I wake the next morning early as I usually do, but I can tell that something is different even before I open my eyes. The birds are chirping, and I can hear Mama shuffling down the hallway from the bathroom, same as ever. But the bed’s warmer, and my leg is pinned down. I open my eyes.
Kitty’s hair is strewn across the pillow, and she’s deeply asleep, her lips barely parted, the tension that’s usually in her features relaxed. Gorgeous as the rising sun that slants through the window. I try to keep myself still, but now that I’m awake, I desperately have to pee. I inch my leg out from under hers as slowly as I can. She doesn’t wake, but I’m on the side of the bed with the wall, and the footboard is high enough that it’d be incredibly awkward to clamber over. I draw back the covers on my side and try to inch my way down the bed and to stretch over her legs. But the bed squeaks and shudders, and her eyes snap open just as I’m nearly straddling her.
“Sorry,” I say as her eyes widen, then relax. She glances around her, seeming to get her bearings. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
She rubs her eyes, yawns. “No problem. What time is it?” She scrabbles for her phone, and I finish my trip to the floor and hand it to her.
“Five thirty. It’s early yet.”
Kitty nods, but when she unlocks her phone screen, her eyes widen again, and she pinches her lips shut, her brows drawing together. “Dammit.” She pushes aside the sheets and rises, still naked, just like me. “I’m going to have to get back.”
“Breakfast first?” I offer. Kitty looks up at me, away from her phone, and smiles. She leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss.
“If it’s quick. It’s a bit of a drive back for me.”
“Quick, definitely.” I’d love for her to stay, but I know that’s a lot to ask so early. My bladder twinges again, more urgently this time. “Will be right back.”
I grab a light robe from the back of the door and put it on, then open the door and head swiftly down the hallway in a quick two-step. I clean up before I head back to my room, washing my face and hands and brushing my teeth. I dig out a new toothbrush from underneath the sink and leave it on the edge of the vanity. On my way back to my room, I grab a clean bath towel from the linen closet.
Kitty is sitting on the edge of my bed, still naked, tapping rapidly on her phone with both thumbs, biting her lip. She seems to have forgotten she’s naked, but I don’t mind. I close the door and lean back against it, waiting.
Finally, she looks up. “Sorry. Work. As always.” She sighs. I sit down beside her on the bed, laying the towel over her hands and the phone.
“Let it go for a few minutes. They’ll wait. The bathroom is free, and you can shower and brush your teeth. I’ll get something started for breakfast.”
Kitty leans over to me, kissing me again. It’s easy to sink in against her, to feel her soft skin against my palms, the heat of her breast, the curve of her hip. It’s intimate and domestic all at once, and I dream of doing this every day, waking up with her every morning. It’s a big leap, and one I have never made, never wanted to make. Never trusted anyone to make it with. But yet, here I am with her, with Kitty, and I’m ignoring all those old thoughts, old fears. It’s not me. And yet it is, somehow. I need to puzzle it through, but right now, I just want Kitty.
The towel falls to the floor, and her hand’s on me, sliding inside my robe, cupping my breast, and our kiss deepens. I want her so much. And she wants me.
But she pulls back, and reluctant as I am to stop, I match her movements. We’re both panting. Her lips are swollen from our kisses, and I’m sure mine are as well.
“I should shower,” she says breathlessly. “It’s okay?”
“No one’s in there,” I say.
“And us?” Kitty says. Her breathless expression, her unhindered desire, has dampened, and a frown crinkles her brow.
“Okay?” I ask. “Of course we are.”
A light blush steals over her cheeks. “Of course,” she says, as if she should have known. Why wouldn’t she know?
“What are you thinking?” I ask. Nothing like being direct. I can do that with her, at least at this moment, in the room’s early morning quiet, just us.
Kitty shakes her head. “Nothing, really.” She looks at me, searching. “I just…I just don’t want this to end.”
“Of course it won’t.” I drop a gentle kiss on her lips. “We’re not done yet. Not even close.”
Kitty smiles then, rising to her feet and scooping up the towel. I shed my robe and hand it to her, then turn to the dresser, pulling open a drawer. “You’d best get in the shower before Mama takes it over,” I say, grabbing my day’s clothes. I turn back to her. “Second door, turn left out from my room.”
“See you in a few,” she says, putting on my robe and gathering up her clothes. She darts out the door, but not before I have the chance to admire her in it, her bare feet and calves visible, and the deep vee at her neck.
Gorgeous. And the perfect wake-up partner.
* * *
The shower is heavenly, and it takes away any remaining sleepiness. I make it quick, though. Overnight, my phone has blown up with emails and messages, work that couldn’t wait. I want it to be able to wait, but I know I can’t put it off. I already put some of it off last night.
