Page 38 of Goodbye Again
“Heck yeah.”
I grin at his use of ‘heck.’ So elementary. So kindergarten teacher. I find that heat warming in my cheeks again, but turn to my cupboard to grab a bottle of pinot noir and a bag of microwavable popcorn.
“Can you grab a couple of glasses from that cabinet and open this so I can get the movie ready?” I ask, setting the bottle opener on the counter.
“Sure.” He does as I ask, and I cue the movie for us. Then I move back to the kitchen and fill a pot of water to warm on the stove, then grab four washcloths from the bathroom.
“Can you believe we just met?” he asks, holding a glass out to me when I return to the kitchen.
“Yes,” I laugh.
“Really? Because your face is covered in mud and you have these weird gold patches underneath your eyes and we’re acting like it’s normal.”
“For me—on a Sunday—it is,” I say, then add, “But yes, I can believe we just met because, aside from all your names, I know very few things about you.”
We clink glasses and take sips of the red liquid velvet.
“We’ll get there,” he says after he takes a sip.
“We will,” I agree, running my tongue over my wine-coated lip. “But first, we have a movie to watch.”
We migrate to the couch with the rest of the bottle of wine, and I press play. Ten minutes into the movie, I return to the kitchen, dipping the washcloths into the pot and wrapping them up like taquitos on a plate. I present them to JP. His green eyes sparkle with a question.
“Peel the under-eye patches off. Use one washcloth to wipe off the mask and the second to cleanse.” I get the VitaminC serum, Hyaluronic Acid, and moisturizer from my bathroom and come back. “Then put these on your face.”
“Oh, magic potions! I knew you were a witch!” He half-smiles as he teases me, but he’s obedient. I can see the skepticism in his eyes but as soon as he puts the warm—borderline hot—washcloth on his face, he groans.
“I know, right?” I say, and he laughs.
“This is amazing.”
“Again, I know.”
We laugh and clean our faces between sips of wine and pauses to catch the movie. When JP reaches for the face serums, I watch the dropperful spill onto his palm and he rubs his hands together, eyeing me.
“Close your eyes,” he orders. And I do it with a smile on my face.
He starts rubbing gentle circles all over my face with his fingertips and I suppress a moan because facial massages are just so underrated. He repeats with the second serum and then moisturizer.
“How’d I do?”
I smile. “Amazing. But it’s your turn.”
I return the favor. The more oils and lotion I rub on his face remind me we haven’t kissed since Seattle. I wonder if we will. If he’s feeling everything I’m feeling tonight. Or if everything is falling hard against a wall of friendship in his mind.
“All done,” I practically whisper as my finger traces his stubbled chin. His gaze falls to my lips and back to my eyes.
The moment is suspended in the air. Time freezes. Hearts pulse. I’m waiting for his lips to fall against mine—his hands on my waist, running underneath my hoodie to find me bare underneath. I’m waiting for him totake, take, takewhat doesn’t belong to him. Not yet. I’m waiting for him to beg for it. But hedoesn’t. Instead, he hands me my wine glass and holds up his. “To us meeting,” he says.
“To us.” I raise my glass just as Kevin lets out a bark and jumps onto the couch, knocking our glasses with his hard head and complete unawareness of space.
Red wine flies through the air. Splashes the wall. Pools on the couch. And leaves a crimson scar on my rug.
“Kevin! Down!” I shout, and he does, wagging his tail, tongue hanging out of his mouth. Then I catch a glimpse of JP, covered in red wine. His entire fresh face has become a pinot noir facial. I attempt to suppress my laugh but it’s impossible. “JP, I’m so sorry.” I’m only a quarter apologetic and seventy-five percent laughing.
“Kevin, place!” I command and my goldendoodle heads to his bed in the dining area. He’ll stay there until I release him. He’s mostly a well-trained dog even though the wine bath in my living room would indicate otherwise.
I can tell JP doesn’t know what to do. He’s dripping in red wine—practically drowning in it—but his eyes are glued on the pastel-colored rug beneath us. “I’m so sorry, Julia. I didn’t think he would—”
