Page 126 of A Better Place

“That works for me.” I shrug my shoulders then reach out for her hand.

“Want a tour? Since I was rude and didn’t give you one earlier?”

“I’d love that.”

“You sure you’re up for it? It’s a pretty big space. Don’t want you to get a cramp after eating.”

She rolls her eyes at me, adorable.

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

I guide her into the living room, which is about ten steps off the kitchen/dining room. “Allow me to welcome you to the living area. As you can see, I chose to decorate with warm earth tones,” I begin but am cut off by her laughter. I walk her down the short hallway and point into the spare room, “Lily’s room. She chose a pallete in shades of green.”

She snorts, but I am not deterred.

I point into the bathroom. “The bathroom. The tub is seriously impressive,” I joke as I point to the tub that looks like it would only fit a toddler.

“And finally, the room you’ve been dying to see… my boudoir.”

A giggle bubbles out of her before she rolls her eyes at me and steps over the threshold into my room. It’s pretty basic. My furniture is made of a dark stain, my colors navy blue and white. She walks around slowly, much like I did when I first entered her bedroom, looking at the pictures I have on my dresser. They’re mostly of Lily and my family, but the one in the center is a picture I took of her when she didn’t know. She was cheering for Jack at the state football game, a smile on her face so bright that I couldn’t help myself.

I watch the rise and fall of her chest as she rolls her lips together.

There’s also a picture that Tess took of Carly, Lily, Jack, and me at the wedding. And one of Jack cooking at Balance that I don’t think she’s ever seen. On my nightstand, I have one single frame and a lamp. The picture is the selfie that I took of the two of us before we walked into Emily’s wedding. She smiles as she picks up the frame and traces the picture with her finger.

“That was a good day,” she murmurs.

“It was.” I nod.

“I mean, even with bitch-face coming.” She wrinkles her nose.

I chortle. “This is true. But it turned out alright.”

“It did. I still can’t…”

“No talk of her, okay? This is our night, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on,” I say, reaching out my hand to her.

We walk back into the kitchen and refill our drinks. I needed to get her out of my bedroom. I don’t want her to think that I only invited her over here for the sole purpose of getting her into my bed. But I had a lot of thoughts leaning the other direction going through my head as we stood there, her scent overwhelming in the small space.

We walk into the living room, and she looks around. I stand back, leaning my shoulder against the wall, letting her explore my space. As soon as she sees my vintage record player in the corner, she smiles at me. Her delicate fingers run over the aged instrument, admiring it as well as the old records I have sitting on the shelf below. Some of my records I’ve had since I was young enough to appreciate music. Some I’ve accumulated over time — at old record stores, garage sales. Everything from the Doors and Bruce Springsteen to the Beatles and Eric Clapton sits on my shelf. There’s something about listening to the crackle and pop behind the lyrics and music.

“Does this work?” she asks, turning slightly toward me.

I nod my head and unfold my arms, then push off the wall and walk over. I pull out Eric Clapton’s Slowhand album and adjust the needle to play “Wonderful Tonight.” I take her glass from her, set it on the coffee table, and extend my hand. When she places her small palm in mine, I tug her closer.

We sway side to side, her hand at my chest, my arm around her waist, much like we did at Emily’s wedding. And just like I did then, I stare at her in awe, grateful that she’s allowed me to be the person she opened up to. My eyes take her in. She looked absolutely stunning at the wedding. But here, in my apartment, when she’s in a casual tan chunky sweater and black leggings, she’s at her most beautiful. Because she’s Carly.

No words are spoken while we dance together. No words need to be spoken. The song says it all. The soft crackle combined with the smooth sound of the Eric Clapton’s voice.

When the song comes to an end, I reach over and lift the needle, stopping the sound of music coming from the speakers. I stand back up, and Carly is watching me with a softness in her eyes that hits me straight in the gut.

I clear my throat. “Cheesecake?”

She shakes her head.

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