Page 23

RYAN

Marlow snorts us both awake just after sunrise. Her cheek is stuck to my shoulder and my fingers are tangled in her hair. As we peel apart, Marlow’s head pops up. She’s looking for the source of the noise that woke us. A laugh ripples through my chest as I pull her back to my side.

All her soft curves press against me, reminding me of all the ways I enjoyed them last night. It’s safe to say that the con side of my Marlow list is nonexistent at this point. Watching her finally let go and unravel last night was perfection. She is perfection.

I press a kiss to her forehead as she starts to move beside me. I’d like to stay in bed all day and kiss, lick, suck, touch, and tease every inch of her, but we never made it to dinner last night.

“I’m starving,” I say against her hair.

“Me too.”

“Want to grab some breakfast?”

Marlow nods into my shoulder. We both get out of bed. I gather up my clothes from last night and start getting dressed. Marlow disappears into the bathroom. When she comes out a few minutes later, she’s dressed in a casual black dress with a pair of sandals. Her hair is pulled up into a bun.

Yep, perfection. That’s the only word for her.

The diner is a short walk from Marlow’s place. Neither of us says much on the way. We’re both groggy and worn out from last night.

At least, I hope that’s how Marlow is feeling. I can’t help but think she seems a little…sad, maybe? That’s definitely not the reaction I am going for. Maybe it’s just in my head.

Sunday mornings are always busy at the diner.

There’s the after-church crowd, plus a few stray tourists who wander in, even though the locals do their best to keep this place off the radar.

Luckily, we seem to beat the rush. The teenage hostess seats us at a quiet booth in the back of the restaurant.

“This must be weird for you,” Marlow says as we settle into the booth. She’s smiling at me, but it feels forced.

“What?”

“Having breakfast with a woman after…”

I laugh. “You mean instead of fleeing the scene right after the sex is over?”

“Well…yeah. You were pretty quick to flee the scene when you slept over the first time,” she counters with an eyebrow arched high.

“Like I said, I was running late. That wasn’t indicative of my normal postcoital behavior. And it doesn’t apply anyway because we didn’t actually have sex that night.”

Marlow looks around as if she’s worried that someone nearby might overhear the word ‘sex.’ The waitress comes back with two cups of coffee, promising to return in a minute to take our orders.

Marlow takes a short sip of her coffee and keeps her eyes glued to the table as she asks, “So it’s not unusual for you to stay the night then? ”

“Not really,” I shrug. “I sort of let the woman take the lead. If she seems like she wants me to stay, I stay. If she seems like she wants her space back afterward, I leave. If it’s clear from the beginning that it’s a one-night situation, I don’t think there’s any harm in sleeping over.”

Marlow’s expression is unreadable as she ponders this.

My history of one-night stands is the last thing I want to talk about right now. Luckily, the waitress returns to take our order, saving me from having to say anything else about it.

The rest of breakfast is oddly quiet. Marlow picks at her pancakes but leaves more than half uneaten. When the check arrives, she asks the waitress to split it, even though I object.

By the time we are standing up to leave, an uneasy feeling has settled into the pit of my stomach. I’m wondering what I did wrong. I thought everything was pretty perfect between us last night, so why is she acting so distant now?

Nothing is ever easy with Marlow. But I sort of love that about her. I like the challenge of figuring her out.

Whatever is bothering Marlow, I’m sure we can talk it out once we get back to her place.

When we turn the corner to the bakery, I spot my neighbors walking straight toward us.

Edith Brown’s eyes light up when she sees me, and I notice her patting her husband’s hand before she points to me.

They’re an elderly couple who have lived in the house next door since before I was born.

Today, they are dressed in their Sunday best and carrying a bag of pastries.

“Good morning, dear,” Edith says with a big smile.

“Good morning. You two are a long way from home,” I say.

Edith laughs. “Well, Verl loves these cinnamon rolls.”

“Best in town,” her husband says, holding up the bag in his hand.

I slip my arm around Marlow’s waist before introducing her. “Edith, Verl, this is my girlfriend, Marlow.”

The word lands with a splat between us, like I just threw a wet, writhing fish on the ground that one of us with either have to murder or throw back in the pond. Marlow would hate this analogy.

I don’t miss the annoyed look on her face before she turns to greet the Browns with a fake, yet convincing smile.

Pleasantries are exchanged, hands are shaken.

Edith fawns over the idea that I’ve finally met someone and emphasizes how lovely Marlow is.

Clearly, she is unaware of the fish flopping around on the ground.

She’s basically feeding it, thus prolonging the whole unpleasant experience.

Not that it’s Edith’s fault that I blurted that word out.

Once the Browns head off toward their car, I open the bakery door for Marlow. She stops shy of entering.

“I’ve got some stuff to take care of,” she says.

Apparently, I am dismissed. The fish will have to fend for itself.

“Okay, can I call you later?”

There’s a long pause. Marlow licks her lips, pressing them together and then slowly releasing them.

“I have a lot to do today, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Of course she’ll see me tomorrow – we work together. She’s stiff when I lean in and give her a quick peck on the cheek. Something is definitely off, but I don’t want to push it with her. Maybe she just needs some time to process everything.

On the drive home, the word ‘girlfriend’ plays on repeat in my head. Yeah, it was probably a stupid and premature thing to say. Maybe I got a little excited about where things are headed. But I’m not exactly wrong, am I?

Marlow has always said that we couldn’t sleep together because she’s the relationship type and doesn’t do sex without commitment.

The fact that we had sex means she finally feels like she can trust me to move forward with this without fucking it up.

I’m definitely committed to her. Hell, in retrospect, I think I have been for a while.

There hasn’t been anyone else since we started spending time together.

Maybe I just caught her off-guard. Maybe she needs more time to adjust to this than I do. Whatever it is, we can talk it out once she’s ready. We’ve come this far, and I’m not going to let one stupid little word undo it all.