Rusty Nailed
Page 30

Glaring at each other, Neil and Sophia walked out together, hot dates in tow. Ryan carried Mimi out to the hillevator, telling us he’d come back the next day to pick up their things. “I’ve got to get her home before she pukes,” he said, shaking his head. “No more drink stations.”
As they rode up the hill, I could hear snippets floating back from Neil and Sophia, arguing all the way to the cars.
We headed back inside, looking at the drawing board. Which was now decorated with phallic imagery, courtesy of Tall Zach.
Simon began, “I love our friends, but—”
“How the hell are they our friends?” I finished, and he nodded.
Laughing ruefully, he flipped back to the picture that ended the game. “A bird in the hand. How did we not get this?”
“Because she drew an airplane with sponges—that’s why.” I sighed. “Wanna go to bed?”
“Hell yes,” he answered. As we headed to the bedroom, he helped me unzip my dress. “She still loves him, doesn’t she?”
“Of course she does,” I answered. I let my dress fall to the floor, and I climbed into bed in my bra and panties. I watched through tired eyes as Simon undressed.
“Did you set the alarm?” I asked.
“It’s Sunday. Why do we need to set the alarm?” he asked, turning back his covers.
“I have to work for a few hours in the morning. Monica’s meeting me at the coffee shop down the street.”
“Babe.” He shook his head before turning out the light. After he set the alarm. “You’re working too hard.”
“Lots to do. If I work tomorrow, I’ll have some time this week during the evening. It’ll be fine. You sleep in, and by the time you’re up, I’ll be almost home. We can go for a drive.”
“It’s not that. I just think you’re working too much; you need to slow down a bit,” he grumbled, pulling me across the bed and into his side.
“Things will slow down after the holidays, you’ll see. Besides, I’m in charge right now—kind of don’t have a choice,” I reminded him.
“I know, I just— I know,” he said, kissing the top of my head.
I kissed his chest. “It’ll ease up, I swear in the name of SpongeBob HandBird.”
A moment later, the bed was shaking from laughter. And a few minutes later, the bed was shaking for a different reason.
Eh, sleep is overrated. Being turned over by a Wallbanger? Priceless.
• • •
The week of Thanksgiving started out okay. The morning after the Pictionary party, I left a sleeping Simon behind while I headed over to work for a few hours, came home, and then ate naked turnovers with Simon in bed. Or, ate turnovers in bed with Simon, naked? Whatever, that was the high point of the week.
Without a family to speak of, Simon had always kept himself busy over Thanksgiving as well as Christmas. This year, I’d been hoping he’d take my family up on their offer of spending Thanksgiving together, but he wasn’t quite ready for that.
He’d met my folks on several occasions, and holy shit on a shingle, I have never seen Simon more nervous than he was the first time. Meeting the parents is a big deal in any relationship, but he’d never been involved with anyone long enough to make this step before. He totally won them over, though. He flirted like hell with my mom, won my dad over by sharing stories of Formula 1 races he’d attended over the years, and now he looked forward to spending time with them when they came to San Francisco. But a turkey dinner in a house filled to bursting with family?
“I just can’t. Maybe next year,” he explained, while I handed him socks I’d folded for him. He dropped them into the suitcase, then headed into his closet to grab some sweaters. “They won’t be mad, will they? I mean, I always work this time of year; it’s just what I do.”
“No no, they get it. And I get it. But I’ve finally got some time off, and just wish we could spend it together,” I said quietly, watching as the sweaters went into the bag. I’d be working like crazy right up until Thursday, but I’d planned on spending the rest of the week at home with my folks.
“I know, babe. You’ve been so busy lately even when I am here, I hardly see you,” he answered, dropping a kiss on my forehead and disappearing back into the closet.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my nose wrinkling a bit.
“It’s not supposed to mean anything,” he said, rolling a few pairs of jeans.
“You hardly see me because I’m busy, Simon. It’s not like you don’t know everything I’m trying to juggle right now.” I frowned, sliding off the bed and standing in front of him.
“Don’t get so defensive, it wasn’t a criticism. I get it; you’re busy. Chill.”
My eyes bugged out of my head. Did he just tell me to—chill?
“Christ, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” He sighed.
I started to snap back, then took a deep breath. Let this one go. I reached out and pulled him toward me by the belt loops, letting my head drop onto his chest. A few seconds later, I felt him sigh and then his arms were around me. I breathed him in, then turned my face up toward his.
“We’ll have lots of time to spend together in Philadelphia.”
His face shuttered. He kissed my forehead again, then turned to zip the suitcase closed. “Tell your folks I said happy Thanksgiving,” he said with a tight smile.
Guess that subject was closed.
He left the following day. He was heading back east, doing a photo shoot on Thanksgiving in Plymouth, the pilgrims and all that. It was to be featured the following year in travel magazines and regional newspapers to boost the local economy. But he was going, and I was staying—and that was the beginning of my shit week.
I came home Monday night after spending the entire weekend in Sausalito, to find that Clive had decided he’d had enough of me being gone. Maybe it was time to consider bringing him over to Sausalito, as creative as he was being with showing me his displeasure. He’d left me presents. Multiple presents. In multiple shoes. I missed him too; I just didn’t show it by shitting in his shoes. The image of what size his shoes might be if he did wear shoes wouldn’t leave my brain, so I spent a conference call with Camden’s people not paying attention and doodling cat shoes all over some documents.
You try explaining to your intern why there were tiny paws in pumps all over a contract that she now had to reprint.