I start my routine before an appointment with a bath, like I do every day.
Soaking in lavender-scented water, I rest one leg over the edge of the tub and let water drip from my toes to the tile floor. The ends of my long hair float atop the surface, and wispy pieces around my hairline stick to my skin from the steam. Last night’s mascara melts and paints my eyelids translucent black. I chew on my perfectly painted nails, chipping the gloss finish.
This month’s burner phone is within reach, haunting and silent because Talent left it up to me to contact him this time.
“Don’t make me wait all day,” he’d said. “I’ve waited long enough for you.”
Calling him is too daunting—like a single phone call has the possibility to tip the scale and change everything indefinitely. Has my lifestyle hung in the balance this entire time? Have I always been one decision away from a new path? Is that why I never strayed from my rules?
Tomorrow is the ten-year anniversary of Cricket’s death. A decade later, I still pay for the choices she made during her life because I didn’t hesitate to pick up where she left off.
There’s so much I’ve missed.
But Cricket never found someone like Talent Ridge, a man who only knows the worst parts about me and isn’t afraid to hear about the rest. Had she come across someone like him, it may have given her the chance to change direction, too.
This is why I reach for the phone and dial his number I know by heart.
Hugging my knees to my chest, I hold the phone to my ear and count how many times it rings.
Once, twice, three, and…
“Hello?” he answers in a careful tone, like he might scare me away if he speaks too loudly or moves too suddenly. As if he knew it would be me before he accepted the call.
I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder and lather velvety shaving cream from my knee to my ankle.
“There’s so much you don’t know about me, Talent. You won’t want me after.” I wet my razor in the warm water and slide it from my Achilles heel up the back of my calf.
He exhales a low sounding laugh and asks, “Do you have a pen?”
I shave over my kneecap. “No, I’m in the bath.”
Talent groans seductively. “Don’t talk to me like that or we’ll never get to the parts I don’t know about you yet.”
Smiling despite myself, I ask what I need a pen for.
“To write down my address. You’re coming over,” he says.
The razor slips from my fingers and lands at the bottom of the tub, where my ability to speak might be hiding, too. He wants me to come to his place?
“Don’t disappear on me again, baby,” he says. The sound of rustling transfers through the receiver. I hear the distinct jingle from a set of keys. “Never mind. Fuck it. I’ll come for you.”
I drop my legs into the water and the remaining shaving cream clouds the water, sticking to the edges of the bathtub. “Talent, I—”
“Lydia, I have one day off and I’m going to spend it with you. Are you going to come to me, or do I need to come to you?”
Releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth, I say, “You didn’t ask if I have the day off today.”
“You do,” he answers without hesitation. “And if I have anything to do with it, you’ll have every day off from now on.”
An electric revival stirs inside of me, fire-like and licking in the bend of my elbows and knees, throbbing in my jaw, and poking at the corner of my lips. I rest my forehead on top of my knee and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting a smile. I’m afraid to feel excitement kick-start parts of me I thought nonexistent. Anticipation is for those who have something to look forward to, and when’s the last time I looked forward to anything significant?
He said he has one day off.
I can give him that and be back in time to mourn Cricket.
“Can you text your address to the number I called you from?” I ask. I lose the battle of wills against my smile and my lips curve high.
“Yeah, I’ll text it to you.” Talent’s voice is dreamy, and my smile widens farther. “You have an hour to get here or I show up on your doorstep.”