“How do you want your coffee?” he asks, putting my stuff down.
“An Irish coffee with a double shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream, a dollop of whipped cream, a little drizzle of caramel syrup, and a Marlboro Black 100 on the side.”
“Let’s start the day with regular old coffee. You take cream and sugar?”
“I take it the same as you do,” I whine. “Can’t believe you still don’t know that. I take my coffee like you. My corndog likeyou. My burger. I taught myself to tolerate hot sauce because I watched you with it at that competition at a pack carnival and, believe me, it took a while for me to get the taste for it but I burned my face off a hundred times until I started to like it. I tried to take my steak rare like you but gag… blech. I can’t so I don’t ever eat it. I’ve made you such a huge part of my personality, for fuck’s sake, so we could have stuff in common, and you never even noticed. Ack, I’m such a doofus dork loser.”
“Baby…” he says, eyes warm and totally fucking beautiful.
My rant is evidently endless because I keep going. “I can’t wear the gold dress because it smells like a pheromone perfume I bought online to try to get you to notice me. And that smell will forever remind me of how much of an epic failure that night was.”
“Bailey…” he says softly, looking like he likes that.
“Are you enjoying this?” I demand.
“Fuck, yeah, I am.”
“Asshole!” I shout, but I’m crying instead of angry.
He takes a step toward me.
“No!” I demand, throwing a hand up. “Please give me a minute. Let me get myself together. Or try, anyway. It’s probably hopeless.”
I need fresh clothes. I need a Kleenex. I also need a lobotomy, I think.
I grab my bags from where he dropped them and cart them upstairs with me into the bathroom. At a glimpse of my reflection and seeing just how much of a disaster I am, I decide on a quick shower to see if I can somehow scrub away some of my shame. I’ve got a strong nose and can smell the results ofmy moon-drunk escapades last night, so I can just imagine how strong the mess of me is to his super alpha nose.
I show my face after a quick but thorough head-to-toe scrubbing. I’m wearing a pair of black denim shorts and a drapey big t-shirt while pulling a brush through my hair. He’s in the living room with two steaming mugs of coffee on the table. I have no idea what I’ll say to him. If I’ll play it cool or fall apart. Or if I’m capable of playing anything cool, for that matter.
“Why’d you run off this morning?” he asks and gestures to the seat beside him.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, stopping several feet away.
“Humor me.” He pats the cushion beside himself.
“This is embarrassing,” I mutter, staring at my toes.
Suddenly I’m plucked up in the air and gasping as he sits down, planting me sideways on his lap.
“Jason!” I gasp.
“Talk to me,” he says, but he doesn’t seem impatient, angry, or annoyed. He’s looking at me with concern.
And I feel relief that he’s not indifferent, but beyond that I’m not sure how to handle the range of emotions I’m currently dealing with.
“Hey?” he tries.
One of his arms is wrapped around me, the other is on my thigh. He hugs me and presses a kiss to my forehead.
My heart is beating super-fast.
“Baby?”
I blurt, “That was embarrassing. And I woke up feeling mortified and I made an escape before I had to face you. And then you obviously followed me and got your truck crunched for it.”
“Why was that embarrassing?” he asks gently.
“You want me to feel more embarrassed? Is this revenge?”