I step out onto the worn bath mat and towel off, then hang the used towel on the empty spot of the rack. I dress in yesterday’s somewhat wrinkled and messy clothes. Ugh. I’ve always tried not to be too fussy and prissy, but right now, I am close to throwing a fit from the feel of a dirty T-shirt next to my skin. I look at myself in the mirror, run my fingers through my damp hair. Once it dries, it’ll straighten on its own, mostly. I can deal with it. I gaze at myself, and I take a deep breath. And then another. It’s a trick I’ve learned from being really anxious as a teenager: focus on something else, not on the anxiety. Deep breaths. I look at the sink, at the chip on the edge of the enamel, at the two faucets, the blue rubber plug on its chain wrapped around the cold faucet base, dangling into the sink. Everything is just a bit worn, as if it’s been here for decades. It probably has, I remind myself. It’s a farmhouse, and everything is old, pretty much.
Feeling calmer, I brush my teeth and leave the toothbrush where I found it. I’ll come back.
That thought makes me smile, and I leave the bathroom and head downstairs to the kitchen. I can smell something cooking, but I’m not sure what it is. It smells savory, not sweet. And it’s not the usual smells I’m used to. Not an omelet, or French toast. I walk down the hall and into the great room. Lucy is moving about in the kitchen, and her mother is sitting outside on the porch, the screen door all that separates her from the great room. There’s a light breeze coming in, smelling of hay, of fresh country air.
I wish I could open my windows and have that.
Lucy turns, and when she sees me, her face lights up. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she says, turning back to the counter. She’s stirring something, and I see sliced green onions on a chopping board, and two eggs whole in their shells. Lucy takes a handful of green onions and sprinkles them over whatever she’s working on. I’m too curious, so I move next to her, nudging her with my shoulder. She nudges me back even as she focuses on her work.
There are two bowls that look a bit like porridge, although they don’t smell like porridge. The green onions are being sprinkled on top. When she’s done that, she takes one of the eggs and a knife, and taps a path around its circumference, cracking it open. It’s soft boiled, and the yolk runs out. She scoops the whites out with a spoon and piles them on the porridge. And then does the same with the second egg on the second bowl.
I’m not sure what to think, because this is not like any porridge I’ve ever had.
“You look confused,” Lucy says. “Have you ever had congee before?”
Congee. I rack my mind, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.
Lucy takes up the bowls and I follow her to the table. She’s set out a pot of tea, cups, and utensils on the gray Formica.
“It looks like porridge,” I say as I sit down in the same place I sat last night. Lucy sets the bowl in front of me.
“It’s like that. Just with rice, and savory, not sweet. I have it almost every morning.”
I’m sure I look skeptical. I’ve always tried to hide my emotions, and had to learn to do it for court and for work, but I haven’t put up that shield. Not here. I school my features.
“It’s a bit different, I know,” Lucy says, taking up her spoon. “But try it. If you hate it, I can make you an omelet instead.”
I feel a bit like a kid forced to eat a meal they don’t like, but I will try it. I can do savory at breakfast. I know I can.
I scoop up a small bite’s worth, getting a bit of everything: rice, egg, and green onion. As I bring it to my mouth, I find that I’m salivating, the scent teasing my nostrils. I am definitely hungry. Probably all this fresh air. And Lucy.
I take that bite, and the combination of flavors hits my tongue at once. It’s delicious. A bit salty, a bit like a thick soup, almost, but the freshly cooked egg and the raw fresh green onion make it pop on my taste buds. I take another bite, this time more quickly. It feels like it’s triggered a craving in me, one I never knew I had.
“I knew you’d like it,” Lucy says after I’ve finished a few more bites. “I’ve never known anyone who doesn’t once they try it.”
“This is so good—you should sell it.”
Lucy’s mom opens the screen door and makes her way inside, going to a pot on the stove. She looks at me, at my bowl. “It’s a secret recipe,” she says. “From my family.”
“Not really secret,” Lucy clarifies. “But the broth is a special mix. It’s not just water.”
“A stock?” I ask. I take another taste, trying to pinpoint the flavors infusing the rice. “Seafood?” And there’s a slight spice there, one I’ve had before. “And ginger?”
Lucy’s mom smiles approvingly at me. “You know your food. I thought so, after last night. I make a special stock, and we always use it for congee. It’s Lucy’s favorite. Mine too.”
“We should sell it,” Lucy says, “but doing breakfast at a restaurant is a lot of work.”
“A restaurant?” Lucy’s mom raises a brow. “When are you opening a restaurant?”
“We aren’t,” I say.
“Not yet,” Lucy adds. Our gazes meet, and we smile. Our secret idea, our secret plan. Well, maybe not so secret. It hovers there between us, a shimmering possibility.
“Breakfast is hard,” Lucy’s mom agrees. “Too many things to choose from, too much to do. But lunch, perhaps, or dinner.” She looks directly at me. “You could be the chef. You have enough skill for it.”
She does up a bowl of congee for herself, adding the green onions. She doesn’t add any egg but instead puts a bit of something else on it, something I don’t recognize. “Dried shrimp,” she says when she sees me looking. She takes her bowl back out to the porch, leaving us alone in the kitchen.
“You really want to do it?” I ask.
Lucy takes a bite of her congee, savors it, thinking.
“I do. We should do it.”
“But how?”
Lucy shrugs. “From the beginning.”