Wish You Were Here

Chapter 2

As the days pass, it's easy to mistake that night for a dream. Hazy and out of focus. You almost convince yourself it was something you had made up. You are a writer, after all.

You'd lain together for a while afterwards in the dim moonlight, until the urge to pee was starting to become overpowering. You sat up and swung your legs over to climb out of bed, and he stretched his arm out to touch the small of your back. "You're not staying?" he mumbled, already half-asleep. "It's so late."

"Just going to the bathroom," you whispered and, true to your word, you made your way back in the dark and slipped under the sheets again. As unusual as the situation was, you were finally relaxed enough to be comfortable. Lying beside him, you slept better than you had in weeks.

In the morning he'd made you a cup of coffee, rolling around your clothes from last night. His hair was a mess, standing up in all different directions, but you liked it that way. He asked you what time your flight was and you lied, saying it was earlier than it was, so you could get moving before it got weird. Then he asked if he could arrange your Uber, but you declined. He kissed you goodbye at the door of his hotel room and you did the walk of shame alone. The elevator closest to his room let you select the ground floor without tapping the key. There was no mention of when you would see each other again. You hadn't wanted to assume there would be a next time.

You'd been distracted enough with the wedding, anyway. There had been a lot of last-minute things to organize or fix, which had kept your mind busy, though it had ultimately been a beautiful ceremony. People who you hadn't spoken to in a while were more interested in the books than the movie adaptations, so when the subject came up no one even spoke his name. The groomsman you'd been paired with had been keen on you, and you'd chatted to your ex for a while too, but you were proud of yourself for just going home by yourself and sleeping in your childhood bedroom. Not ready to make another notch in your bedpost.

Although, you had thought of your actor friend. Especially in the vows, when your sister described falling in love with her husband-to-be's deep eyes. You'd wanted to send him a text, and pulled up your message chain a few times, but were never sure of what to say. Was it appropriate to ask how his day was going? You'd typed and quickly backspaced several times. Eventually you let it slide. You didn't want to bother him if this was just a one-night stand. Especially since he's so private.

When you were alone, you Googled his name with the phrase "mystery woman". There are no pictures of the two of you, of course – your dalliance had been discreet. But there are pictures of him with other women over the years. Mystery blonde. Mystery brunette. Mystery pink-haired girl (!). Not-so-mysterious girls he has actually been linked to publicly. They all vary in their looks, but all are beautiful – he is the only constant, with his thick hair, lean frame, curved nose. The pictures span over several years and you suppose it only looks bad because there are so many presented in a line – if you do the math, it works out to be one or two a year, with the exception of that actress he was with for so long.

You can understand why so many women are attracted to him. And, you suppose, maybe it's not such a bad thing that he's been with lots of different women. He'd put on a condom with little fanfare, without being asked to. He was confident enough in the bedroom to make sure you both had a good time. And he was a gentleman, making sure you had finished first, and later asking you to spend the night.

You'd never asked him if this was supposed to be kept to yourself. You had assumed he wouldn't have asked you over if you were the type of person to kiss and tell. You figured he was only keen because of how easy it was to lure you out for a one-night stand, if your gestures in his trailer were anything to go by. And, anyway, you kind of liked it when no one knew. Something to keep to yourself without having to let anyone else in.