GABE
I woke up facing her in bed, with the sunshine illuminating her from behind as she slept. I blinked hard to clear the sleep from my eyes. Once, in the Sahara, I’d seen a mirage. Looking at her was exactly like that—like you thought your mind was playing a trick on you, like whatever you saw was too good to be real. Except this mirage didn’t dissolve into the sands. This one got clearer and clearer, down to every freckle on her cheeks and every ringlet curl.
Looking at her made one word come to mind. I’d learned it in Germany when I was filming there. Fernweh. The feeling of being homesick for a place—or a person—that you had not yet called home. When I’d learned about it, I thought it was for other people. But maybe not.
Moving slowly and carefully so that I didn’t shake the bed, I slipped out from between the sheets and pulled my boxers on. I headed into the bathroom to take a leak and got a look at myself in the mirror. I almost didn’t recognize the face staring back at me. I didn’t look haggard. I didn’t look tired. I didn’t look jet-lagged or run-down. I looked . . . happy. Which was exactly how I felt.
Quietly, I made my way downstairs and got the coffee started. Normally, I’d check my email or text Markowitz, sketch out some plan for the next segment, or try to figure out a way to make Lovers’ Lane seem spooky when all it had been was red-hot. But instead, I just stood there, utterly spaced out, listening to the coffee sputter through the filter, content knowing that she was sleeping safe and sound right above me.
I took two china cups from the cabinet and put them on a tray. I put the small container of half-and-half beside it, as well as a few sugar cubes and two spoons. Next to the mugs, I found a high and thin vase into which I put two of the handmade lilies. From the fridge, I took the raspberries I’d stashed before our bath last night and placed them on the tray. And then I headed upstairs. When I got to the bedroom, I savored the way she looked—all curled up in a ball in bed—before knocking on the jamb and finally saying, “Room service.”
She inhaled hard and rolled over, stretching her arms above her and giving me a magnificent yawn. “Hi!” she said, her voice squeaky with sleep. I set the tray on the bed beside her, and she rolled up to sitting. “Oh my gosh, who are you!” Her toes peeked out from under the sheet, and I saw them curl down into the mattress as she stretched again. She tucked her knees up slightly, and her breasts rested on her thighs.
To her coffee cup she added three sugar cubes and so much cream that it turned khaki. I got back in bed next to her, making sure I didn’t knock anything over as the bed shifted slightly under my weight. She sipped her coffee and placed the warm mug in her lap, nestled in the sheets. For a second she studied me with her chin tucked against her arm. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Nobody has ever taken care of me like this.”
I slipped my arm around her and put a kiss to the side of her head. “The pleasure is all mine.”
She bent her neck from side to side, catlike almost, elegant and comfortable in her skin. “So what’s on the docket for today?”
I took a berry from the bowl and brought it to her mouth. She sucked it off my finger. What I really wanted to be on the docket were those lips on every inch of my body. But life was life. Goddamn it. “Brace yourself, beautiful. I’ve got to do some production work and cut some segments together for Markowitz. Boring, I know. But necessary.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes in an adorably dramatic way. “Suppose it had to happen eventually.” She took a tiny sip and nestled the mug back in her lap. She looked down at her coffee, and her expression became more serious as she furrowed her eyebrows. “How long are you going to be in Savannah?” she asked as she traced the rim of her mug.
I wanted to talk about beginnings, not endings, but I knew it was a conversation we needed to have. “A week, I’m guessing,” I said.
Her fingertip froze on the edge of the porcelain. “Just a week?” she whispered. Her eyes sparkled with emotion. I understood just exactly what she was feeling. It hadn’t been long, but that didn’t matter. Something was happening here between us. Something intense and undeniable.
I took the mug from her lap, setting it on the bedside table, and straddled her as she nestled down into the pillows. Her hair spilled out behind her, shimmering in a ray of sunshine. She placed her fingertips on my chest and dragged them down my pecs and abs. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you yet, Gabe.”
