Curtis: And just FYI, the video made me extremely happy as well. And not just because of the nip-slip.
I don’t really know how to respond to any of that. I snuggle under my covers, and when I roll on my side, my head on the pillow, my eyes close as the light smell of his cologne immediately fills my senses. My heart beats inside my chest as memories of what we did early this morning flash through my mind. His head resting right where mine is right now, with me on top of him as he gripped my hips and looked up at me as if I was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on. His head resting here later, when I’d fallen asleep with him wrapped around me like he’d never let go.
I close my eyes, feeling myself start to drift off, twitching awake enough to see his text.
Curtis: You there?
But my eyes are too heavy to allow me to respond. I’d barely gotten three hours of sleep this morning before I ran and hid in Jackson Square all day.
I let out a grumpy huff when my phone starts to vibrate over and over, and I peek through one blurry eye so I can aim for the red Deny button. But my finger-to-one-eye coordination must be way off, because next thing I know, a swimmy image of Curtis’s handsome face fills my screen, making me sit my head up and blink several times until I can see him clearly.
“You FaceTimed me?” I ask stupidly, because duh.
“You weren’t responding. And you were naked,” he replies, as if that makes any sense whatsoever.
I rest my head back down on the pillow. “What does one have to do with the other?”
He scowls, and it’s so cute I can barely stand it. “What if someone broke into your house while you were in nothing but a towel?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish before I can put together a sentence. Is he serious right now? “Are you serious right now? Honey, you need to put your crazy back in the box, mmkay?”
He lifts one brow. “Then why didn’t you respond? Did I freak you out?”
I sigh. “No. I laid down, and the second I inhaled my pillow and smelled your scent, it’s like I melted and can pretty much see myself being comatose for the next fourteen hours or so.”
His face goes soft. “But you don’t sleep in, remember?”
I close my eyes. “Then you better let me fall asleep so I can get enough hours in.”
He lets out a small chuckle. “All right, sugar. Message me when you get up, okay?”
All the muscles in my entire body, including my face go lax as I breathe in deep and slow, taking him into my lungs and letting it soothe me like nothing has before. My voice is mumbled, and the last thing I remember saying is “Okay, caveman. Sleep yummy… or whatev—”
Chapter 20
Curtis
I WATCH HER sleep for a good five minutes before she shifts onto her stomach, burying her phone beneath her. It kills me, but I end the call so I don’t run her battery down. Before I hit End Call, I had the fleeting thought to prop my phone on my pillow just so it’d feel like she was sleeping next to me, but that would be like… one hundred percent creeper status.
Needy bitch status.
Stage Five clinger status.
Everything I’ve never been before status.
I shake my head at myself. “Get ahold of yourself, man.”
But it feels like a piece of me is missing. Granted, it had felt like an entire half of me was missing all day, after realizing she was never coming home before I had to leave, while I was on my flight—which I refused to get the onboard WiFi so I wouldn’t obsessively be checking my notifications—and on the drive home from LAX airport. It wasn’t until after I showered and forced myself to eat something that I finally allowed myself to open Instagram.
I clicked on her profile, heat filling my chest when I saw the button read Follow Back instead of just Follow, and I clicked it immediately, hope springing up inside me and making my heart beat erratically. The first picture I came to was one she had snapped only a half-hour before, in front of her TV with our mutual friends on the screen. She was absolutely beautiful.
Her eyes were a little puffier than they were yesterday. Had she been crying, or was she just tired? I both loved and hated the idea of her crying over me. I wanted her to miss me, wanted her to want to be with me. The selfish part of me wanted her to be sad that I left, wanted her to be mad at herself for running and missing out on a day we could’ve spent together. But the bigger part of me, the part that wanted to protect and take care of the woman I never want to spend another day without, felt sick over the fact that she might’ve been upset all day, enough to bring her to tears. It made me want to fly right back to Louisiana and break down her door once I knew she was back home when she came out of hiding, and force her to see me again, force her to acknowledge these feelings between us.
