by Sandra Kitt
“Everything will dry,” Jean said.
She turned to face Patrick and stood transfixed, unprepared to find him virtually naked, with nothing more than a bath towel wrapped and secured around his waist by a twist knot. It could come loose at any moment…with the slightest movement of his hips or thighs. His damp hair was spiky and shiny. A second towel was draped around his shoulders, his chest bare. An alarming churning of her stomach signaled Jean’s response.
“I’ll… Let me get some hangers.”
She squeezed past him, heading for a closet, swallowing to catch her breath. His physical presence was suddenly overwhelming, bringing to life far too many daydreams and wanton desires, not even counting the girlish ones she’d fashioned in high school. She handed Patrick the hangers and, avoiding his gaze, returned to the kitchen…but forgot what she was doing.
This is not going to work, Jean thought to herself, her sudden yearning growing like a live thing within her, making her feel vulnerable…and foolish.
She had never felt this way with Ross.
Ross always had a manly, take-charge way with her that she’d found attractive and very virile. But he’d played that card elsewhere, stepping out on her, devastating and disappointing her, until his charm had completely died. Until she withdrew her love and her heart. Until she no longer wanted him.
Patrick was not trying to play her. If he were, he would have gotten her, successfully, into bed that first time. But then there would have been nowhere for them to go, and they would have parted again, still just former high school friends. Now, Jean lived for the potential. The uncertainty was exciting and frightening. But she was very sure about what she was coming to feel for Patrick Bennett. The foundation had been there for a long time.
“I guess this means I’m staying the night.”
It was a statement of confirmation. No question, no doubt.
Jean took a deep breath and turned to face him again. She avoided letting her gaze ride down his chest…to the inadequate towel cover…to his still-damp hairy legs. “I guess so. I can’t send you out there. It’s a dark and stormy night.”
He chortled. “That sounds like a bad opening of one of Snoopy’s books. I don’t have a toothbrush.”
That made her smile. “I have extras. My mother is notorious for never bringing one when she stays over.”
“I’ll be back,” Patrick said, accepting the hangers from her.
He headed to the bathroom to hang up his clothing, navigating her apartment as easily and comfortably as if staying over was natural.
While he was gone, Jean made up the sofa bed. When he returned, Patrick watched silently for a moment. As she finished the last of tucking in the top sheet, he fluffed the extra pillow Jean had gotten from her own bed.
She glanced at him, his eyes smoky in the dim light of the room. “Coffee, tea, or a drink?”
A wicked grin curved his mouth, and his brow arched up. “I thought you were going to say—”
“I know what you thought,” Jean said, turning away from that warm, sultry look.
“A drink. I could use something strong.”
“Okay, coming right up.”
* * *
Patrick turned away, back to the living room. He was a little surprised to find himself in Jean’s apartment, apparently for the night, again. What did catch his attention was how glad he was that it worked out this way. His place was bigger, more slick and modern, thanks to the superior tastes of his mother and sister…and a former girlfriend who was an interior designer. His apartment in Jersey City was almost Architecture Digest quality, except for the placement of his Peloton and rowing machine. Jean’s place was all about cushioned chairs, and pillows, and bookcases, and photographs of people who were important to her. It was like a real home…not a showcase for brand names. It was so…Jean.
Patrick absently wiped his chest with the towel from around his neck. He was feeling a little restless. More than that first night staying with Jean, he felt the smallness of her comfortable apartment but in a very good way. Now it felt intimate. He checked the knot holding the towel in place but wished that at least his underwear had stayed dry. He didn’t want Jean to think…or did he?
The space around the open sofa bed was tight, and he now wondered how he’d managed not to kill himself in the dark the first time. He saw the navy blue material draped over the back of the sofa and held it up. It was a robe. A man’s robe.
“Is this robe for me?” he called out.
“I thought you’d be more comfortable wearing it.” Her voice carried from the kitchen.
Reluctantly, Patrick slipped the robe on. It didn’t fit, the sleeves and length a little short. He took it off, unhappy that he’d even tried.
He sat in a club chair, leaning forward to scowl at the garment. Jean came in carrying two glasses. She passed a tall tumbler to him with a cola-colored liquid. She had a glass of wine and sat in a chrome-and-leather modern rocker adjacent to him. He watched as she effortlessly curled her legs and bare feet up onto the seat. Her damp hair appeared to be sprouting from her head like Medusa’s snakes. She looked very young. In that moment, Patrick caught a glimpse of the pretty girl she had been at sixteen, now mature and filled in. The shift she was wearing didn’t allow him to follow the curves and outline of her slender body, but his imagination and an educated guess hinted strongly at Jean’s shape, her breasts and thighs. Patrick shifted, fighting back his body’s response to being this close to her with only a suggestion of cover between them. Suddenly, he wanted to free her hair, to let his fingers comb through the curly strands. He wanted to pull her close until their bodies finally touched, and he could hold and kiss Jean, lose himself in the safety of their history, and take them both to the next level.
