After a moment, I ask him, “Are you fucking with me right now?”
“About what?”
“All of this,” I state, gesturing around the kitchen, at him across the table, toward the living room. “Am I dreaming? Is this real? I am really hung over and everything is foggy right now, and you know sometimes I do have extremely vivid dreams, but…”
“Nope, this is our life,” he tells me. “You like it?”
“I…. Yes,” I admit.
“Good,” he says simply, then goes back to eating.
I guess I shouldn’t waste this whole dream second-guessing everything. Normally the dreams this real are about my mom, about her still being alive. Those still hit me sometimes, and they feel exactly like this. I’m going about my normal life, but something feels off. She’s there, she’s alive, she’s a part of my life, but there is some part of me that can’t trust it, that can’t completely enjoy it because my awake brain knows it isn’t real.
But if I’m here, what the hell?
Pushing back my chair, I decide if I’m going to get Derek for a husband and a cute kid in the next room, I’m going to enjoy it until reality forces me to stop.
Derek looks up in surprise as I walk over, then he leans back to make room as I throw a leg over his chair and sit down so I’m straddling him. My blood heats up being this close to him, his handsome face only a few inches from mine. His blue eyes dance with interest as I sit here, feeling his heat, wearing his dress shirt. I run my fingers through his hair, lamenting its lack of length, but I don’t dwell. I lean in, close my eyes, and kiss the literal man of my dreams.
Derek’s hand moves behind my head, pulling me deeper into the kiss. His tongue pushes at the seam of my lips until I open, and as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, chills travel down my spine, and a blinding white light explodes in my aching head.
There they are—the fireworks. I can feel his kiss in my head, in my chest, low in my stomach, between my legs. His kiss travels and leaves his mark everywhere. I sigh against his mouth, so relieved that my cynical self was wrong. So relieved that I can still feel this with him. His rough hand slides up under the shirt, up my bare back, and he pulls me closer. My faint arousal intensifies, and I move my hips against him, seeking friction.
“You taste like cider,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“You feel like heaven,” I tell him.
He fists his hand in my hair, tugging my head to the side and burying his face in my neck, leaving a trail of kisses, then nipping at my ear. A faint moan escapes me, pleasure coursing through my body, my heart soaring. I forgot what this felt like. God, he is intoxicating.
“Kiss me,” I request.
His hand is still fisted in my hair, but now he brings my mouth back to his and invades it just the way I want him to. I can feel his hardness between my legs, and since I’m not wearing panties, I think about how close he is to being inside me. I reach down to rub him through his sweats and he groans, muttering, “Oh, fuck,” and grabbing my wrist to stop me.
I don’t know why he’s stopping me. “I want you inside me,” I tell him.
“Uh…” He glances at the open arch separating us from the living room, and I realize he probably can’t fuck me in the chair when our daughter could hear in the next room.
Wait. Why would we have to worry about that in a dream? Dream children have perfect behavior and imaginary noise-cancelling headphones if necessary, fully enabling their parents to have undetected breakfast sex in the kitchen.
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously, then reach over and pinch the skin on my arm. I feel the pinch, but I can’t decide if that’s adequate proof that I’m not dreaming.
I know what is. Pointing at Derek, I tell him, “You don’t say a word.”
Then I climb off him and walk over to arch, leaning back into the living room where the little girl is still watching cartoons and eating Froot Loops.
“Cassidy, what did your dad offer you to call me mom?”
“Five dollars,” she calls back.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper to myself, spinning around and glaring daggers at Derek.
He’s already standing up, holding a hand out to halt me. “Before you flip out, let me—”
“You are psychotic,” I tell him, eyes wide. “You had me half-convinced I was losing my goddamn mind, Derek!”
As if he can possibly defend this, he says, “Remember last night when you asked me if I had a time machine? I had to make do with what I had. I don’t have a time machine, but since you walked in this kitchen, you’ve seen what it could be like with us, Nikki, and you’ve been happy.”
“You are a crazy person,” I tell him, still in complete disbelief. “I kissed you. Oh, my God. I have a boyfriend! Dammit, Derek. Where is my phone?”