And with these thoughts in mind, I took a breath for courage and messaged her privately. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.
As I lie here in bed now, a couple hours later, it’s hard to believe how wonderfully the conversation went. I had expected her to ignore me, or to tell me to leave her alone, or to at least insist she decided she couldn’t let this thing happen between us, at which time I was fully prepared to convince her otherwise.
But then she told me she was sorry for running. She wanted to be stronger and hated she left this impression on me of her being weak. It seemed to me she just needed us to get to know each other better. Which I’m all for.
For me, it’s signed, sealed, and delivered. I know down to the marrow of my bones that she’s the one for me. If I hadn’t known when I saw her in the frozen pizza aisle of the grocery store, then I would’ve known the second I word-vomited secrets to her that I never told anyone. If I hadn’t realized then, I would’ve for sure known when she stuck up for me and protected my privacy by taking those students to the guy she knew, so they could get the information they needed for their project. And finally, if it still hadn’t occurred to me that I had found the one my soul wanted to reach out and cling to, then it would’ve slapped me in the face the moment I sank inside her tight heat and everything in the world disappeared but her.
But even feeling all this inside myself, I know we need to get to know each other. I know we need to learn each other’s thoughts, likes, and dislikes. Each other’s opinions and tastes. A long-lasting relationship can’t be built on a soul-deep connection and physical attraction alone. And thankfully, everything I’ve learned about her thus far has only made me like her even more. Plus, the more she gets to know me, the more she’ll trust me. Then, she’ll understand I wasn’t just telling her what she wanted to hear when I said it’s her I want, and if that means never having biological children of my own, so be it. I’ve been to countless countries around the world, cooking for fundraising events involving homeless children. There are plenty of kids out there who need homes, and from what Erin told me last night, it was always her dream to someday become a mother. No one ever said she still couldn’t be. It just won’t be to a child who has our DNA.
Or maybe they could. Can’t they like… take her egg and my swimmers and have someone else grow it? That’s a thing, right? She never said anything about her eggs being bad. Just that her uterus was “broken.”
It’s with these wild thoughts of babies and laboratories and eggs and jizzing in a cup that I fall asleep, and all night I dream of Erin and a family we create, consisting of kids of different races and ages, and one with white-blonde hair and turquoise eyes, just like mine.
Chapter 21
Erin
IT’S BEEN A month. A whole month since that fateful day I ran headfirst into the man even my dreams couldn’t conjure he’s so fucking perfect. I’ve lost count of the hours we’ve spent messaging, talking, and FaceTiming.
Before, I never would’ve believed a long-distance relationship could work out so great. For us though, it’s been exactly what I personally needed in order to heal on my own and also get to know Curtis without being swayed by the undeniable physical attraction between us.
At first, a week into waking up and falling asleep talking to him, it’d been frustrating. We both sat down with our calendars that night while we video chatted, and nothing lined up for us to be able to see each other anytime soon. He had chef obligations almost every weekend for events, and I had back-to-back patients who needed me during the week. On the one Friday coming up that I could’ve taken off, he had to film an episode of his show. By the end of the conversation, it had felt almost doomed, as if we’d never be able to see each other again.
But the very next day, Emmy called me, excitement pouring out with her every word. “We’ve been nominated for Best Documentary TV Series! Oh my God, Rin, please. Tell me you can take off and come be there for the award show!”
It was three weeks away, far enough in advance that I could maneuver my appointments around and be able to take a four-day weekend. So I told her, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Running on pure euphoria that I’d get to see my best friend for the first time in months, I immediately called Curtis as soon as Emmy and I hung up, telling him the news.
“Well how about that? I guess Emmy and I will have to fight over who gets to take you as our date. Because my show was nominated for the Reality TV Series category!” he told me, and my face grew instantly hot and my heart dove into my gut.