He took a large sip of his drink. The vodka hit him in his chest.
“Didn’t the robe fit? It belongs to my father.”
“I’m good,” Patrick said, satisfied with the explanation.
“I got it for him when he used to visit, back when I first got the apartment. But he only stayed here a few times. He said my sofa bed was killing his back and he couldn’t sleep.”
Patrick nodded. He’d slept soundly on the pullout himself.
The ping of a cell phone text tone broke in, grabbing their attention.
“That’s me,” Patrick said, getting up to retrieve the phone from the bathroom. He returned reading the text message and took his seat again.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes. And no.” He grinned at Jean. “The interview taping for tomorrow is canceled. But I’m booked on an early flight to LA in the morning.”
“Does that mean…” She stopped.
“It means I have to leave here at the crack of dawn, get home to pack. A car will pick me up and drive me to Newark International. It means I’m going to be in another studio or at a game. The Dodgers are playing Arizona. Then I might be accompanying them to Chicago to play the Cubs.”
“You don’t sound happy or excited about it.”
“No, no, that’s not it.” Patrick looked squarely at Jean. “The timing is bad. Don’t you think?”
She studied the wine in her glass, shrugged slightly. “It’s work. The mayor isn’t particularly tuned in to his staff’s personal lives either. Things happen; you roll with it.”
“You have a very clear understanding. In my line of work, I’m always dealing with someone else’s schedule, travel, missed appointments, last-minute cancellations. Right now I’m not sure when I’m flying back. Want to come with me?”
Patrick surprised even himself speaking before thinking. He thought Jean’s expression brightened for an instant before she calmly shook her head.
“I’m not a groupie, Patrick. I do have a job. As a matter of fact, tomorrow I’m accompanying the mayor to Fieldston for another commencement speech.”
“That private school in the Bronx?” Patrick asked, finishing his drink. He felt the buzz from the vodka.
“I think the program starts at noon.”
“Then I’ll be quiet leaving in the morning, and you can get some sleep,” he said.
Jean stared at him.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m good at sleeping on planes.”
“Okay.”
The small talk wound down, and Patrick knew the next step was Jean saying good night and closing herself off in her room. He would say good night and shift around until he found a comfortable spot on the love seat. But he struggled with an awareness that was light-years beyond that first night together with her, and there wasn’t going to be time to make it happen.
Did she sense it too?
Were they possibly on the same page?
She stood up to take their empty glasses to the kitchen, placing them in the sink. Patrick waited until Jean returned and stood to block the path to her room. This forced Jean to stop in front of him, waiting. He examined her makeshift hairstyle and spontaneously fingered strands of her curls. He slowly took hold of her arms, running his hands up and down a few times on her soft, smooth skin. He could feel she was relaxed.
Patrick knew then that Jean trusted him.
“I bet you weren’t expecting the night to end this way. Again,” she said.
“No, but it’s fine. You could have sent me on my way and told me to be careful driving home. Maybe with a good-night kiss for good measure,” Patrick hinted.
She smiled. “I heard this is only a half date, remember? I think I’m going to hold you to the promise you haven’t made yet.”
“Consider it said. I can do better.” He bent to kiss her, and Jean tilted her head to meet it. “Good night,” he said against her lips, pressing against her mouth.
Gentle, like the first time. Exploratory, like the first time. Not as deep and moving as when she visited in his office. But filled with expectation that they’d grown into, that still hung in the air. There was no question that the tension was mounting between them.
“I’ll try not to wake you when I leave.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Have a good trip.”
Patrick stepped aside to let her enter her room. The door closed quietly. He stood considering the barrier between them. And, turning out the light, settled on the sleeper.
But he never went to sleep.
Instead, Patrick twisted and turned, his mind flitting from one scenario of him and Jean together to another and another. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable. It was that he was uncomfortable. No. Edgy. There were any number of things he could have done about it, but truly, there was only one that he wanted. The sheets had become too warm, limp, and soft with his body heat and agitation. Impatiently, Patrick threw the top sheet off and swung his legs to the floor, sitting up. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and massaged his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. He snatched up his smartphone and pressed the home button. The clock lit up in the center. 12:23 a.m.
Patrick put it aside and turned on the lamp. He caught sight of the small bookcase positioned between the club chair and rocker, on which the lamp was set. His gaze aimlessly browsed the titles, settling on the vertical boldface name of a high school with the class year. It was Jean’s yearbook. Their high school yearbook.
Patrick pulled the book out and examined the cover with the school seal embossed over the school colors. He switched to sitting in a chair and began to leaf through the book, first going immediately to the alphabetical catalog of senior portraits until he came to Jean’s. Unexpectedly, he was back there, in school with her. He was aware of the talk, the teen speculation about her, her parentage, seeing her as “other.” What the hell did that mean?
In the portrait, her gaze looked right into the camera with confidence. A closed-mouth smile that was friendly, that protected Jean from too much familiarity. Her hair, more curly then, framed her face and shoulders.
