Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [76]
"This weekend is going to be out of control," he says, sliding my tank top over my head, letting it fall at our feet. He unhooks my bra, cups my breasts and then my face. His fingers press the back of my neck.
"I'm so glad you're here," I say. "I'm so happy."
"Me too," he says, as he works on my button-fly.
I lead Dex over to my bed and remove his clothes, admiring his body from every angle, kissing him in new places. On the back of his knees. On his elbows. We have time.
We make love slowly, each of us stopping the other at various points until we can't stand it any longer, and then reversing in the other reckless, breathless direction. He feels more mine than he ever has, and I know why: he is not going home to her tonight. He will not have to wash off, or check for signs of our togetherness. I sink my nails into his back and pull him harder against me.
After we make love, we order food from the diner and eat burgers by candlelight. Then we climb back into bed, where we talk and listen to music, fighting through waves of fatigue so that we can savor our time together, not waste it sleeping.
Our only interruption comes around midnight, when Dex says he should probably phone Darcy. I tell him it's a good idea, wondering whether I should give him privacy or stay in bed beside him. I decide to go to the bathroom, let him do his thing. I run water so I can't hear any piece of their conversation. A minute later, Dex calls my name.
I open the door a crack. "Are you off?"
"Yeah. C'mere. You didn't have to leave."
I get back in bed beside him, find his hand.
"Sorry about that," he says.
"No problem. I understand."
"Just taking precautions… I figure she won't call now. I told her I was on my way home to bed."
"What is she doing?"
"They're all at the Talkhouse. Drunk and happy."
But we are sober and happier, all tangled up in my sheets, our heads resting on one pillow. When Dex sits up to blow out the candle burning on my windowsill, I notice that trimmings from his haircut have transferred from his neck to my white pillowcase. There's something about those tiny black hairs that makes me so happy I want to cry.
I close my eyes so that I won't.
At some point, we fall asleep.
And then morning comes.
I wake up, remembering the first morning we woke up together, the panic that gripped my heart on that Sunday I turned thirty. The feeling I have now could not be more different. Calm joy.
"Hi, Rachel."
"Hi, Dex."
We are both grinning.
"Happy Fourth of July," he says, his hand resting on my inner thigh.
"Happy Fourth."
"It's not your typical Fourth. No fireworks planned, no picnics, no beach. You okay with that?" he asks.
"Yeah. I'm okay with that," I say.
We make love and then shower together. I am self-conscious at first, but after a few minutes, I relax and let him wash my back. We stay under the hot water (he likes his showers as hot as I do) long past the point of wrinkled fingers. Then we are out in the world, walking down Third Avenue to Starbucks. It is a humid, gray day, and rain feels likely. But we don't need good weather. Happiness wells inside me.
We are alone in line to order, Marvin Gaye singing over the sound system. I order a tall skim latte. Dex says, "Give me the same thing in a large with, um… just regular milk."
I like that he abandons the Starbucks terminology, skipping the word "grande" and ordering his coffee as a guy's guy should.