Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

20

A/N: Can't believe we are at chapter 20 already! This book has come such a long way.
Anyway, early update. Hope you enjoy!

20
The sun spills through the gaps of the heavy set curtains like a disobedient child hell-bent on mischief. The light bounces off of Anastasia's eyelashes, irradiating a brown hue.
Her face nuzzled close to my shoulder, her breaths leave tingles along my skin. She wipes some drool away from her mouth in her sleep. I cannot help but smile.
I slip out from between the covers, tiptoeing away from the bed over the creaking floorboards.
I check my phone to a message from Charlotte.
Where are you? Really wished you could come to Reykjavik.
Attached with the text a picture of her in a bikini equivalent to wrapping a string around her neck.
I look back at Anastasia, still, sound asleep and a bit more drool rolling down the side of her mouth, and move closer to click a picture of it, trying my best to keep from laughing out.
I delete the thread and move on to wonder about breakfast.
Anastasia rolls over in bed, yawning and rubbing her eyes in with her fists. She searches around the room for me and we make eye contact. The light hits her face from an angle, making her eyes look even exquisitely bigger.
She smiles, "Good morning, Brooklyn," she says in her cracking voice.

"We are not spending the day out today."
She looks over at me, perplexed, "Then what?"
"We will go to the Valley Forge around sunset, then visit the Liberty Bell and Philadelphia Museum. I will be taking you out to dinner after that."
She frowns, "Why does that sound suspiciously upscale?"
I chuckle, "Just wear a dress."
Anastasia moves over to her bag, zipping it down and rummaging through its contents. She pulls out a beautiful red silk dress and smooths it out on the bed.
"Well, I guess we are in luck."

"Hold on, you are wearing a dress shirt," Anastasia exclaims in disbelief when I walk into the room. I smirk at the smudge her bright red lipstick has left behind, somewhere she tried to wipe it away from.
I pick my coat casually lying on the comforter and make for the door.
"And you are wearing a jacket. Bro, what's up?"
I hold the door open, "You look beautiful too. Now if we can hustle. The lady first."

Our tour guide, a burly man in his forties, hits the brakes, jolting us to a halt. "Here we are!", he announces with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.
The sun has just started to set over the horizon, the orange skies slowly giving in to a blue one.
The tour guide jumps out of his seat, moves to the front of the car and squats down. My gaze averts to the dashboard of the car. A cross hanging from the rearview mirror. A dulling picture of a lady hugging two sons to her chest, wrapped in cellophane plastic to keep the dustout. A tiny 'Daddy' scratched out on the downside of the dash, hardly visible to an absent eye, with rough edges and uneven letters.
I wonder which one did it and did he get told off for it.
A flock of birds flies right through the sun. The chirping composes its own soundtrack along with the mild breeze rustling through the leaves.
The sun goes down in a flash. The tour guides spits his chewing gum on the ground.
"My God, she is gorgeous."
I see Anastasia smile from the corner of my eye.

The door to the elevator slides open on the 14th floor.
We walk to the reception and a lady with a sharp jawline and kind eyes greets us with her thick British accent, "Welcome to Le Lis de Nuit."
"Reservation for two under Baxter."
She checks her list and gives us a nod of confirmation, "Martine will take you to your table."
A young girl, who I can assume is Martine, steps forward and guides us the rest of the way through the dimly lit hall.
"There is your table, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter."
Anastasia snorts and I just mutter a heartfelt thanks. She pulls a chair away with her as she departs.

The champagne hits her sooner than I expected.
Her beef bourguignon sits half-eaten on her plate.
"What is your story?", she asks. No pauses. No second thoughts. "You know almost everything about me, I know nothing about you."
I take a sip of my bubbling champagne, "What about it?"
"You tell me!"
I shake my head, "There is really not much to know."
"No. I don't believe it."
"Why not?", I ask.
"Because sometimes when you talk to yourself, I can hear you. Literally. You think I'm asleep with my face against the glass but I am trying, within all my mortal limitations, to listen, to hear, to understand what the storm is about, what is the pain, or happiness or irreparable argument you are fighting with your own self. But of course, all that I can hear is you groaning over a long period of time. And all that I can feel is...fullness. So I do not agree with you when you say there is not a lot to know. There is so much, too much. Maybe more than you are aware of."
I think about an appropriate answer. But I have none.
She sighs, "Okay. Let's start slow. What's your middle name?"
I laugh, "Okay. It is lame though." She motions me to go on.
"Arthur. Brooklyn Arthur Baxter."
"It's pretty cool."
"What's yours?", I ask. I realized I did not know her middle name either.
"Eladia. Don't ask me what it means."
"It is beautiful."
"Thanks."
The beautiful Pennsylvania skyline lights flicker in front of us.
"Who was the girl at dinner on your birthday?"
My stomach twists, "Charlotte Nelson. A family friend."
She cocks her head at me.
"My ex-girlfriend."
"What happened?"
"She just left. We were together. Everything was perfect and then one day she was gone."
"Where?"
"I did not know. Later on, I found out from her social media that she moved to France with another man. But she never told me anything about it. Not once."
She sighs, "Wow. And now she is back?"
"Yep. With a subtle motive to reunite with me. But it's not possible."
"Why not?"
I think to myself, why not?
"I am not the most forgiving soul. I will forget the fights, but I will never forget the things that were said and done. I will never forget how much it hurt every single day knowing I was not enough. That someone else made her happy when I wanted to give her all of that. My mind never lets me forget it."
Her eyebrows knit in concern, "How would you carry all of that your whole life?"
"I have done it long enough to get used to the weight. Now it is just instinct. If not a little bit of fear."
"Fear?"
"Of making the same mistakes again lest I forget. Of going through the whole crushing impatience of getting my shit together, lest I forget how I did it the first time. Forgive and forget is the phrase. How long till I forget what forgave?"
She plays with her food. I finish the rest of my champagne in one gulp, not expecting her to have an answer.
"Dessert or get out?", I ask.
She looks up and smiles, "Get out."

I felt like having a shower when we came back to our room.
By the time I get out, Anastasia is already in bed, the blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. I towel dry my hair and climb into bed, leaving some space between the both of us. My pillowcase smells like water lily.
"Brooklyn?"
"Hm?"
"You are more than enough," she whispers, slightly over the humming of the air conditioner, "You always have been."