Everything Patrick had learned about Jean during his final year came back to him, reinforced in a major way by reuniting with her recently. He settled in the chair, lifting his legs to rest on the foot of the sleeper, his ankles crossed, and went back to the beginning of the book to see what Jean’s senior year had been like.
* * *
Jean did eventually fall to sleep. But now she jerked suddenly awake. She didn’t hear anything but detected a light from the living room shining dimly beneath her bedroom door. Either Patrick had never turned it off, or he’d never gone to sleep. Her bedside digital clock read 12:41 a.m. She could still hear the rain outside, no longer torrential but steady. Jean turned on the light and slowly got out of bed. She hesitated for a moment, frowning at her own decision, her heart racing, but nonetheless feeling strongly about what she was about to do.
She carefully opened the door, in case Patrick was indeed asleep. She stepped out and saw immediately that he wasn’t. It was several seconds before he realized she was there, watching him. Their gazes connected and held. Patrick slowly closed a book he’d been reading and set it aside. Jean realized he was waiting for her to speak first…or make the first move.
“You can’t sleep,” she said simply.
His chest heaved with a sigh. “No, not really.”
“Is it the bed?”
Patrick waited a beat, finally shaking his head. “No.”
There were any number of things Jean knew she could have suggested. But she went straight to the top of the list.
“You might be able to catch a few hours on the flight tomorrow, but you’ll do better if you can get some sleep now.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“Okay. Then…I think you should come in with me. I think we can… We’ll be fine sleeping together until the morning. My bed is far more comfortable than the pullout.”
Patrick kept his gaze absolutely riveted to her. “I’m sure. Do you think that’s a good idea?” he whispered.
“I think we can make it work,” Jean said just as quietly.
But still Patrick sat, watching, assessing. She wasn’t sure how she’d feel if he instantly jumped up to accept her offer. Instead, she was pleased that he was running her invitation over and over in his head. He wasn’t going to take the suggestion of actually sleeping together lightly. Good. Jean took Patrick’s frowning consideration to mean the outcome was going to be as important to him as it most certainly was to her.
And she didn’t think any further explanation was needed. Either Patrick understood her or he didn’t.
He nodded. He slowly stood up…a towel wrapped around his loins still in place. “Okay.”
Jean turned back to her room. She felt overly warm, a little apprehensive. She climbed back into her bed and settled down as comfortably as she could. Patrick appeared very slowly in the doorway, his gaze traveling to her and how she lay in bed. Still trying to pick apart her offer, no doubt, but it was nothing more than a thoughtful offer and not a solicitation. When Patrick moved toward the opposite side of her bed, Jean reached and turned out the light.
Patrick got into the bed next to her so carefully Jean barely felt the mattress give under his weight. She closed her eyes and smiled slightly. He was nervous. So was she.
He settled down somewhat stiffly. Jean knew he was practically holding his breath.
“My mother once told my sister that cuddling can relieve anxiety. She had a new boyfriend and was trying to convince him to not…you know.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know. She never said. My mother also said it’s good for your immune system.”
Jean gnawed her lip, trying not to laugh. Not because it was funny, but because he was so worried about doing the wrong thing…with her. He’ll figure it out, she thought, letting out a deep sigh.
Jean turned h
er head toward the window, away from him. “Good night.”
She heard his exhale.
“Night.”
Patrick lay, waiting. It was just minutes before he could detect Jean’s even, light breathing.
He closed his eyes and chuckled silently. He’d had no idea what to expect when he’d followed Jean to her room. But, apparently, the invitation was sincere. They were going to spend the night…rather, the rest of the morning…together in her bed. Sleeping. Nothing else. Patrick didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. In the end, he simply felt his body finally relaxing, finally letting go. He stretched out one leg, bent the other at the knee, and felt sleep beginning to engulf him. When Patrick laid his arm at his side, his fingers encountered Jean’s. Without hesitation, he carefully captured her hand, holding it. She was already asleep and barely responded to the movement. That was okay. He sighed again, totally comfortable now. He turned his head toward the door…away from Jean. And went to sleep.
A few hours later, Patrick turned on his side. His eyes dragged open long enough to read the time: 4:17. He groaned and pushed himself into a seated position, swinging his feet to the floor. He quickly remembered where he was and turned to the quiet, curled figure next to him in the dark. He stared until his night vision brought Jean more into focus. He reached to finger a curl near her ear. He bent and very carefully left a kiss on her cheek. Then he quietly left the room.
* * *
When Jean awoke, it was early but not quite dawn, and it was very quiet. She got out of bed. When she left her bedroom, it was obvious that Patrick had not only managed to get up and dressed without her acting as an alarm, but he’d already left. Quiet, as he’d promised, so as not to awaken her.
Jean’s disappointment squeezed tightly around her, constricting her heart for…a beat. He’d been so neat, so careful not to leave any hint of his presence from the night before: linens folded, as was the pullout. How did she not hear him moving about? How did she not hear him close the apartment door with its distinct structural click sound?
How could he not awaken her anyway, to say goodbye?