Page 7 of Worth the Scandal
I have no idea what time it is, we fell asleep when the birds were back up again. The ocean outside crashes rough and loud against the beach below. This spot is unreal; it’s not too city but it’s definitely not my usual cup of tea either. I blink my eyes open and the sun’s threatening to flicker through her curtains like it doesn’t care what kind of night we had, like it isn’t wrecking the perfect shadows that danced across her skin hours ago between the darkness and the faint light of her bedside lamp. The salt air is refreshing here though, a thin film coats the giant glass windows, and I can see the rust from here on the balcony door.
She’s asleep beside me, tangled in white sheets and even whiter light. One hand curled beneath her cheek, the other resting just near mine like it drifted there in her dreams.
God help me—I could stay here forever.
But I won’t.
Because I can’t.
I press my head back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling of her tiny, chaotic, oddly comforting apartment. It still smells like that watermelon candle she lit—before she finally decided we had to sleep—her and the echo of sex. There’s a bra dangling from her floor lamp near the bookshelf and white chair, an empty wine glass on the timber bedside table, and her silk dress in a puddle on the floor like it fainted there.
It should feel like just another night and just another woman I’ve seduced.
It doesn’t.
She isn’t.
I turn to look at her again, like maybe I imagined it all. Like maybe my brain invented a girl who laughs at herself mid-orgasm and apologises for her mess like it defines her. A girl who kisses like she’s been waiting her whole life for your mouth. A girl who told me, somewhere between 2am and 3am, that she hasn’t cleaned in weeks because her mum died. Not long after a huge fight they had unfolded, because after 30 years married to her dad she’d moved on and was divorcing him—the same week she found out her deadbeat ex cheated on her, and she hasn’t really been living since—just drowning in anything that gave her an escape from this reality. Lots of alcohol by the sounds of it and judging by the empty wine bottles stashed near the bin.
And I told her something I’ve never told anyone, too.
About how I keep everything in my life just so—my diet, my training, my mind—because if I don’t, it all falls apart. About how I haven’t spoken to my own mother in months, and my father’s demands that I run home and take his place in the family business. About the brother I lost. About the guilt I carry like an extra rib no one sees.
She didn’t look away. Her eyes softened. The glint of sadness in her eyes gradually fading for a moment. A smile as pretty as hers should never be overshadowed by a frown. I like making her smile.
She just nodded, her fingers tracing over my chest like she was memorising me. I don’t know what possessed me to talk like that. Maybe it was the few beers I had. Maybe it was the fact I knew I’d never see her again. There’s a beauty in knowing you can bare all with a complete stranger you’ll never have to face again.
But I wanted to.God, I wanted to.
I could marry a girl like that. Any man would be stupid not to.
One who makes you laugh mid-sentence and moan mid-kiss. One who doesn’t know how stunning she is with messy hair and a coffee stain on her pyjama shirt. One whose dreams spill out of her like poetry. One who meets your grief with her own and doesn’t flinch.
One whose brain matches her body—and whose ambition matches her appetite. One who makes a man like me feel like this afteronenight.
She’s a rare one.
And I’m a coward.
A coward who’s about to let her slip through my grasp.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake her. My shirt’s draped over the back of a dining chair around her tiny two-person table. I pull it on, then walk barefoot through her apartment. It’s quaint but cluttered in a charming way. The kind of space that tells you a lot about someone. Books stacked by the lounge, photos of her and a friend—Jen, I think she said—on the fridge. A calendar still flipped to the wrong month. Last month, with a date circled that reads “mum died.” I make a mental note of the date, I’m not sure why yet.
I clean.
I don’t know why I am doing that either. I just do. I wipe the counters, wash the dishes, take out the rubbish. I fold her dress and her lacy little underwear. I stack her books. Maybe I’m trying to make it easier for her. Maybe I’m trying to give her something to wake up to—some kind of peace.
Maybe I just needed to feel useful to her one more time.
Maybe I wanted her to know that even though I’m about to walk away that I’m one of the good ones. Restore her faith in men that her shitty ex ruined.
I find a pen and a pad of sticky notes laid out on the small wooden hallway table by the front door. I stare at the paper for too long, willing myself to write on it. My hand hovers over the little yellow pad. I tap the pen on my lips and bite down on the lid. Fuck am I making a huge mistake.
Leave your number.
Just do it.
But I can’t.
