5
CAMILLE
Somewhere, beyond my reach, a muffled buzz snatches me from the dark. It’s a buzz peppered with the sound of bells, incessant and nagging, and it pulls me into the thin fog of consciousness.
My phone alarm. Which means it’s morning. The day’s thoughts rush to me: my hair in a bun, apron tied securely at my back, feet in patent leather kitchen clogs. The hopeful sound of the truck’s engine turning over.
I palm the side table, where I usually toss my phone before bed, but instead of the slick surface of pressed wood, my fingers touch something warm. Soft. I notice everything up against me is this same temperature, the same texture of skin. My nose picks up scents that are unfamiliar—of cologne and deodorant, laundry detergent and Chinese takeout.
My eyes jolt open, and when my surroundings go from haze to real life, a grin takes over my face.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
My nose is tucked into the crook of Drew’s neck, my entire torso encased in tan arms. Still in underwear, bare legs intertwined, I’ve awakened in the legendary spot talked about in magazines and chick-lit novels. We’re both under the covers of his bed, my body flush against his. The ceiling fan above us whirrs, emanating a barely noticeable breeze, while the television, on mute, plays an infomercial for a countertop rotisserie. His studio apartment is bathed with light, its warmth calming my racing heart. And beyond the curtainless floor-to-ceiling windows are the sounds of a city waking. Everywhere around me is serene, so normal.
And yet, it’s not normal. This never happens to me. This has never happened to me.
The buzzing continues, and the faint ringtone sings that it’s Jasmine calling. Crap. What time is it?
My eyes search the floors, but my yellow phone case isn’t anywhere on the hardwood or area rugs. I hear the noise coming from under the bed. Slowly I shimmy away from Drew’s side and reach underneath, where I find my phone, facedown on the floor.
JAZ: Where the hell are you? Check in.
ME: Here, IN BED.
JAZ: WHUT.
ME: Nothing happened. I mean, almost nothing.
JAZ: ???
ME: Will fill you in later. Thanks for sending Ally off.
JAZ: All good. She’s out the door. OK, ignore me now. See you soon. TTYL!
I take in a breath. Admitting where I am to Jaz brings about the realization that, holy crap, I am in a man’s bed. I wait for the pang of regret, mixed with some of that Catholic guilt, because there’s no hiding what happened last night. I don’t do this. I don’t throw myself at guys willy-nilly, and I sure as heck don’t find myself waking up the next morning in “the spot,” cocooned by his side with my face against his chest. Even though we ended up not having sex—the spell had broken by the time we got back to his apartment—I still said yes, stayed the night as if he were a boyfriend. We still kissed and touched, and had Chinese takeout before crashing in his bed. We were like an old couple, exhausted and up well past our bedtime.
I squeeze Drew’s torso against mine, and he responds with a thankful moan. It was his idea to slow us down at Coit Tower, and while at the time I thought he was putting me off, now I’m grateful. This would have been my first one-night stand, and it was him who kept it from happening.
My stomach rumbles under the sheets. The clock says it’s six in the morning. There’s still enough time to get into my usual routine. I slide out from under the covers and slip on Drew’s checkered button-down. It smells like him, of soap, with a hint of cologne. It’s a piece of cotton fabric, but in his clothing, I’m warm once again.
His apartment is a modest space that feels cavernous with its soaring warehouse-style ceilings. It’s on the top floor of this building and on top of a steep hill. The Golden Gate Bridge is seemingly a stone’s throw away, the fog a carpet I could simply walk out to. I know it’s loud out there, with delivery trucks, produce shoppers, joggers getting their miles in before the start of their day. Breakfast joints are already serving meals, their ovens fired since four this morning. I’m usually up a little after them, writing out my to-do list well before six. By now, I would have already checked social media and blasted Lucianna’s feed.
But this morning, food first. Not for me, but for Drew.
