Vanilla. Megan HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
sure I liked that. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure I didn’t.
Restless, bored, unable to sleep, I clicked through a few games on my phone I hadn’t played in forever. I lost one round of Bubble Burst and quit. I sent a small poking “hi” Esteban’s way, but as I’d expected, the small S next to my message meant he wasn’t logged in to the texting app we favored.
It had been months since I’d logged in to my old instant message app, but insomnia breeds desperation. Seeing the list of screen names made me glad I’d logged on as invisible. I’d used this account a lot before meeting Esteban. Some of those people had been relentless in their pursuit of a mistress, and I’d been occasionally foolish enough to engage even when I knew I had no interest in continuing anything serious with them.
And then. There. Halfway down the list, another name stood out to me. Not a name, actually; I’d changed it a while back to a small picture of a bunny because looking at his name had made me feel sick to my stomach.
There it was now, standing out in the list of words, that one single emoticon. Seeing it forced my heart into my throat, and my fingers twitched so fiercely that I dropped my phone. It hit me in the face hard enough to send sparks flying in my vision, and that pain was enhanced by the fact I’d stupidly and reflexively also bitten my tongue.
“Fuck, shit, dammit,” I cursed, struggling to sit up in the tangle of my sheets. I tasted blood. My phone had fallen into the mess of my blankets, the lighted screen dimming and going out before I could grab it. I swept the bed, but found only more soft fabric.
By the time I found the phone and sat up, opening my IM app again, the bunny had hopped away.
I clutched the phone to my heart, hating that I still cared enough to cry over simply seeing him online. I pressed my fingers to my eyelids, willing away the burning slide of tears, but all I managed to do was gasp out a strangled sob. No, I told myself. Do not. Don’t open that app, don’t look for his profile, don’t send him a message.
Don’t do it, Elise.
You’ll be sorry.
And I was sorry, but I did it anyway.
* * *
Once you told me I was strong, but lately, the strongest thing I seem to do is not message you at three in morning when I can’t catch my breath because of the weight crushing my chest that comes from missing you. And oh, shit, look, here I go, sending you this message when I know you will read it and not answer me. So I guess I’m not so strong, after all.
Not when it comes to you.
The Morningstar Mocha was super busy. I dropped off William and circled the block twice before I found a spot a block up the street. The extra time I took parking meant I was a few minutes late, but I still paused to look through the front window before going in. I saw Esteban at a table in the corner, a mug in front of him. He wasn’t looking my way, so I studied him for half a minute.
We had met once or twice for lunch. Every time had been before we’d ever met in a hotel room, when we were still deciding if we wanted to go to that next step. Since we’d begun that, we’d never met again in public.
He looked so different with his clothes on.
This wasn’t what we were supposed to be. Coffee shop pals who chatted about muffins and maybe played footsie under the table or held hands? No. We were dim hotel rooms and commands and fantasies, not reality. Weren’t we? I was on the verge of walking away when a man in a long black coat came up behind me wanting to go inside, and I let myself be swept up along with him as though I had no other choice.
Esteban stood up when I walked in.
Being greeted with a smile and a look almost of relief, as though you are, in that moment, the most important sight in the world to the person who’s been waiting for you...it’s heady stuff. I wove through the crowded tables to him and slung my bag over the back of the empty chair. I wondered if he would embrace me, and if I would allow it. He didn’t, though he ran a hand down from my shoulder to my wrist, squeezing gently before moving away.
“I was thinking you would not come,” he said.
“I would’ve messaged you, honey. I wouldn’t just stand you up.” I had considered doing just that, but Esteban would never know it. I sat. “What are you drinking?”
“Coffee. Would you like?”
I twisted to look at the menu board. “I’ll take a mocha latte. Oh, and a blueberry muffin.”
He gave me another tiny, discreet squeeze as he passed me. It both amused and touched me emotionally. He touched me physically all the time, of course, but this had been different. Brief, but not hesitant. He was different outside the hotel room, but then, I guess so was I.
Esteban returned in a few minutes with my drink and food and took the seat across from me. He grinned, his gaze searching my face, though I wasn’t sure what he was looking to find. He leaned forward.
“You look beautiful.”
I didn’t laugh. I had made an effort, of course, because who ever goes to meet a lover without looking their best? But unlike most of our meetings, which featured me in full makeup with carefully chosen outfits, this morning I’d pulled my dark curly hair into a messy bun and wore jeans with a tunic blouse suitable for taking my nephew to religious school. Put together? Sure. But beautiful?
“You do,” he said, though I hadn’t protested.
I leaned forward a little too, echoing his posture. “It’s good to see you.”
He beamed, eyes not leaving mine. “It’s better to see you!”
“You’re so good for my ego.” I did laugh then, and broke off a piece of my muffin. I pushed the plate toward him. “Have some.”
He broke off a piece. Together, we ate the muffin and drank our coffee while tables emptied and filled again. We didn’t talk about anything that seemed important, which was the perfect sort of conversation to have on a bright, late-spring Sunday morning.
“This was nice,” I told him when we’d stayed as long as we could before it would be time to order lunch.
Esteban nodded. “Yes. Very nice.”
I thought for a second or so that he was going to ask me if we could do it again, but he only looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Not quite sad. Reluctant. Resigned, maybe.
“Walk me to my car,” I said. “I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet.”
I could read that expression, at least. I’d made him happy. We didn’t hold hands while we walked, and the distance between us was enough that nobody would ever have guessed how many times his mouth had been between my legs. I watched him from the corner of my eye as we navigated the buckled sidewalk.
At my car, I faced him. “What’s going on?”
He might’ve been able to put me off on the phone, but not in person where I could see his face. He tried to cut his gaze, but I took his chin gently in my palm and turned him until he had no choice but to look at me. Still, he didn’t answer me right away.
“Esteban,” I said sternly.
His shoulders sagged. To my immense surprise, he hugged me. Hard. His face pressed to the side of my neck, his skin hot. His breath tickled me.
I hugged him back for a moment, before saying, “Get in the car.”
Obediently, he went around to the passenger side. I got in my seat and twisted to face him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m wearing it,” he said, which was not the answer to my question.
Despite this unusual disobedience, a shiver tiptoed up and down my spine at the thought. “My gift?”