It had been one thing trying to make a plan to see each other, to be in his physical presence for only the second time since we met and had grown so close. Closer than I’ve ever been with another human being before. Closer than even Emmy and me. But it was a whole different ballgame when there was an actual date circled in hot pink gel pen on my calendar.
I had mumbled something stupid and obvious about Dean being her date, making him laugh, and apparently hearing the nervousness in my voice, he immediately assured me. “It’s going to be okay, sugar. No reason to be worried. It’s just me.”
Just him.
Just him?
Him is the greatest thing ever created other than the bomb-ass Instant Pot gizmo he bought me—which he’s taught me to cook several more meals in, walking me through it while we video chat, most of the time him in a hotel room or on a break at an event.
Him is the man who sets my blood on fire, sending hot waves of wetness with the simple attachment of a selfie.
Him is the person I see in my dreams every night, no matter the sometimes-flabbergasting stories I hear from patients throughout the day.
For the past three weeks, he’s been trying to make me believe that the second we see each other again, it’ll be like he never left. He’s convinced that it’s adrenaline from the anticipation making us feel all jittery and nervous. I can’t count how many times I’ve used my “Hey, who’s the psychologist here?” in these past twenty-one days.
And thank God for being a therapist, because as I sit on the plane, waiting for it to come to a stop at the gate in Los Angeles, I practice every breathing technique I can recall from my training. I feel nauseous with anxiety, and I close my eyes, wanting to kick myself for listening to Curtis when he mansplained I needed to eat something before the flight, since it would be over four hours before I had access to real food again, and “the pretzels and crackers they pass out aren’t good enough, sugar.”
My temples grow wet with cold sweat as the plane finally parks and the door opens. I’m only in the second row back, because Curtis insisted on buying me a First-Class ticket so he could “see me a few minutes faster” than if I sat in Coach. I feel fidgety and worried as I grab my purse from beneath the seat in front of me and stand, side-stepping out of my row and into the aisle. I give the flight attendant and pilots a weak smile as they tell me to have a nice day and start to shuffle my way up the gangway.
God, what the hell is wrong with me? Is this a normal reaction to seeing a man you’re pretty sure you’ve irrevocably fallen in love with after being apart for a month?
My psychologist mind tells me it’s fine. I might be on the verge of an anxiety attack, a panic attack even, but the moment I see Curtis, it’ll all be fine. The moment he wraps me in his big, strong arms and I inhale his scent once more, after it finally wore off my pillow a couple weeks ago, all will be right in my world, my serotonin will kick in, and all this craziness going on inside me that’s manifesting these uncomfortable physical reactions will level out and disappear.
At the end of the tunnel, the light grows brighter as I step out into the airport. It’s smaller than I imagined. You see all these tabloid photos of celebrities in baseball caps and sunglasses at LAX and you’d think it’d be extravagant or at least lined with countless stores and restaurants. But it’s actually kind of dull, only a handful of stores and a couple food court style restaurants, at least in this terminal.
I glance up and see the sign for baggage claim, swallowing the saliva gathering under my tongue. My heartbeat feels fast and shallow, like the flapping of a hummingbird’s wings as I make my way around the corner and out of the secured All-Gates area, and I see the circular conveyer belts up ahead.
There are benches next to them, and as the edges of my visions start to vignette, I tell myself if I can just make it to those benches without giving in to the full-on panic attack creeping up inside me, then I can reward myself by sitting down and putting my head between my knees until I can calm down.
I make it halfway there.
And stop.
Because stepping between me and my destination is the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even more handsome in person than I remembered. Even more handsome than in the countless FaceTime calls we’ve had over the last month.
And that handsome, excited, smiling face takes me in for a moment before his expression falters, and he rushes forward just as my knees start to wobble. He somehow catches me right as they give out, and just as I was hoping, with one deep breath, my lungs fill with the comforting scent of him, and it makes half of all the terrible nerves rushing through my veins pump their brakes as I melt into him. Letting him take my weight. Allowing him to just hold me up while I relax against him.
