Most Wonderful

Chapter 31 Seven Days till Christmas

31.

Seven days till Christmas

Birdie and Jecka saw each other every day—on Monday, browsing for books at The Golden Notebook, followed by lunch at the Garden Cafe. On Tuesday, Jecka came to the Inn for dinner, leaving well after midnight. On Wednesday afternoon, Birdie finally scored an invite to Jecka’s home; Jecka was going to paint while Birdie worked on her new show.

Birdie had suspected the artist’s digs would be one thousand times nicer than her own disastrous Brooklyn abode. She was right.

“Whoa,” Birdie breathed, as Jecka let her in. “This is sick. ”

The two-story redbrick building was located just off the main street in town. The entire bottom floor was raw space, functioning as Jecka’s studio. Half-finished canvases were taped to the concrete walls, amid pots of paintbrushes and palettes of paints. A record player sat in one corner, next to an old orange armchair and a stack of art books. It smelled vaguely of turpentine and incense.

“I live upstairs.” Jecka gestured to a staircase. “But this is where the magic happens.”

Birdie liked the incongruity of the relaxed, unfiltered space with Jecka’s cool, controlled exterior. