Last Girl

by K. S. Thomas

  I haven’t been grocery shopping yet since I’ve been back so I open the freezer fully prepared to find a carton of pistachio which Penn loves and I loathe. The idea of throwing myself into a petty rant about something ridiculous like crappy ice cream appeals to me on about a million different levels right now.

  One look inside and I slam the freezer door shut again, whining miserably. A second later I yank the handle toward me once more and retrieve the brand new container of Chocolate Conspiracy, my absolute favorite, and head toward my room, spoon in hand. I drag my feet across the hardwood floors because that’s what you do when you’re pathetic, and then I plop even more pathetically onto my bed and start to eat my ice cream straight from the carton.

  I scoop out the biggest spoonful I can and shove it into my mouth before I retrieve my phone from my pocket to text Penn.

  You suck.

  I have time to eat two more massive bites of ice cream before my phone vibrates and his stupid gorgeous face lights up my screen.

  You’re welcome.

  I stare at the words for a long while, empty spoon still dangling from my mouth.

  How long have you been planning this?

  This time he answers me almost instantly.

  Planning what?

  Frustrated, I type out seven different messages all of which I delete before I decide to be blunt but simple.

  Us.

  My levels of frustration only increase when he makes me wait a small eternity for his response this time.

  Wasn’t planned, Trix. There’s only so many times a guy can face losing a girl before he has to come to terms with the fact that he no longer knows how to live without her. And I think you and I both know, you were the last girl on earth I ever would have chosen it to be.

  I read his message at least three times before I slide the phone across the bed and out of sight. Instinct forces me to reach for the ice cream, but when I bring the spoon to my mouth the idea of eating it makes me sick to my stomach. Or maybe I already felt that way. Regardless, I put the ice cream down on the floor and ignore the melty mess it will undoubtedly turn into.

  It takes me a long while to sift through my feelings. Overanalyzing shit can be extremely time consuming, but ultimately the payoff is always worth it. To me. Tonight is no different.

  When I get back out of my bed, I have a newfound conviction and confidence I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Among all the uncertainty I’ve faced my entire life, I’ve finally found something I can count on without a doubt. And the most shocking part isn’t that even after telling myself time and again never to depend on anyone, I still wound up finding someone to depend on, but rather that the someone is Penn.

  Penn

  I knew she couldn’t just let it go. She never does. Usually I don’t give a shit. She can follow whatever random thought she wants to even if it takes her round and round in circles so many times she gets dizzy. Doesn’t faze me one bit. Except today. When that thought is me. And us. And those twisty, winding circles could just as easily take her away from me as they could lead her to me. I’m suddenly rethinking the level of wisdom behind choosing to work tonight and part of me is tempted to race home and make sure her slightly psycho brain doesn’t take her so far off track I’ll never be able to bring her back. But I can’t. So I have no choice but to let it go. Only I can’t seem to do that either.

  “Fucking pussy,” I huff under my breath.

  “What?” Dale stops mid step in front of me. “Did you just call me a fucking pussy?”

  I laugh painfully. “No, dude. I was calling myself a fucking pussy.”

  He starts to move again until he reaches the sofa across from me and has a seat in it. This will probably be the only time tonight we’ll be able to sit at all.

  “Let me guess. A woman?” Dale is older than me by about a decade. Married, kids. The whole shebang. Rumor has it he was quite the whore back in the day, but you’d never know it to hear him now. Man never shuts up about his wife. Talks about her like she walks on fucking water and turns the shit to gold while she’s doing it. And for the first time in my life I almost understand why.

  “Not a woman. Trix.”

  He grins. “There something about Trix that keeps her from being categorized as a woman?”

  I groan, running my hands through my hair. “I fucking wish. It would make my life about a million times easier, I can tell you that much.”

  He chuckles. “So, you finally figured it out, did you?”

  I take a sobering breath and admit it. “That I love her? Yeah. I figured that mess out a while back. Tricky part is, I think she just figured it out as well.”

  Being in love with her was easier when she didn’t know about it. Lying to myself is one thing but I’ve never lied to her. And I’m not going to start now. Even if she’d prefer it if I did.

  “Why’s that make it complicated? I’ve seen you two together. There’s never any telling where one of you stops and the other starts. The way you move and interact, it’s so fluid and natural, it’s almost as if it’s choreographed.”

  He’s not wrong. I used to think it came from being around each other for so long, knowing each other inside and out. Then I thought about Bo. How I spent every day with him for twelve years and still couldn’t figure out how to coordinate sitting down on the same couch together to watch a baseball game without bumping into each other and spilling shit in the process. Pop still has the wing sauce stains on his living room carpet to prove it.

  “It’s complicated because she doesn’t know how to be happy for more than five minutes at a time, which is about how long I’m used to being in a relationship. And five minutes of being together, however amazing those five minutes would be, would never be worth spending a lifetime without her if we both bail when the time is up.”

  Dale leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and looking more serious than I think I’ve ever seen him. “You only think that because you haven’t had five minutes with her.” Before I can say anything or even fully compute what he’s telling me, a call comes in and we both jump to our feet. For the rest of the night, my mind is completely tied up in work. Every thought is directed toward the task at hand. Every thought but one. And it consists of only one word. Trix.

  By the time my shift is over I’m fried, mentally and physically. If I’d had even half a chance to feel the things my brain spent all night trying to conjure up by bombarding me with images of a blonde beauty with mismatched socks any time I was faced with a moment of silence or stillness, I’d be too wiped out to even move now. As it is, I feel like I’m dragging myself over the threshold when I walk into our house the following thirty-six hours later.

  I pause in the doorway and listen, trying to pinpoint where she is, but the house is completely quiet. Since I don’t feel up to searching the place one room at a time, I head for the bathroom where a hot shower is calling my name.

  When I get out, I still don’t see any sign of her. I glance at the clock. She’ll have left for work by now. I guess that’s a good thing. I’m not in any frame of mind to hash things out with her. Exhaustion and hunger battle it out momentarily, then exhaustion wins and I go straight to bed.

  When I finally wake up hours later, I feel halfway human again. A starving human, but human none the less. After the way things went the last time we shared a meal and the way she bypassed me this morning, I’m not holding out hope that Trix will be joining me for supper. As I’m walking down the hall with still no sound or sight of her, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll even be seeing her again before breakfast. I don’t generally have to go about seeking her out while I’m home. The place is small so crossing paths frequently is inevitable. Usually.

  It’s not until I get closer to the kitchen that I start to hear noises, and more importantly, smell something. Something delicious.

  I move my feet a little faster to get to the door and swing it open. There she is. Her back is to me so she has no idea I’m here yet, and for a moment,
I’m not going to do anything about that. I’m just going to enjoy the view.

  Trix is wearing her usual mismatched socks, a flared little teal skirt covered in daisies that comes to just above her knee and a snug white t-shirt that’s not hiding anything, least of all the fact that she’s not wearing a bra, which becomes noticeable when she swings sideways to reach for some spices on a nearby shelf. As if all of this wasn’t a thing of beauty already, she’s standing at the stove checking a multitude of pots and pans while bobbing back and forth to some internal rhythm I’ll never be privy to and will spend the rest of my life wishing I could hear.

  Considering she’s standing next to our gas stove and I like her perfect body minus any third degree burns, I’m careful to approach her without startling her in the process.

  “Having a dinner party I don’t know about?”

  She smiles and I feel my heart lunge up into my throat. “Yep.”

  Not the answer I was expecting. “Am I invited?”

  She reaches out to stir something in the pan sitting on the back right burner and nods.

  I wait until she turns her focus back on me. “Anyone else?”

  She shakes her head and adjusts the heat on the main burner.

  “Any special occasion?”

  Her smile widens. “Not at all.”

  “You do realize you’re not making any sense right now, right?”

  She shrugs. “You’re not going to try and overanalyze my actions are you?”

  I chuckle. “Well, I’m not going to now!” I lean a little closer to try and get a look at what she’s cooking. It smells really familiar, but I can’t put my finger on what it is and since nearly every pot is covered with a lid at the moment, I’m not going to find out anytime soon.

  Since she pretty much called me out for asking too many questions, I turn away from her and move toward the cupboard to retrieve some plates and set the table. Trix doesn’t usually cook. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure she really knew how. In all the years we’ve lived together we’ve mostly eaten out. Or anything that can be delivered to the house already cooked. Outside of that, cereal and sandwiches pretty much stretch us to our limits regarding our joint culinary skills. Or, so I had always thought. The way she’s flitting about in the kitchen right now, stirring things and adding seasonings here and there, I get the odd feeling she’s done this before.

  Less than ten minutes later and she’s got me sitting at the table I set, patiently waiting for food to arrive. She’s got two bowls in her hand when she stops and sets them down again to hurry from the kitchen. When she comes back she’s holding two candles which she places neatly in the center of the table before she lights them and then returns for our bowls.

  As soon as she sets it down in front of me, I recognize the dish.

  “Poulet Basquaise.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “You made Poulet Basquaise.” I still can’t get over it. I mean, it’s just a pepper and tomato chicken stew which sounds a lot fancier in French, but this is so much more than just a stew.

  “I made Poulet Basquaise,” she confirms again. “Before you get too excited you should probably try it. I’ve never made it before tonight.”

  I still can’t take my eyes off of her long enough to find my spoon and venturing a taste. I want to. I just can’t wrap my brain around what’s happening.

  “Why?”

  She stares straight back at me, only slightly less confused than I am. “Because in all the years we’ve lived here, we’ve never once sat down to a meal together at this table. And because it’s your favorite. And...because I know no one’s made it for you since you were little and your mother got too sick to make it for you. We’re on a roll. Trying new things.” She shrugs and smiles the same way she smiled at me thirty-six hours ago. “I just wanted to see what it would be like.”

