I squint into the bright light streaming through my window. I cover my face with the back of my hand and wonder why in the hell the sun is out so early in the morning.
Reaching out to my bedside table, I rough my hand around until I find my phone.
9:30 AM
“What?”
I sit upright, jolted awake by the time. And sun. And … Dara.
The side of the bed that I don’t sleep on is made—but not the way I do it. Even if I could justify that somehow in my mind, my body doesn’t lie.
Coconuts still scent the air. A strand of her hair shines against my white pillowcase. There’s a distinct red mark running down my forearm from her fingernail.
I rub my hand over my face and exhale sharply. It takes me a little longer than necessary to piece together the events of last night and to figure out what day it is.
Sunday.
I stumble out of bed, thrown by the late time, and step into the hallway. The house is eerily quiet. I’m not sure whether to call her name or just creep around like a nutjob looking for her.
I choose the latter.
The doors lining the hallway are all shut, so I go downstairs. There are still no sounds, no scents of breakfast, or any other indication as to where she might be.
I head to the kitchen, my hand clamped around the back of my neck, and stop short of the refrigerator.
A note is propped up against a box of donuts next to my coffee pot.
“What the hell?” I walk over and pick up a piece of Mason Architecture stationery from my office.
Good morning!
I had a ton of work to do today, and you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t want to wake you. (Don’t be mad. You can’t be “late” on a Sunday. Besides, you’re the boss.) I had my friend pick me up—but not before she grabbed some donuts for you. (And me. And she ate two on the way over so there’s that. Sorry. I’m friends with scoundrels. A scoundrel. One. I have one friend.)
Anyway, I had a very nice time with you yesterday. Thank you for stepping out of your comfort zone and showing me a (really) good time. Feel free to invite me to all of your family events from this point forward. Ha!
I folded your suit and my shirt from last night and set them on the sofa.
Also—you snore.
Xx,
Dara
I lift the lid of the donut box. Three donuts—one with a bite taken out of it—await me.
“Dara, Dara, Dara.”
The words echo through the kitchen. Somehow, it feels emptier than usual.
My feet smack against the hardwood as I wander into the living room. Just like she said, our clothes are neatly folded and placed on the end of the sofa.
I stand in the middle of the room. The space feels different. Maybe it’s that I’m seeing it midmorning—something I never do. I’ve never realized that until now.
I’m either in the office at this time of day or in my office here. Rarely, I’m with one of my brothers or having brunch with my mom, but I’m never here.
Is that weird?
Or maybe it’s because she was here.
My breath stalls in my chest as last night replays vividly through my mind.
Her mouth on mine.
The way she took what she wanted.
The way she let me take everything that I asked for.
“Damn you,” I say, collapsing onto a leather chair.
My head starts to throb as reality rears its ugly fucking head and settles in for the kill.
“What have I done?”
A zip of fear hits me so hard that I shift in my seat. The power of the memory leaves me reeling.
I don’t think about it often. I can’t.
The peace I woke up to is suddenly thrashed to the side with as much impact as the events of that night so long ago.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull my mind back to the center. I focus on my breaths—in and out. In. Out.
“This isn’t that,” I whisper before inhaling again and then deflating my lungs slowly. “This is different.”
But it’s not.
I can look at other people and lie. I doubt that I’d be good at lying about things that matter, but I’m an expert in the field of lying to save someone trouble. And I can lie about my feelings—and make people believe it—with the best of them.
The problem is that I can’t lie to myself.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be with a woman. Not one as a means to an end, but someone you laugh with. Tease. Look forward to seeing again.
Someone you could imagine yourself potentially seeing every day for a long time.
And now? Now I remember. And I’m not sure I’m going to be able to forget.
My eyes open, and I glance around my living room. It’s everything it was meant to be. It’s stately and grand and, to the world, it was a sign that I’d made it. How could you possibly live here and not have your shit together?