“It’s fine. It still hurts, but I’ll survive,” I joke, setting the tea down.
“Give me a minute,” he says just as I have hoped to talk to him a little more. “I’ll be right back,” he adds before heading to the bathroom.
The water runs in the shower for a good fifteen minutes before his shaving machine starts buzzing and the aroma of his aftershave enters the room.
By the time he comes to bed, I’m already tucked in. He wears a pair of boxers and nothing else.
Of all the things that could’ve happened tonight, sleeping with him in the same bed hadn’t even crossed my mind.
He powers off his phone, puts it on his nightstand, and slides under the covers. For the first few moments, he lies on his back, his arm folded under his head, his blank stare rooted to the ceiling, like I’m not even here.
He ponders something maybe.
Something that has or doesn’t have to do with me. Whatever it is, it feels awkward.
Us in the same bed, especially after what happened, feels strange.
I can tell he is not used to having someone in his bed, especially after a night like this when serious stuff happened.
He stays in his head for the next few moments, unaware of my furtive stare, or maybe, perfectly aware.
This new development puts things into perspective.
What if we were wrong?
What if we rushed into believing we felt something special for each other?
Feeling something special is one thing, but living together is entirely different. And that’s where we are right now.
This is life.
There is unpleasant stuff we need to talk about or at least process on our own before finding a way to mend things.
It’s all fun and games until it isn’t.
Playing the way we did is okay, but being able to move on requires more. A deeper understanding of what has happened and maybe, just maybe, leaning into each other.
I’m not an expert on this.
I lost my family early, and while having a foster family, I can tell it’s not the same.
And not because they weren’t good people but because losing the ones close to you, especially when you’re too young and inexperienced to process things properly, can make you an emotional recluse for life.
Maybe that’s what we are.
I lost my parents young, and he wasn’t much older when he lost his mother. We’ve both survived and thrived––arguably––but we’re not exactly the poster kids for grown-up communication and balanced relationships.
Whenever the emotional load is too much to bear, I prefer not to talk about it. Pretend it didn’t happen.
Although I’d gotten better at being an adult about it.
“Okay… Good night, then,” I say, sliding off the bed and turning off the only light in the room.
I slip under the covers again, turn my back to him, tuck my head into the pillow and look out the window, ignoring him completely.
I think about New York, my place, the huge amount of money in my bank account, and ways to ease Giana into this new life of abundance that can’t wait to happen.
Telling her about the whole story is probably not wise, so I’ll need to wait and bring up the idea of money gradually, hopefully, while still having my new job.