Work Hard, Love Harder

“I’ll be back. Go to sleep.”

Then Femi was gone, and Zoe let sleep float her down into dreams.

*****

For Zoe, there was something about the nighttime hours – and, okay, mind-blowing s*x – that made everything seem less important, less urgent. Made it easier to put things off in those stolen hours. It was indulgence to forget, and like a night of drinking that leaves a hangover, it just made everything that much more urgent the next morning.

The bedroom drapes were half opened, lighting the room when Zoe woke. Femi wasn’t in bed and for no reason this annoyed Zoe, and then annoyed her by annoying her. Then she moved and immediately had other things on her mind. Zoe shuffled out of bed and hunted around for her clothes, found them lying over the back of a chair, dried c*m and all. She pulled them on anyway, even though there was no one else around, and made her way to the bathroom.

Scratch that, not alone. Femi was standing in front the mirror, halfway through a shave. Shirtless and barefoot, towel wrapped around his waist, his hair a mess, he looked half awake and definitely hung over.

“Hey,” Zoe said.

“Mornin’,” Femi mumbled. He didn’t turn, but his eyes tracked Zoe in the mirror as she passed.

There was a room inside the bathroom for the toilets, plural. The toilet room. Zoe didn’t bother to close the door before flopping down on the seat and letting loose. Back in the main bathroom, Zoe took the sink next to Femi to wash her hands. One glance in the mirror told her she looked like fried sh*t, despite last night’s sobriety. She needed a shower. And more urgently, food. She cupped a handful of water and bent to swish and rinse the nasty stickiness from her mouth, bracing the elbow of her arm against the counter when her balance tipped. It was becoming a problem more and more these days.

Femi paused to rinse out his razor, letting the water run as he looked Zoe over. “How you feeling?” he asked, turning back to the mirror in front of him.

“I’m not the one with a hangover,” Zoe said, wiping her mouth and shutting off the tap.

Femi tilted his head, running the razor up his throat toward his chin. “You’re the one incubating.”

“Yeah, that’s a great way to put it,” Zoe said, heaping on the sarcasm. She resisted the urge to touch her stomach, cover it. Femi didn’t respond, and Zoe didn’t move, even as the cold tile of the counter edge dug into her hip.

“Hey,” she said, after a moment.

Femi grunted.

“What exactly did you mean when you told people we were making this thing official?” Vague words that didn’t want to overstep, but needed to make themselves noticed. Maybe, maybe not, but Zoe was sick of wondering, wanted a straight answer.

Femi dropped the razor into the sink, pulled a hand towel off the rack, wiping traces of foam from his face. “What do you think I meant?” He was avoiding Zoe’s gaze.

“I think you should just tell me.”

Femi wiped a hand over his jaw, darted a glance at Zoe. “You don’t want to get married?”

Even though she was expecting it, those words coming from Femi made Zoe’s pulse pick up, her stomach tingling with a mix of excitement and nerves.

“I didn’t say that. You didn’t ask me.”

“Okay.” Femi shut off the water, pulled the razor from the sink, and dropped it on the towel.

Before Zoe could process that the conversation was over, Femi had turned and was leaving the bathroom.

Zoe pushed away from the counter and followed. “What, you don’t want to talk about it now? You didn’t have a problem talking about it to everyone else.”

Femi ignored her, headed into the closet, and unzipped a garment bag hanging on one of the bars. He tossed pants across the padded bench set in the middle of the closet, followed it with a shirt. Someone had brought clothes, and Zoe saw a second garment bag hanging beside the one that had held Femi’s clothes. Hopefully that meant Zoe had something clean to wear. Femi unceremoniously dropped his towel and started pulling on a pair of dark blue boxers.

“You could have talked to me first. This sh*t isn’t one-sided.”

“I don’t need an answer from you till I ask. I haven’t,” Femi said, voice dead calm. Dismissive.

And really fu*king childish.

“So, why the fu*k didn’t you ask? Is there something I’m missing here?”

Femi didn’t answer. He turned to the dressing room mirror, started buttoning his shirt. Zoe pushed her tangled hair away from her forehead, feeling the uncomfortable itch of sweaty skin left to dry. She’d meant to be calm and mature about this, she really had. Zoe’s stomach growled, obscenely loud in the silence.

“I didn’t have the ring.” Femi was looking at his sleeve cuffs, like rolling them back required all his attention. “Fu*king designer said two weeks.”

He looked up at Zoe, and Zoe couldn’t place the look on his face, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. It was the stupidest thing Zoe had ever heard.

“You didn’t talk to me because you didn’t have a ring yet?” Zoe choked on a laugh. “Oh my God, you seriously…” It was so dumb it was actually cute in a kind of pathetic way. Zoe gave up and let the laugher out. Every time she started to talk, she caught sight of Femi’s annoyed face and started all over again until she was starting to tear up, half collapsed against the shoe shelf.

“That’s …” Zoe gasped. “That’s the …oh God, stop looking at me. I can’t stop.”

Femi wasn’t actually looking at Zoe, he was leaning against the set of drawers, putting on his watch, but his jaw was tight with ridged muscle. Zoe slid down to the floor, back to the shelves. She wiped at her eyes, smothered a helpless giggle against her hand. She might be a little hysterical, but seriously, the image of Femi all worked up over…

She swallowed down another burst of laugher, took a deep breath. “It better be one fu*king spectacular ring.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Zoe saw Femi’s head turn.

“Is that a yes?”

“I guess.” The words were out before Zoe really had time to consider it. Or maybe she’d already had the time.

Months of it.

She tilted her head to meet Femi’s gaze. “Yes.”