Night came.
It was inevitable, Isabelle considered as she stood at the window of her and Andy’s small apartment. It was time to sleep. She was exhausted, but she dreaded the beast that would get into bed with her. That would wake as soon as she closed her eyes.
At least Andy would be here.
The thought gave her some degree of comfort.
In the bathroom the shower was running. She imagined Andy there, standing as Isabelle had done earlier. The warm water running over her body, exhaustion from the day eating away at her.
No. Andy would use cold water. She had no idea how she’d known that to be the case, but she did.
Maybe she was wrong.
Maybe not.
She groaned in frustration. Andy was adding complexity to an already maddening situation. Previously, she only had to cope with the dreams and their aftermath. Now she had to be right, like a jury or a priest.
Right. What a word. One hundred percent. No gray areas.
She walked to the small kitchen. Andy had made her dinner and tea, but it had grown cold since she’d finished getting ready for bed. The pasta was simple. Mushrooms and a bit of grilled chicken. She sat down, pushing the plate to the side. The thought of food made her stomach churn.
She tasted the tea, then swallowed it in a few gulps.
The shower stopped. The door opened, followed by sounds of someone getting dressed. Isabelle looked at the bowl of pasta and felt like she wanted to gag. What she really wanted was far more appetizing. She craved Andy’s touch. Andy’s skin setting her own on fire, scorching her until she came again and again and there was nothing left but ashes and the silence she so desperately craved.
She caught the sound of desire in her throat and exhaled it in a soft murmur she failed to control as the bathroom door closed.
“My food that bad?” Andy was dressed in black sweatpants and an old Notre Dame T-shirt. She dumped her dirty clothes in the laundry basket in the corner.
“No, it’s nice. I’m not hungry. But I drank the tea, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Andy busied herself with grabbing a pillow and a blanket from the bed and making up the couch. She did everything but look at Isabelle.
Of course, Isabelle realized. She’d been here before. Isabelle wasn’t her first dreamer. And what did she say when they’d spoken about this? Sex intensified the dreams? Perhaps what Andy had neglected to say was that dreamers craved sex before dreaming. That it settled the body. The mind. Emptied it before the dreams arrived.
Fuck Andy for not wanting to give her that. Would it be that hard? That difficult? Was she that ugly that Andy couldn’t just fuck her like a woman she picked up in a bar? Who said she had to care?
Isabelle stood up from the breakfast nook. She was too restless too sleep. She wanted to go running. She looked for her gear. Andy wandered to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, then started picking at Isabelle’s pasta.
Isabelle grabbed her running shoes and pulled them on.
“Whoa. Where are you going?” Andy dropped the fork and gave three long strides to suddenly stand next to her.
“Running.”
Andy glanced at her watch. “It’s late. And it’s been a long day and you must be exhausted.”
Damn woman still wasn’t looking at her. Isabelle stood up, stripping her top as she rose. She was naked underneath.
She could hear the catch in Andy’s breath. She turned and faced Andy, her nipples erect and aching. She moved into Andy’s space, running a finger down the front of her T-shirt, slipping it underneath and scratching her nails across the tight stomach.
“Or you can give me what I need.”
“Okay, I…I can go running with you.”
Isabelle slipped her hand lower, rubbing it down Andy’s thigh, inching closer to the V between her legs. “I had something else in mind and you know it.”
Andy grabbed Isabelle’s hand. “I can’t.”
Isabelle burned with anger. She knew she was being rash and impatient, but she couldn’t stop herself. She’d always been that way. It was her biggest enemy. She could never wait for something to come to her. She always had to go and fetch it.
“Won’t,” she said as she pushed herself to her full height. “Don’t be a coward. Say it. Won’t, not can’t.”
“Isabelle, I was very clear from the start about our situation.”
“Situation? Oh, don’t patronize me. Just say you don’t like me. That I’m not your type. That I don’t turn you on. That you don’t care. Whatever.” Isabelle turned back to the closet. “Forget the running. I’m going out.” She kicked off her shoes and grabbed a dress, anger and resentment burning exhaustion to the ground. “I can’t breathe in here.”
* * *
When Isabelle emerged from the bathroom Andy stood ready, all dressed in black. Tight jeans, boots, button-down shirt, and leather jacket.
“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked.
“With you. To make sure you’re okay.” Andy held up her hands. “I’ll drive you to wherever you want to go and make sure you get back okay.” She pointed to the door. “They won’t let you go out on your own. In fact, we may just have to beg Jam to let us leave.”
“So, I’m a prisoner after all?”
Andy didn’t answer, but at least she looked her in the eye. She seemed sad and a little bit angry.
Isabelle would love to see a lot of anger. A lot of anything. Not that stoic face that kept on insisting that everything was fine. Just okay and all right and fine.
She grabbed her coat. “Let’s go then, James.”