left for me: three-dozen white roses, a bottle of whiskey, and another note.
The first thing I do is step over everything, open my front door, and shove my suitcase into the hallway. Then I grab the bottle of whiskey, placing it on my telephone table before tackling the ridiculously large bouquet that very nearly doesn’t fit through the doorway. Resting the annoyingly beautiful blooms on my minuscule dining table for two, I tug the envelope from the cardholder and tear it open.
I’m so annoyed with Aaron. What the fuck gives him the right to seek out my address? The man has no sense of propriety and has acted as though it’s his God-given right to do whatever he wants, and damn how it impacts anyone else.
The note is cryptic.
I wanted you to have these flowers, Nicole. The smell of them reminds me of you. Maybe the whiskey will remind you of me. It was fun, but not as fun as it could have been. Hurting you was not my intention, and for that, I am sorry. Maybe you’ll forgive me. I hope I will see that day. Until then…
Aaron
What the fuck? I throw the note on the table and stamp into the kitchen to put the kettle on, seething that he had to have the last word. The man is infuriating. But I rationalize, as I stand at the counter to make myself some tea, that he is an ocean away and the flowers will be dead in a few days. The whiskey will make a nice gift for my dad; it looks like an expensive brand.
And then I’ll have nothing to remind me of Aaron except my memories. It might take a while, but I know that they will fade too.
Tea in hand, I relax on the sofa and text my mum to let her know I’m home safely. Moving out has its privacy benefits, but I know she worries, even though I’m independent. I’m not tired despite it being 2 am, so I flick on the TV, searching for something to fill the time until my eyes started drooping. The program I choose isn’t that engaging, and I find myself looking at the flowers, mind wandering back to Atlanta.
I wonder what Aaron is doing. He’s five hours behind, so he’s probably having dinner, or maybe he’s in another hotel bar, nursing a whiskey and telling another unsuspecting girl to take off her underwear in public. The thought makes me angry and, I hate to admit, jealous. My memories are vivid enough that I can almost see the glint in his eyes and the arousal. I imagine him taking those new panties home and using them when he needed some self-relief, and I hate the thought that he might prefer them to mine.
I’m so stupid.
It was just a fling on a business trip, and all Aaron wanted from me was anonymous sex. The fact that he ended up getting to know me a little doesn’t mean anything. I remind myself that I wasn’t looking for anything more than a chance to act without caution for once in my life. Jealous feelings have no place in a situation like this, especially now that I’m never going to see Aaron again.
I wish it weren’t so late so I could call Maya and offload my angst. I know what she’d say: take it as an experience that was fun while it lasted and move on. Maybe learn something in the process. It’s hard to admit that, while the sex had been amazing, the whole meaningless fuck thing isn’t for me. I just don’t have the kind of heart that can be intimate with someone without it affecting me. I feel loss, even though I have no right to. There is a sense that I have given Aaron something of myself that I won’t be able to get back.
When I finish my tea, I pull a blanket over myself and lie down, thinking I’ll watch to the end of the program, but I must fall asleep because, when I open my eyes, there is sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds and someone is knocking on my front door.
18
AARON
I’ve been round and round on the sanity of what I’m doing. Transatlantic travel is nothing to me from an expense point of view. It has been a long flight, although I have no right to complain because my plane is very comfortable. I even managed to sleep a little on the journey.
I’m a