Starlight (Peaches Monroe #2)(30)
Author: Mimi Strong

We snuggled. When Keith relaxed, all his muscles became softer and more snuggly. We tried out a variety of cuddling positions, settling on spooning, and it was delicious.

Wednesday morning, I volunteered to run out for bagels while Keith made some important phone calls alone in his apartment.

“Get poppy seed bagels,” he said.

“So, you do eat carbohydrates?”

He was walking around the apartment completely naked, a towel slung over his shoulder for the shower he was about to take. He slumped his posture and stuck out his stomach jokingly, then rubbed the tummy bulge. “What are you implying?” he asked. “Don’t you like what you see? You liked it plenty this morning. I was dead asleep and you just had to wake me up and get some.”

“Oh, please. You started it, pawing and drooling all over me like a dog with a new squeeze toy.”

He grinned. “I sure made you squeak, though, didn’t I? Come, get in the shower with me.”

I’d already showered and was fully dressed, so I backed toward the door, pretending to be scared. I fumbled with the door handle, giggling, then ran out and across the courtyard.

A white-haired lady was reclining in the teak lounger next to the pool. She called out, “What are you running from?”

I stopped, not wanting to be rude, and said, “Emotional intimacy, I guess.”

“You must be young,” she said as she applied coconut-scented lotion to her gold-brown, wrinkled arms and upper chest. “Are you living with that nice gardener, Keith?”

“Just for another week. I’m not from here.”

She grinned, her teeth big and bright white in her wrinkled face. She had sunglasses on, so I couldn’t see her eyes, but could tell she was smiling with her whole face.

“No shit,” she said. “Now, what’s so scary about emotional intimacy?”

“Oh, I was just joking about that. I say a lot of crap. If my life were close-captioned, half of it would just be blah-blah-blah, and the close-captioning person would probably quit and go back to school to train for a better job.”

She shook her head. “The greatest lies are the ones we tell ourselves. God bless denial, and I don’t mean the river in Egypt. Now, could you do me a favor and move that umbrella over so I can read my magazine without so much glare on the page? I have sciatica, plus I just got comfortable.”

“Sure.” I grabbed the base of the standing sunshade, which was filled with sand and quite heavy, and shifted it closer to the woman. She started flipping through the pages of Small Town Life in America, which made me feel homesick.

“I’m Petra,” I said. (I use my actual name around some people, just when I sense they’d feel more comfortable with Petra than Peaches.)

“Nice to know you, dear.” She didn’t look up from the magazine, so I muttered that I’d see her around, and continued on my way.

After I left the courtyard, I noted that the woman might have been a ghost, and that was why she couldn’t move the umbrella stand. Ghosts can’t move things. Perhaps anyone watching would have seen me standing there, talking to myself. Maybe Keith was the only live human who lived in the complex, and all the other units were… like, a ghost hotel or something.

I got so engrossed in my own story, I nearly got lost on my way to the bakery Keith had given me directions for. I never had an imaginary friend as a child, but I read a lot, and if I went too long without reading a book, I’d start to make up stories. Some of my favorite tales, both the ones I read and the ones I imagined, were about ghosts acting like regular, everyday people. Ghosts in laundromats, doing laundry. Ghosts standing in line at the post office. Ghosts with their hands pressed up on the glass, watching puppies inside a pet store, not knowing they could just go in and cuddle all the puppies, ignoring the posted rules for the living.

The woman was still in the teak lounger when I returned, so there went my theory about her being a ghost. She was asleep, with the magazine on her chest. I adjusted the umbrella again, angling it so the shade would last longer as the sun moved across the sky.

Inside Keith’s apartment, I found him pacing the living room, his phone to his ear.

I whispered, “Any news on Italy?”

He shrugged. “On hold.”

I set his takeout coffee—black—on the coffee table, fixed myself up a bagel with cream cheese, and went into the second bedroom with my breakfast and mocha, closing the door to give him some privacy.

This would be our comfortable life together, I thought. Bagels and coffee.

Sure, after a few years of marriage, not to mention the stress of a kid or two, we’d have our differences, but being with Keith felt good. It didn’t feel like a rebound, but like a relationship I’d been destined to have, no matter the length.

I pulled out my phone, annoyed to see a message from Dalton: What am I supposed to do with this laptop?

He was back in LA. Today would have been our joyful reunion, if not for that stupid script.

Me: You could just shove it somewhere dark and out of the way.

He texted me back immediately.

Dalton: Like my ass? Let’s not beat around the bush. We know each other too well to not be honest.

Me: Yeah, shove it up your ass. And the blow dryer, too.

Dalton: Should I unplug the blow dryer first? I’m no electrician, but something tells me that might be dangerous.

I laughed quietly to myself, my hand over my mouth. Why was it so therapeutic to threaten bodily damage to people? And why did Dalton have to go along with it and ruin all my hard feelings for him by being funny? How angry can you be at someone who jokes about putting small appliances in their ass?

Me: Stop being charming.

Dalton: Stop walking through my dreams and abandoning me when I awake.

Me: Stop quoting your dumb movie script. Now you’re just insulting my intelligence.

He didn’t reply for at least five minutes, which gave me conflicting feelings. Had I gone too far in calling his movie dumb? He probably had high hopes for it, and his career. Don’t we all, Dalton Deangelo, don’t we all.

After a long wait, a next message came in.

Dalton: You are one of the smartest girls I’ve ever known. I’m utterly intimidated by you.

Me: Puuuuuhhhhhleeeeeeze.

Dalton: What was the real problem? Was it that I borrowed a few phrases, because that’s ridiculous. Or did you just get scared and run away like you always do?

Me: I told you on the phone. The script is offensive, and you used me.

Dalton: Which of those two things was worse?