I pushed her hair away from her face and cradled her cheek in my hand. “I gotta be honest. I don’t think I want to say goodbye to you at all.”
She smiled and turned away, pressing her cheek to the pillow as a breathy laugh escaped from her nose. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy for you, yeah.” From the breakfast tray, I took the bowl of raspberries. “You got a problem with that?”
Lily shook her head, and her curls slipped along the pillowcase. “No problem at all.”
“Good,” I said.
And I took two raspberries from the bowl. One for each of her nipples.
An orgasm apiece and all the raspberries later, I dropped her at her place, giving her a filthy, possessive kiss before she got out of my truck. When we finally parted, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and growled, “A week, Gabe. A week is not enough.”
Tell me about it. But far as I was concerned, life was only complicated if you made it that way. The other option was to make it really goddamned simple, and that’s exactly what I was going to do. “I’m going to Brazil next. Come with me.”
The ferocious desire I’d seen on her face after the kiss was replaced with an almost innocent surprise. She drew her chin back into her neck and let her purse slide from her shoulder. “Wait. Brazil . . . the country?”
For a split second, I did wonder what other Brazil there was, but I didn’t push it. I’d surprised her, and I dug the way that felt. “Shit, we’d have so much fun. Even if you didn’t want to do the audio for the show, I could fly you down with me. All expenses paid.”
Her lips parted slightly. She swallowed hard and crossed her arms. “I . . . I’ve got so many . . . ,” she stammered, blinking like she had dust in her eyes. “But what about . . . what about . . . the jobs I’ve already got lined up here? And the General? And . . . my nephew . . . And I mean . . .” She took a deep breath and gasped, “When?”
Jesus, I liked making her babble. I wanted to whisk her right off her feet. I wanted to see her drink daiquiris out of halved coconuts. I wanted to samba with her in Rio until the sun came up. But none of this could be figured out with her halfway out of my truck with the engine running. “I’m not asking you to run away with me . . . yet,” I said, only half teasing. “I’m talking about a week or two. How about we talk about it tonight?”
Still with wide eyes, she slipped out of the passenger’s seat. Again she swallowed hard, gripping her purse tightly in one hand, and nodded. “OK,” she said in barely a whisper. “I’m babysitting my nephew tonight, but I’d love to make you dinner. Then we can . . . talk. Some more. About all this.”
“You’re on,” I said, revving my engine.
“See you at seven thirty, then,” she said slowly and closed the door. I put the truck in drive and rolled down the street, watching her in my rearview mirror. But she didn’t turn toward her house. She didn’t move at all. Instead she just stood there, with her fingers pressed to her lips, and watched me drive away.
Something about her posture made me think that she looked almost . . . scared. But that couldn’t be right, I thought, as I rounded the corner to go back to the Willows. Had to be surprise. Yeah. Had to be.
Back at the Willows, I took a shower so long I used up all the hot water. Full disclosure: I got involved in using the girly bath and shower stuff that I bought for her.
Verdict: absolutely awesome. Especially the salt scrub.
I toweled off and got dressed and then headed downstairs. I flipped my computer open and lined up the rough cuts to send to Markowitz. I put in some good hours working on the barbecue segment, patched together some rough stuff for the Mary Goodwin segment, and sketched out some new ideas for the episodes that remained. I’d planned on a total of three, but there had to be ways to stretch it out—I had to be able to stay for longer than a week. We could go out to Tybee Island or drive up to Hilton Head. Five episodes, maybe. Or six. But even twenty episodes wouldn’t give me enough time with her. Wherever I went next, I really did want her with me. It was fast, it was a bit crazy, but it was really that simple. Brazil would be a fucking blast.
My phone began to buzz and cut into my thoughts. I’d personalized the vibrate setting for Markowitz to be one solid and annoying thrum. Like a tornado warning from the National Weather Service. I pulled my phone from my pocket and read the text from him.