I pad to the other side of the apartment to an industrial kitchen, all stainless steel and high-end appliances. Gas stove with blue knobs, double ovens, prep sink. How can Drew afford all of this on a soldier’s salary? My jaw drags on the floor as I take in everything I could ever wish for my own house, for the truck. Except when I check the refrigerator—a gorgeous double-door with all the bells and whistles—there is nothing in it but condiments, milk, eggs, butter, and more takeout. The pantry is empty except for flour, sugar, and the usual spice rack people buy preloaded.
No plants. No pets. No personal pictures on the walls, except for a world map pinned on one wall. It dawns on me this is an executive apartment, fully furnished. The couches and the dining room set match all too well, like the decorations were right out of a showroom floor.
Then I remember. He’s not staying.
I clutch my belly, expecting despair or disappointment. It should come any second now—that telltale sign of guilt for jumping into bed with Drew so quickly, knowing this would all be temporary. The guy didn’t even have to try. It took one sublime moment at a tourist spot and I threw myself at him.
But the guilt doesn’t come. Instead, I’m flooded with nostalgia, grateful that when I finally did let go a little, it was with him.
Drew was a surprise, and became a highlight of a night that was never supposed to happen. Touching base with him and my past has shown how much I’ve grown and accomplished. Last night was a blip when our paths converged. This morning, it’s time to get back on my road. In a month, he’ll be well on his, and there’s no point in complicating things. I can’t think of anyone else, care for anything more, or worry about one more thing but myself, Ally, and our livelihood.
I smile as I help myself to the meager ingredients in his pantry. I spread them out on his unmarred stainless steel kitchen island and dump flour and sugar into clear bowls, letting myself fall into my routine. I allow the textures and the sweet smell of sugar to take me away.
My motions go on cruise control. The calculations of cups and tablespoons and pinches are programmed into the spirit of my fingers. This. This is easy and intuitive. After sliding the pan into the oven, I search for the thing that’s going to get me through this day.
Coffee.
I find a tin labeled with the haphazard scrawl of permanent marker: Kape Barako. With Google as my guide, I find out, sure enough, it’s coffee from the Philippines. I stick my nose into the tin, and it takes a half a second and I’m wide awake.
There’s no way I can’t brew this.
I’ve finished my first cup of coffee by the time I pull the pan out of the oven. Steaming cinnamon muffins pop out from the cups. My little somethings from nothing. It’s much like last night, with Drew materializing from nowhere and bringing me to this beautiful morning. I tenderly arrange them on a plate, showcase them on the dining room table. Now the apartment feels more like a home, and it smells like someone actually lives here. It’s my small bit of thanks.
I slip off his shirt and put on my clothes, which smell of Haight Street cigarette smoke. I tear off my shirt, put his back on again, tying the ends into a knot. After folding my shirt, I lay it on the table, too. Something to remember each other by.
In his bathroom, I swig and spit mouthwash, then brush my hair out with my fingers, doing my best to wash last night’s grime from my face. Home is a half hour cab ride, and I’ll be in my own space soon enough.
Drew’s chest rises and falls with each deep breath as he sleeps on his back. The blanket exposes his tapered waist and capable arms that held me all night long. The light picks up the shadows of the muscles of his pecs and the compass tattoo on his upper chest.
It’s to remind me of my own true north, he said last night.
I pick up my boots and decide to put them on outside. I pass the big map of the world. Red pushpins dot where I assume Drew’s been. There are less than a dozen pins on the map, but their presence is a clear statement. He intends to leave, and I am committed to stay.
It makes my decision to walk away easier.
But trepidation descends. I should wake him. I should tell him thank you. I should leave him a note.
So, I tear a paper towel from the roll and click open a pen I find on the coffee table. There might be a middle ground in all of this.
Thank you for a perfect night.
Camille
Stepping out into the street, I know I’m about to execute what ignorant people might say is a “walk of shame.” Still in the clothes from the night before, makeup long gone, and without the guy. But it’s a misnomer. Plus—this is all on my terms.