Page 50 of On the Ropes
Filming videos about hotels—even ones on the forefront of ecotourism—wasn’t always the most inspiring. But still, I was usually a little bit excited about new projects. Even the boring, corporate ones, where the story I needed to get across was come visit and give us your money.
I tapped my pen against the table. Two more minutes to go. I heard the distant sound of a faucet running. Footsteps on a staircase. These were sounds I now associated with Dean heading to bed. Where I assumed he’d be stripping his shirt off. Stretching his long, muscled arms out across soft, cottony sheets. Looking sleepy and adorable when he woke in the morning.
One minute left. I checked my appearance with my laptop’s video camera and cringed at my pink cheeks. It was super obvious—to me and probably to Dean—that my crush on him was gaining mega-crush status. As in, feelings I normally could get my arms around and cinch tight were growing cumbersome.
I didn’t think it would be a problem though. Based on his reaction on the stoop, he wasn’t a temporary hookup guy. That made it highly unlikely I’d ever experience the pleasure of being kissed by Dean…or any of the other filthy acts I’d been dreaming about. This morning I’d woken gasping from the most vivid sex dream I’d ever had—of Dean lifting me onto the kitchen counter, ripping off my clothes, and fucking me with my knees wrapped tight around his waist. I remembered every detail, from his hand covering my mouth to the cups and dishes clattering to the floor.
The real problem was everything I yearned to do that wasn’t having sex on a kitchen counter. Like making him smile with desserts and sorta-kinda wondering how cute he looked sleeping.
So maybe, due to this cumbersomeness, it was smarter to stay friends after all. I never wanted a marriage like the one my parents had at the very end. My mother had yanked her love away like a warm blanket on a cold night, and it took years for the three of us to recover. I preferred casual because I never wanted someone to get hurt, never wanted to dive deep into the messy, confusing, turbulent parts of being in love.
But my darkest fear was that my ability to flit from person to person was because I was just like my mother all along.
My laptop trilled with an incoming video call. I blinked rapidly, surprised to find my eyes a little wet. Then I sniffed, cleared my throat, and answered it.
“Hello from Austin,” Meghan said as a team of people waved behind her.
I waved back. “Philly says hey.”
She shifted on the screen, looking slightly pixelated. “Tabitha, I have to tell you how gosh darn excited we are to work with you. The team here has some great ideas, and they’re looking forward to getting to know you a little better.”
I glanced quickly at my list of lackluster ideas, feeling guilty. “I can’t wait to get started.”
They launched into a discussion about climate justice and the hotel industry and quirky live concert venues. Over the next hour, they painted a picture of a city on the cusp of real environmental progress, a city of bright lights and good food and music on every street corner.
By all accounts, Austin would be an amazing place to live. But I spent most of the meeting thinking about front stoops and water ice.