Gimme the goods, Powers!
How are the glutes?
I tucked my phone back between the couch cushions while it buzzed away. Markowitz was a rapid-fire texter, but I’d learned from a whole lot of experience that really only the first text mattered. The rest of them were almost always irrelevant updates on chia smoothies, his last trip to the gym, and his feeling on his newest pair of bike shorts. In my head I heard Lily cooing, Bless his heart!
Yes indeed.
So I ignored Markowitz and refocused on the Lovers’ Lane segment. Looking back at me was Lily’s beautiful face. I hit play and heard her correcting me, schooling me in Southern Lingo 101. The camera loved her, and I decided to keep all the footage I had of her because I couldn’t stand the idea of cutting any of it. I put each of the segments into the video editor and patched them together. All the rough cuts would go to our editors in LA, but first I liked to run it by Markowitz so he could see where the episodes were headed. I put placeholder spots in at the opening and the end, which I marked with the subtitle Drone pan in/Drone pan out. Then I saved the file, compressed it, and shared it with Markowitz.
Within half an hour, he was calling. This time, he was FaceTiming me. It was about fifty-fifty that he actually hit the phone icon. The rest of the time, it was video. Sweaty video.
I hit the answer button, and his wet and jostling face appeared on the screen. “Powers! Just saw the rough cut! Is that the audio engineer? Is that Ms. Jameson?”
“That’s her.” I glanced at her on my computer screen. I’d paused it midgiggle. It might’ve been my favorite still frame of her. For now. Once I saw the video of us from last night, I was pretty sure I was going to have some new favorites. X-rated ones.
“What a cutie!” Markowitz panted, beaming at me through the screen. “She’s terrific! Such a good idea to put her in the show! Ten out of ten! Love that Southern charm!”
“She’s a natural, right?”
“Absolutely! As your producer, I’m contractually obliged to say don’t fall in love, but as your friend, I’m contractually obliged to say that you look happy! And I’m happy about that!” he said, panting the whole damned time. Smiling and head bobbing around, he reminded me of a super excited yellow Lab.
Markowitz and I were hardly the types of dudes who went out for beers and wings on Friday nights—not least because he was a hard-core gluten-free vegan. But all his eccentricities aside, he was, effectively, my work wife. Or work husband. Whatever. He’d been my date to more red carpet events than I could possibly count. There was nobody I was in contact with more often than him. When it came down to it, there was no point in lying to him. There was no point in pretending that all this didn’t matter, or that it was all for the sake of the show. It wasn’t. It was more than that. I felt it in my gut.
My own smiling face reflected back at me from the thumbnail in the corner of the FaceTime feed. Other guys felt this way, never me. Until now. Like I was watching some other guy in some other life, I watched myself run my hand over my scruff and say, “I am happy, man. I really am.”
“Which gives me an idea!” He gave me some jazz hands. “One word. Cohost!”
It was a classic Markowitz Idea Fart: presumptuous, half-baked, and over the top. She hadn’t even said yes to Brazil yet, and here Markowitz was putting her name before mine on the credits—permanently. “How many shots of espresso have you had today? Did you double up on your Adderall?”
“Four triple shots and very likely!” He sped up on the elliptical and the video feed got stuck in blocky pixels, but the audio was still coming through. “Think of the male demographic! Those boys will be falling all over themselves! Her fan group will break the internet! She’ll be America’s sweetheart!”
I rubbed my face with my hand and shook my head at the camera. “Take your Rescue Remedy and call me later,” I said and ended the call. I slumped back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling, laughing to myself. But I did have to admit, I fucking loved the idea. Not of her as America’s sweetheart, no. But the idea of her as my sweetheart and cohost. The idea of her by my side, the two of us cruising at thirty thousand feet, flying off into the sunset to have endless adventures together. Champagne in first class and making the world our own. Yeah. That. Goddamn, I loved the sound of that.