The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE; part one

     I beat Dres downstairs. I half-think he's curled up with Lily and has decided to go to sleep, too. That, or he's run off and stolen her.

     I know that it's not the most absurd thing for someone to like babies. Dres just never really presented himself as someone who would. What's weirder is that I like it, that it makes me want to tie Dres down and have my way with him and then never untie him and just keep him forever. Clearly, the lack of sleep is getting to me.

     Or maybe the bleach fumes. I've sprayed a growing puddle of disinfectant on the kitchen counters, distracted by my thoughts. Setting the bottle down, I grab a handful of towels to clean it up. I've already packed away the containers of food and rinsed the dishes off, placing them in the dishwasher. It's funny because these are the kinds of tasks that would have taken me an hour to complete if I was closing at Weston's. Tasks I can clearly accomplish in a shorter amount of time. It's no secret I drag it out to have more time with Dres. No secret to anyone, but Dres, maybe.

     I'm rinsing out the sink when Dres creeps up on me, stepping close enough that it's an invasion of space, but not so much that there's any sexual insinuation behind it.

     I jump, dropping the sponge as my hand rises to my throat. "Jesus. Make a noise, would ya?"

     He's staring at me kind of funny. I can't tell what the expression conveys, but I look away, unnerved by it. I wring out the sponge before setting it on the ledge. "Finally got Lily down?" I ask, aiming for a calmer tone.

     "Yeah." He leans back against the island, crossing his arms. His head is turned so he's looking at me from his profile, analytically, like I'm a math equation that needs to be worked. I go still, not sure I like being worked like a math equation. Particularly when I'm struggling to make sense of this whole day and this version of Dres I didn't know existed.

     I feel like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, so I go, "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

     He nods, following me out of the kitchen. I grab the TV remote before taking a seat. I try not to think too hard about the space between us on the couch.

     I'm scrolling through the channels slowly, not paying close attention to the titles and click on the first thing that I recognize and know is interesting.

     As I lean forward to set the remote down on the coffee table, I ask, "Did you really want to see a movie tonight?"

     This time, Dres doesn't miss a beat.

     "Did you really want to have sex tonight?"

     My hand hasn't reached the table yet and the remote clunks to the ground, instead. I flinch from the sound, but otherwise don't move. My pulse ricochets against my veins. I turn to look at him. For the briefest moment, I actually consider not giving a direct answer. But then, I think about something Dres said to me, back when we weren't what we are now but I wanted us to be. If I'm not direct, how do I expect to get what I want?

     "Yes."

     My answer is a lot firmer than I feel. But now that I've said it (again), I don't feel so uneasy. What's the worse that can happen, I think. He says he's not ready or doesn't want to, and we don't have sex. It's not like I'm a person who's used to having tons of (or any) sex. I don't know that you can fully miss something you've never fully experienced.

     Dres is nodding, like this is what he expected me to say, but something about his expression looks relieved like he wasn't completely sure. "The movie's a cover."

     I reach down for the remote and set it on the coffee table before I slide back into the couch, turning slightly so I can look at him. "Oh," I say, my tone off. Too high for Dres not to notice. "The movie's a cover. That's good. That was quick thinking."