Fortuity (Transcend 3)

“Are you still mad that she’s gone … Jenna? I mean … grief is automatic. It’s the normal emotion that fades over time, but the anger lasts. At least … it does for me.”

“Well, it hasn’t been that long since your brother and his wife died. I’ve had a lot longer to deal with the loss of my wife.”

I should drop it. It’s pretty weird that I brought up his dead wife after having sex with him for the first time. Does she talk to him like Brandon talks to me? Well, he hasn’t in a while, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he weighs in on this bad idea.

“What do you think happens after we die? I mean … no one knows for sure, so it’s okay to have an opinion, a guess.”

Nate doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Maybe he’s asleep. I twist my neck to glance back at him. He’s not asleep.

“Is this conversation too heavy?” My nose scrunches.

His head inches side to side, eyes slightly narrowed. “No. It’s … interesting.”

I maneuver to face him, resting my head on the pillow. “I think so too. Most people don’t want to talk about death, Heaven, Hell, ghosts …” I throw that out there. Why not? It doesn’t have to mean that I believe in them, that I hear my dead boyfriend’s voice, that I sometimes wonder if he’s watching me—shaking his head and rolling his eyes that I’m forty-one and single.

“Or reincarnation …” He feathers his fingers down my arm, following it with his gaze.

I smile. “I like the idea of reincarnation. I like when I see someone I know I’ve never met, but something just feels familiar. I like déjà vu—moments that have no explanation in your brain, but something … your heart … your soul … just knows.”

“My …” Nate presses his lips together.

“Your?” I press my palm to his cheek, tracing his bottom lip with my thumb.

He kisses it, bringing his gaze back up to meet mine. “Nothing.”

The words “don’t hold back” and “just tell me” die on the tip of my tongue. I’m holding back. I’m not telling him things. If we were in a different place in our lives, at a different time, with a million miles of open road in front of us, I would tell him. I would want him—need him—to know everything.

“I should go.” I share a sad smile.

He slides his hands over my hip, resting it on my bare ass. “Why?”

Curling my lips together, I shrug. “I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to say.” I chuckle.

He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “You should go,” he whispers. “I have to be up early in the morning.”

“Oh.” I stiffen, suddenly feeling like I’ve overstayed my welcome. “You do? Sorry.” I start to pull away.

He tightens his grip on my ass and laughs with his lips still pressed to my forehead. “No. I don’t. It just seemed like the right thing to say.”

“Jerk …” I shove his chest.

He chuckles, grabbing my arms and pinning them above my head as he rolls on top of me, ravaging my mouth until I surrender the fight. As I relax, he eases his hold on me and works his lips down my body, kissing, biting, laving every inch of skin.

I keep my arms outstretched above my head, close my eyes, and bite my bottom lip as he drapes my legs over his shoulders and proves he’s an expert who needs no practice.

“God … Nate …” I grab his hair and keep him there for roughly eternity.

*

A half-empty bed greets me in the morning.

No note.

No fresh picked flowers.

No coffee and toast.

I’m glad. Really … I am. Notes, flowers, and food fall under the realm of courting and wooing. We’re neighbors having sex. No need to wrap the situation in Christmas lights and adorn it with a glittery star.

A grin slides up my face as I climb out of bed and stretch. I pad into the bathroom.

“Oh my god …” I cringe. Is that salt on my face or just excessive eye crusties? And my hair!

Note to self: a dip in the ocean followed by lots of sex equals a hair catastrophe. I wish this were just a little bedhead. It’s been many years since I’ve gone to sleep with wet hair that’s not at least had a comb run through it. I wonder when it got bad. Did it look a little less hideous with my head on the pillow? Gah! I doubt it.

Nate saw this. Even if we were able to be more than neighbors having sex, there’s no way he’d leave flowers, breakfast, or a love note to this situation.

I try to comb my fingers through it, but it’s way too tangled and matted. I’ll probably have to shave it down like Nate’s. As panic sets in, my mind goes in many directions.