Page 23 of Ex Marks the Spot
Every now and then, I get what I call a “universe moment” that makes me feel like I’m on the right track. For example, a few years ago, my mom was watching an obscure movie I’d never seen while I worked on a commissioned piece. Nothing I did was right, and after going through three canvases, I was ready to give up and return my client’s payment. Mom told me not to worry because everything would work out and went back to watching her movie.
Near tears and out of supplies, I drove to the craft store and what did I hear? The theme song from Mom’s movie. I chalked it up to coincidence but was forced to change my tune two days later when I heard the song again, this time while waiting for the puck to drop at a Carolina Hurricanes game. I finished the painting a few days after that and wound up with a handwritten thank-you letter and three referrals from my client. But the weirdest part? I haven’t seen Mom’s movie or heard that theme song since then.
I’ve come to appreciate these universe moments for their quiet reassurance that I’m doing the right thing at the right time.
And currently, the universe is encouraging me to murder Court.
In my defense, I didn’t wake up with murder on my mind, just the need to pee. Except Court has been in the bathroom for the last forty-five minutes. I’ve banged on the door in five-minute increments, and each time he’s said, “I’ll be out in a few.”
The obvious solution would be to venture out of our hotel room and find another bathroom, but one, that’s the equivalent of letting him win, and two, the crew takes the twenty-foot proximity requirement seriously.
With no television in our room and no technology to serve as a distraction, I opened a blank page in my notebook and started doodling the many ways I could kill him. I’d just completed my third sketch (where I commandeered our shuttle and ran him over) when I experienced another universe moment in the form of a crew member knocking on the hotel door to deliver breakfast.
Chorreadas, to be exact.
Translation: Costa Rican corn pancakes with fresh whipped cream.
As if he hadn’t hogged the bathroom all morning, Court saunters out in a shirt and athletic shorts and says, “Who was that?”
I ignore him in favor of finally relieving my bladder but run smack into another problem as I pass him in the tiny entryway.
He smells so. Freaking. Good.
This realization is made worse when I lock myself in a cloud of Eau de Court in the bathroom. Where he was likely standing naked mere minutes ago. Naked and wet. And smelling like God’s gift to anyone who’s attracted to penises.
ExcepttttCourt’s penis is attached to a man who completely upended my life without even discussing it with me first, and no amount of voodoo witchcraft cologne is going to change that. But just in case, I mutter, “Behave yourself,” to my crotch before finishing my business and washing my hands.
That’s when I notice his unzipped toiletry bag beside the sink—more specifically, the glint of silver inside it.
No. Freaking. Way.
With curiosity vastly outweighing my conscience, I peek into the bag and extract the weighty handle of the safety razor I bought Court. I’d gone to the mall to buy a pebbled leather crossbody purse I’d been drooling over, but had gotten distracted when I’d passed by what can only be described as an upscale beauty boutique for men—artisan soaps, lotions, colognes, shaving supplies...and all of it packaged in expensive-looking boxes with sophisticated labels.
The display of old-fashioned razor sets reminded me of a picture Court had shown me of him as a three-year-old pretend-shaving with his grandfather, who’d promised him the razor after he passed. When that time came, his grandmother couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing it on the bathroom counter anymore, so Court said he didn’t mind letting her hold on to it. That’s just the kind of guy he was, though—thoughtful and selfless even when it meant hehad to wait longer to get something he wanted. In that moment, foregoing my purse to get a new safety razor set for Court had been an astonishingly easy decision.
And right now, it’s just as easy to put the razor back and pretend I never saw it because I don’t have the emotional time or energy to sort through the fact that he still has it six years later.
Court’s halfway done with his breakfast when I grab my plate and return to my bed. The slight flare in his nostrils tells me he knows exactly what we’re eating, so of course I quietly moan and say, “These are the best corn pancakes I’ve ever had,” when I’m finished with my first bite. It’s not quite a true statement, more like Court’s are the best American version and these are the best international version, but I still enjoy watching him release his annoyance when he stabs his next bite of food.
Boosted by a dose of petty satisfaction, I continue with, “We need some ground rules.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“First, you can’t hog the bathroom in the morning. It’s not fair to those of us who need to take care of bodily functions. What were you even doing that took forty-five minutes?”
His gaze drops to my chest for a split second and then he says, “I was also taking care of bodily functions, but fine.”
Holy shit. Did he . . . ? Was that . . . ?
Was he having bodily functions about me?
“What else?”
“Huh?” I blink and nearly miss putting my fork in my mouth. Thankfully Court is looking at his plate and didn’t see it.
“You said ground rules. That implies you have more than one.”
Oh. Right. Well, forbidding him from wearing voodoo cologne would be great, but I can’t say that without providing an explanation. Also, when did bare feet become sexy? Is that a thing? Are other strangers teams embracing the intimacy of walking around their hotel room in bare feet?