Page 122 of Better Hate than Never

“That’s the beauty of capitalism, Katydid. Demand drives supply. The proliferation of Kates would lead to unprecedented doughnut-industry growth.”

A sleepy laugh jumps out of me. Christopher’s fingertip grazes my forehead, then swirls around my other temple. My eyelids feel heavy. “Probably for the best there’s only one me.”

He’s quiet, his touch circling my temple slowing. “There could only ever be one you.” His mouth presses gently to my forehead as he breathes in.

I’m so relieved, so exhausted, so happy, as I drift off in the bliss of a heavy blanket, a soft kiss to my forehead, two strong arms, the warm, safe place of his chest holding that heart whose beat I treasure.

Whose closeness I hold fast to all night.

•THIRTY-FOUR•

Christopher

The kitchen is quiet but for the faint chirp of a few stubborn birds who stick it out here this time of year, hovering on the windowsill. I smile at them and sip my coffee, savoring how different it is to have slept well, wrapped around Kate. Even with the handful of times her long wiggly legs kicked my shins, those sharp knees and elbows poked me, her wild hair spread over my mouth, tickling my face, it was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.

The peace I’ve never felt before, holding her, was knowing she was safe, she was with me. I know the day will come, God, do I hope only briefly, that I’ll have to give that up. Let her get on a plane and go on an adventure and trust her to come back to me in one piece. That’s something I’ll have to seek help for, and I’ll take all the help I can get, whatever it takes to make it possible.

I pick up my phone, figuring now’s as good a time as any to look up therapists, and feel my smile shift up a gear as I see the picture I already set as my wallpaper. It’s one I took of her when I woke up and left her in my bed, snoring, stretched like a starfish across the mattress, illuminated by the faintest dawn light seeping through the curtains.

While the pumpkin pancakes sizzle in the pan, I set down my coffee, text Curtis to let him know I’m taking a personal day, then google therapists in the area. The sizzle’s a little louder than I want, so I turn down the heat.

And then I hear footsteps thundering down the stairs.

I freeze when I see Kate turn the corner into the kitchen, a mountain of sheets in her arms, her eyes red-rimmed.

A thousand explanations run through my head and none of them are good.

She deeply regrets sleeping with me.

To the point that she stripped the bed to destroy the evidence.

She thinks I’m some pervert because I begged her last night to smother me with her vulva.

Three times.

“Hey,” I say quietly. Walking toward her carefully, the way I do with Puck when he’s caught in the rain, wet and pissed, and is about to bolt under the porch.

She doesn’t hiss. Worse, she peers past me, gets one look at the pumpkin pancakes, and bursts into tears.

“Oh, Jesus.” I close the distance between us and tug her into my arms, bedsheets squished between us. “Kate, honey, why are you out of bed? And crying? What’s wrong?”

A sob jumps out of her. “Y-you’re perfect.”

“I’m not and you know it. In fact, you’re the one who generally reminds me otherwise. What’s got you talking like this?”

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “You gave me eight orgasms last night—”

“Ten, actually.”

“—and you big spooned me all night even though I know I’m a nightmare to share a bed with. I kick in my sleep. Then I woke up to a note to stay in bed because you were making me p-pumpkin pancakes”—her lip wobbles, and God, when she cries, I feel like someone’s cutting out my heart—“and what did I do? I smothered you with my vulva twice—no,thrice—last night and woke up with my blood all over your sheets.”

“Ahhh.” I pull back enough to wipe her tears beneath her eyes,before I tuck her snugly back in my arms. “So that’s what’s got you all weepy.”

“I’m notweepy,” she weeps. “I’moverwhelmed. Because you... you did my laundry. You made the most incredible love to me all night and made me breakfast this morning and did my laundry and I bled all over your sheets—”

“Kate.” I tug the sheets out of her arms and toss them over my shoulder. “First, fuck the sheets.”

“They’re Egyptian cotton,” she whispers hoarsely, as I rub her back and she wraps her arms around me, smooshing her cheek against my chest. “One thousand thread count. I checked the tag.”

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