Then again, she’s been deceiving me for years.
After the door quietly taps the frame and I hear my mom slowly release the handle; after her footsteps disappear into her own room; after the water rushes to wash toothpaste and face soap down the drain; after the TV in her room sounds; after that, I wait five more excruciatingly long minutes.
And then I tiptoe to the closet.
“Hi,” I whisper to Luke. It’s pitch-black. I can’t see anything.
From the back corner of the closet comes his smooth voice.
“Hi.”
I hear him climb to his feet and watch his perfect self materialize from the darkness.
Instead of stopping, Luke walks until his warm body is pressing against mine in the closet doorway.
“Hi,” he says again, even smoother this time, if that’s possible, before planting a long and borderline inappropriate kiss on my lips.
Perhaps we’re both charged by the exhilaration of being bad, or maybe it’s the pitch-blackness that drives us, but soon enough we’re on the floor of my walk-in and a few articles of clothing aren’t exactly where they should be.
I stick to my earlier promise of not doing… that. But for at least an hour, maybe more, Luke makes it very, very difficult.
“I have to go to sleep,” I say when my breathing has finally slowed to the point that I can speak. I’m lying on Luke’s bare chest, which is strangely comfortable, considering it’s hard as a rock.
“I know,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss the top of my head before beginning to untangle his longer limbs from mine.
“Where’s my shirt?” I ask, surprisingly at ease being literally and emotionally exposed to him.
“Here you go,” he says, tossing it my way.
Once we’re both dressed, Luke in what he wore this evening and me in pajamas, we walk toward my bed.
“Sleep here with me, okay?” I say.
“I think I’ll take the floor in the closet,” he says, adding, “just in case.”
“No, she won’t come in,” I promise, without really knowing whether we’ll be caught.
“How about this: I’ll lie here until you fall asleep, then I’ll go in the closet so she doesn’t find me in the morning.”
Too tired to argue, and anxious to be out before my memory resets at 4:33, I climb back in bed. This time, I scoot close to the wall and leave half the bed for Luke. He joins me under the covers and immediately we’re snapped together like Legos.
“Crap,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need to write a note. I need to write this down or I’ll forget.”
“Yes, please do,” Luke says. “I don’t want you to freak out again and make me explain things to your mom.”
“Very funny,” I say, elbowing him. He laughs quietly and I do, too, remembering the note from the day after our first date. Luke read that note and many of the others earlier tonight.
“Hmm, just a sec,” Luke says, reaching his outside arm toward the nightstand and retrieving my cell phone. He frees his other arm from under me, quickly types a message, and hits send. Immediately, my phone buzzes to alert me that I have a new text.
“What does it say?” I ask after Luke sets the phone back next to the bed.
“The boy in the closet is your boyfriend. He loves you and will tell you all about last night.”
“Cute,” I say, feeling my eyelids droop and sleep approach. “Don’t forget to tell me about the last hour in the closet.”