  I want to fly across the table and kiss her. And not the same way I think about kissing her most of the time. I want to kiss her softly. Carefully. Slowly. Until she feels every ounce of gratitude I have in me right at this second. But I can’t. Because on a roll or not, kissing isn’t the first step toward exploring what’s between us, it’s the last. The final bridge to cross, because the second we do, we both know it’ll go up in flames and there will be no turning back.

  So, I do the rational thing. The careful thing. I force my eyes to move away from her and finally try the amazing dish sitting before me.

  “Oh, my God, Trix!” She can’t even hear me. And she’s looking down at her own plate, so she has no idea I’m having an orgasm in my mouth right now.

  I reach across the table to take her hand. As soon as she looks up, I let her know.

  “It’s amazing. You made it perfectly. Seriously, it’s just like I remember it.”

  Her lips dance with a sense of gratification and I’m thinking about kissing her all over again. So I have another bite of stew. And another. Until my bowl is empty and I can go back for seconds. Maybe even thirds. Because Trix made it. For me. And I’m going to savor every last bite. And I’m never going to forget what it tastes like any more than I’ll ever forget how it feels.

  And I suddenly realize Dale was right. Five minutes would be worth it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Trix

  The next week there’s an undeniable shift and things have taken an interesting turn in our relationship. I wouldn’t say we’re dating exactly, but we’re definitely trying new things on for size. Like how he spent all of his days off at home. With me. No Tony. No distractions. And definitely no other women. Even while I was at work, he hung out at the house keeping busy by doing all sorts of thoughtful things like changing out the light bulb in my walk-in closet that’s been out for months and putting together the bookshelf I bought a week before I left for Doctors Without Borders and then never got around to building because I got annoyed with the instructions as soon as I opened the box. He even placed all of my books onto the shelves when he was done, organizing them all in alphabetical order, first by author then by title. Penn’s always been a better man than he gave himself credit for, but even after all the years he’s been looking out for me, I never expected this.

  “What’s up with you?” Nat’s staring at me across the room.

  “Nothing, why?” But I know I’ve been sitting here by myself grinning like a total moron. This is what he’s reducing me to. And I’m too damn giddy to even be mad about it.

  Nat smirks, an arched brow making its curious and slightly disapproving move. “Well if you have to lie about it, he’s gotta be bad news.”

  I scoff, trying my best to seem appalled by her implication. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, you most certainly do.” She laughs at me, an accusatory finger flying up in my face. “So tell me, who is it?”

  I shrug, trying my hardest to gain control over my mouth again, but it’s for naught. The dopey smile is there to stay. “Just someone I’ve known for a while.”

  “I knew you couldn’t go through with keeping things platonic with Penn!” For a moment she scans the room like she’s hoping someone will randomly show up to high five her. When that doesn’t happen, she does a mini fist pump to satisfy her need to celebrate.

  “Hey! We are totally platonic.” I think. Well, not really. Not at all. We’re just not not platonic. I mean, yeah, we’re having conversations we’ve definitely never had before. And we’re doing things together and for each other which in a million years I never thought we’d do. But physically...not much has changed between us. “We’re platonic with feelings.”

  Nat makes a face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means, we’re covering new ground and the ground that’s still new to us isn’t what you’d expect it to be.” We’ve been to bed. We’ve gotten naked. Those aspects of our relationship are old news. Or they were. From here on out, getting naked will likely mean something completely different.

  Nat pulls up her chair, sits down and then
rolls over. “So, you’re saying...nothing physical?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re still grinning like that? Damn, that boy must be good.” She laughs and reaches out to squeeze my leg just above the knee. “Tell him I said nice work. It’s good seeing you like this. I like it.”

  I nod. “I like it, too.” I hand her the last of the charts I was updating. “So, what about you? Making any progress in that love triangle you’re working with?”

  “Um, not so much, no. Buuut, he is going out of town this weekend for some big family reunion, so I get to pretend the relationship is healthy and sound for at least two days.” She grimaces like she’s joking, but I can tell on some level this is breaking her heart. And I get it. In a way, I’ve always hated seeing Penn with other women. I used to tell myself it was the women I couldn’t stand. That they weren’t good enough. Not smart enough. But really, I just never liked sharing him. I have this ridiculous sense that I laid claim to him somewhere along the way and whether our relationship makes sense or not, he’s mine. And I don’t like other women getting confused about that fact. And they like to. Get confused about it. But I don’t. And, just maybe, now Penn won’t anymore either.

  We finish up in the office before we do a final walk through of the practice, making sure we didn’t forget anything before we take off for the night.

  When we reach the reception aread, Dr. Blake is busy talking to Melissa. He turns toward us when he hears us coming and stares straight at Nat when he answers Melissa.

  “Only the best for my favorite nurse.”

  Melissa says something I can’t make out because she’s sitting with her side toward me, but when he responds I catch it perfectly. “I don’t care if it’s inappropriate or not. I’m taking her to dinner in the nicest restaurant in town and people can say whatever they want about it.”

  I glance over at Nat. “What’s he talking about?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s my birthday and he thinks he needs to make a big deal about it. Even though he knows I hate it.”