Page 69 of Love Lessons
TWENTY-THREE
Is There a Secret Handshake?
VERA
I gatherup the last few gelato bowls and spoons off the patio table. The sun is low in the sky, and in a little while, I’ll be treated to yet another Italian sunset.
This trip is a fairy tale. The whole crew has just enjoyed our nightly gelato treat. It’s our little ritual—each night a new flavor. And afterwards we gather on the terrace to watch the sunset. Sometimes we sit in the hot tub, and sometimes we sit on the lounge chairs.
The last few evenings, I’ve joined Ian on his chair. We aren’t truly a couple, but we’re behaving like one, if only for a little while. Every night we haveallthe sex and fall asleep in my bed. It’s dreamy.
Actually, for Ian, the “dream” part of the night isn’t always great. I’ve discovered that he has nightmares. A few times I’ve awakened to find him struggling against a foe in his sleep—his upper body twitching, his breath labored.
I always put a hand on his bare shoulder and whisper: “Baby, you’re dreaming.”
Twice he’s rolled over and continued to sleep without a peep. But other times he’ll sit up like a shot—his back heaving as he catches his breath. “Sorry,” he’ll mutter. “Just a dream.” He rises to visit the bathroom and get some water. Then he gets back into bed and hugs me around the waist, and we always go right to sleep.
This morning I’d asked him what he’d dreamt about, and he said he didn’t remember. “That happens sometimes.”
Otherwise, our bed is as perfect a place as I’ve ever been. And I wonder how I’m going to give it up when the trip is over.
I carry the rest of the bowls into the kitchen, where Ian is wiping the counter. My tummy still gets a little fluttery whenever I walk into a room where he is.
As I start to load the bowls into the dishwasher, I notice something weird. “Hold on. I sorted these spoons and forks. Did you just mix them up? Onpurpose?”
“Of course.” Ian looks at me as if I’m speaking Swahili. “If you put all the spoons together, theynest. And they won’t get clean enough.”
“What? Ialwayssort the silverware—that makes putting it away easier. And it always getsperfectlyclean.”
“So you say,” he argues.
“Like I can’t tell the difference?” I yelp. “Just admit that you’re making extra work for yourself.”
“Nah,” he says. “I wouldn’t do that. I’m not one of those people who sorts their laundry into colors, either.”
“Seriously?” I sputter. “Ialwayssort the laundry! What kind of heathen lets their white T-shirts turn pink?”
He holds out his arms and looks down at himself. He’s wearing another threadbare T-shirt announcing a charity road race from seven years ago, plus a pair of khaki shorts. “None of my laundry turns pink, countess. I rest my case.”
“Please,” I scoff. “Like I’d ever take life advice from somebody who puts the toilet paper backwards on the holder.”
Ian and I might be perfectly compatible in bed, but otherwise, we bicker. A lot. It’s just a thing with us. And I can’t seem to stop.
“Guys!” Charli calls from the terrace, where all our friends are waiting. “Stop your strange version of foreplay and get your butts back out here. It’s almost sunset!”
Ian and I lock gazes, not quite ready to give up the Great Dishwasher Debate. But then his clear eyes soften as he gives me a sexy little grin that says,busted again. He opens the refrigerator to grab a six-pack of beer and a chilled bottle of wine.
I pick up a basket of unbreakable wine glasses and hurry toward the terrace door. “Coming!” I yell,
“Yeah, you’ll be doing that later,” he drawls under his breath as I pass him.
His voice resonates inside my body in several delicious places. But I march onto the terrace as if I haven’t heard him.
I’m not sure why we bicker so much. Maybe we’re just the kind of people who only get along when the clothes come off.
Outside in the golden evening sunlight, Heidi Jo takes the glasses from me and pulls a corkscrew out of her pocket. Then she takes the wine from Ian, who’s right on my heels. “Neil got outvoted on poker,” she says as she works on opening the bottle. “So it looks like it’s movie night.”
“Awesome!” I chirp. “And it’s the women’s turn to pick.”