“You all right, sugar?” he breathes against my hair at the crown of my head, and I bask in the rumble of his voice against my cheek as it presses to his chest.
“I am now,” I tell him, and we stay like that for I don’t know how long as I soak up his strength.
When I think I can finally stand on my own, I pull my head back enough to look up at him, and his eyes dart back and forth between mine, making his own assessment before he lowers his head and kisses me gently.
This isn’t the kiss I’d pictured thousands of times when I’d imagine what our reconnection would be like. I thought I’d spot him and run full-speed until I slammed into him, climbing up him like spider monkey, and latch onto his face with passion.
This though? This is a kiss of relief, of gratefulness, of love. This sweet, soft press of lips I feel in my heart, not my core. And ahhh, here comes that serotonin I was hoping for.
My eyes are still closed when we finally part, and when I look up at him, he’s staring at me intently. “What is it?” I whisper.
“You look awfully pale, sugar. You feeling okay?” he asks, and I step back to grab and pull my purse back up on my shoulder after it had fallen to the floor when I almost collapsed.
Big mistake.
Just as I bend over to pick up my bag and am about to tell him, yeah, I’m fine now, that terrible tingling feeling starts in my chest and creeps up the back of my throat. My skin grows hot just as a chill runs through me, and the sweat that had dried on my temples starts to bead once more.
“Oh fuck,” I hiss, glancing around frantically.
“Er—” Curtis doesn’t even get my name out before I take off, leaving my purse behind as I bolt to the tall black trashcan near the bench I’d been aiming for just minutes ago.
“I’m sorry!” I cry out to the people standing nearby waiting for their baggage to be loaded onto the conveyor belt, just as I take hold of the black metal,
put my whole head inside the open lid, and proceed to empty my stomach.
I hear who I hope is Curtis hurry up behind me and feel his big hands start pulling my hair away from my face. His fingers are so gentle as he gathers it all at the back of my head and holds it there with one hand, using the other to rub my back.
“She okay?” I hear in a familiar male voice, but I don’t turn to figure out who it is.
“I’ve got her, bro. You mind running into the bathroom right there and getting some cold, wet paper towels?” Curtis asks quietly, and the guy must agree, because I hear his tennis shoes squeak against the floor as he walks briskly away from us.
Right when I think I’m done heaving—surely my stomach must be completely empty by now—I try to swallow and feel a chunk of my breakfast still hanging out. The feeling brings on another wave of bile until I’m dry-heaving, whimpering at the awful feeling and internally dying of embarrassment that this is how I greeted Curtis, literally the hottest man alive, after having a long-distance relationship with him for the past month.
“Here you go, man,” comes the voice again, and when I groan in relief at the feel of the coldness hitting the back of my neck and feel another press into my hand, which I use to wipe my mouth, I peek up, seeing it’s Carlos.
He waves at me sheepishly, the look of pity on his face as I try to give him a smile.
“Hey, Carlos. Thank you,” I say through a sniffle, blinking away tears that filled my eyes while I barfed my brains out.
“Hey, sweetheart. You feeling better?” he asks.
I take a moment, still bent over the trashcan, hair still pulled back in Curtis’s hand, and assess how I’m feeling before I attempt to stand up straight. When all I feel is emptiness in my gut, the queasiness gone, I nod and push up from the can, and Curtis lets go of my hair, wrapping his arms around my waist to keep me steady.
“I feel much better now,” I murmur, feeling bashful. “Sorry, guys.”
“I didn’t realize you were that worried about seeing me again, sugar,” Curtis says, and when I look up at him, he uses the knuckle of his pointer finger to trace my jawline gently. My eyes flutter closed at the sweetness of the touch, and then I meet his gaze.
DISHING UP LOVE Page 19
