assumed it would.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t figure you for the type to be so...uncomplicated the morning after.”

I go to the kitchen and start unloading the dishwasher, clanging flatware and pans as if I don’t have a care. “Best just to put it out there. Otherwise, it turns into The Thing That Shall Not Be Named.”

He comes to the other side of the counter. “I did figure you for the type to work a Harry Potter reference into any given conversation, so that lines up.”

I can tell he’s watching me. I continue to focus on the dishes, as if the task requires all my attention. If our eyes meet, he’ll see every single thing I’m feeling. He’ll see I’m the stupid girl who wants more when she should know better.

“Now I just have to decide what I should say on the flowers I send myself.”

“And you’ll want breakfast, too, I imagine. Will Starbucks suffice?” he asks, tying off the trash bag. “Probably not. I’ll get you a gift card. Applebees? That seems like a place a person from Kansas would enjoy.”

I started this, but I’m a little stung that he’s replying in kind. The dumb teenage girl inside me wanted him to hold my face lovingly and explain how much it all meant to him. And maybe if I stopped being so offhanded about it, he would. But I feel too raw for that. I just can’t. I need to protect my heart.

“I’m deeply impressed by your thoughtfulness,” I reply. “I’ll frame it as a permanent reminder. Although testing positive for syphilis in a few weeks will probably be permanent enough.”

He sets the trash by the front door and returns. “As far as I can recall, we were careful. And I’m clean.”

“That you just referenced a sexual encounter with ‘as far as I can recall’,” I reply tartly, “indicates my concern is valid.”

The kitchen is spotless. I’m forced to meet his gaze at last. His eyes are dark, and his face is drawn. I wonder if he ever went to sleep at all.

“I remember, Tali,” he says, his voice quieter, more earnest, than normal.

I swallow. “Yeah, me too,” I whisper, reaching for my bag.

This is precisely what I didn’t want—the awkwardness of I know you want things from me I can’t give. It’s not how I pictured our trip ending.

* * *

The drive home is fine. He doesn’t seem to mind my running commentary on every car and building and view we pass, which I find absolutely necessary. If I’m silent, I start looking at his profile and remembering the scrape of that jaw against my thighs, the way he’d push in hard and drag out slow, eyes shut as if I was expensive scotch, meant to be savored. The sounds he made as he came. Oh, God, I hope I always remember the sounds he made.

We finally reach my building. As uncomfortable as the morning has been, I don’t want to leave his car. I’d take discomfort over being apart from him, hands down.

I force myself to open the door, and he climbs out too. The air no longer smells like him. Santa Monica suddenly seems like it’s nothing but pavement and reflective surfaces, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more alone.

“Thanks for bringing me,” I say, swinging my bag over my shoulder. “It was fun.”

“I’m glad you came,” he replies. Our eyes meet. “That wasn’t meant to be a double entendre.”

I laugh. He beat me to the joke.

By the time I reach the stairs, he’s driven away, probably eager to put this behind him. I get to my apartment, collapse face-down on the bed, and cry like a child.

How is it possible I got over ten years with Matt more easily than I did ten minutes with Hayes?

29

Latte? Check.