Page 20 of One More Chapter

I drop the frame.

And somehow, fate doesn’t shatter the glass clear down the center. The old me would take it as a sign that everything remains intact, but the me who has a bunker around her heart can’t handle the vision I saw for us.

Born months apart. Our moms, childhood best friends. Missing each other by a relationship or two for years and years until fate finally decided it was our time.

For that small window of time when I believed us to be true, I always imagined I’d blow up this photo for our wedding, and keep it on our own mantle next to a recreation. Instead, I shove itinto a box, deep down where I can’t use it as fodder for the what-if game anymore.

Having all of this extra free time in my day should be a motivator to write. Right?

I wish.

I left writing for the very last task today because I have been avoiding it like the plague. I made it through every single admin task that comes with publishing that I could think of before pulling up my very naked first draft of Finn and Delilah’s book.

I have been staring at the blinking cursor of my Mac for the last fifteen minutes. I know it has been fifteen because my cube timer went off. Fifteen was supposed to be my warm-up, not mystare into the face of existential dreadtime. And yet, here we sit. I feel like SpongeBob, with a very fancy article written and nothing else. His said “The.” Mine says “A.” And even as I sit and admire the fancy, Times New Roman triangle, I end up deleting it. With my forehead.

Poor Finn and Delilah have had no momentum since I talked with Ant a few nights ago. I hate that he was the only one that could cure my writer’s block. I hate even more that I stole real life moments from Anthony’s strained relationships to do it. But, it did give my characters a little bit of a push, if not something to scratch the surface. However, they sit halted again, like I pulled them out onto the freeway only to hit rush hour traffic. With only a few days left until our first teacher in-service, I really need to get going on typing words or outlining so I’m ready to write orsomething.

I’m skimming over the notes I’ve made about character intentions, fishing for a nugget that will at least get me the plotfor a few more chapters, when Ant comes busting through the door.

“Honey, I’m home!” he shouts.

I save my less-than-edited document, deciding I’ve earned a snack break, and head to the kitchen less to greet him and more to get me out of my office.

Which was a big mistake.

Lord help me, because I am still not used to post-workout-Ant.

He’s a five-inch-inseam kind of guy. A tight-fitting, sweat-stained muscle tee kind of guy. One who smells like deodorantafterhe clearly just put in some work. I can’t help but stare, even if the tank top has a Captain America shield on the front of him like he’s some Walmart brand Chris Evans when he lifts weights.

Who are you kidding? He could compete for a superhero role and you know it. Especially with that blonde hair.

I swallow, flicking the devil on my shoulder right off as I combat the fact that I just had to clench my thighs at the sight of him.You arenotsupposed to be turned on by him anymore, Penelope Jayne!

I rifle through the fridge for something to quell the restlessness I’m suddenly feeling, as he finishes making a smoothie.

“You’re going to clean up after yourself when you’re done, right?” I ask, arms folded as milk trickles threateningly down the side of his smoothie cup. He licks it—yes,licks it—off the side of the cup, and my thighs clenchagain.

“Yeah, why?”

I don’t really have an answer. He cleaned up after himself this morning when I asked. I’m definitely being too snippy with him. Idotend to be blunt. A little edgy. Maybe I’ve been leading with attitude because the sight of him still picks at the scabbed over edges of my heart.

I sigh, toss him a quiet, “Just making sure,” and peel a banana for myself.

We lock eyes, me with my banana, him with his smoothie. It’s when I watch the beverage slide down the long swallow of his throat, when his tongue darts out to lick the smoothie mustache off his upper lip, that I decide I need to get out of here. I’m about to abandon my own banana when I realize I’ll just be contradicting myself, and take it with me, where I toss it haphazardly onto my dresser, unfinished, and start the shower.

I toss my hair into a shower cap, only intending to scrub myself off quickly, except the moment the warm water hits my skin, I close my eyes and am assaulted by my own memories. Ant in a muscle tee after spending the last two hours at the gym. Ant licking his upper lip. Memories from Florida of Ant’s fingers trapped beneath my panties, his tongue doing wicked things inside my mouth. It’s some sick type of torture, living with the guy you thought was your everything, I’ll tell you that.

The water sluices over my body, and with my eyes closed and the scent of him still lingering, I let my hands wander just a little. I can’t help that my head tilts back as soon as the pads of my fingers touch my clit. Can’t help that my mind conjures an image that’s equal parts Ant on the beach tugging the sides of my panties beneath my romper to pull me against him; and Ant in the kitchen, stripping off that tank top before swiping the mess off the counter and lifting me onto it. In my head, it’s the perfect height.

It doesn’t take long at all for me to come, not with the warm water beating on me and my fingers working at the same pace as the Anthony in my head as he does all kinds of things we never got to do. I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from groaning out loud—from sayinghisname and letting it echo off the shower walls.God forbid he knows I still think about him.

By the time I actually run a loofah over my body, rinse, and towel off, it’s been fifteen minutes. I throw on a shorts romper over a crop top, finger comb my hair, and start to make my way back toward my office so I can pack up everything I’ll need to go out and write. Maybe a change of scenery will be good inspiration. With my bag packed, I head to the kitchen to fill my water bottle, and realize that something seems off.

The whole kitchen is clean. No traces of his shake, no dishes in the sink. Actually, if I’m not mistaken, the countertops smell like the new tangerine cleaner I bought. Warily, I creep out to the dining room, where the wood grain table smells like Pledge, and there isn’t a trace of balled-up socks anywhere. Following the trail down the hall, I sneak a peek into the parts of the house I don’t venture to. Ant’s bathroom is void of toothpaste stains, water droplets on the mirror, or a questionable looking toilet bowl. Even the Iron Man soap dispenser looks squeaky clean.

“You need something?” he asks.

He has changed. Into joggers and a Red Sox T-shirt. And he smells fresh from the shower?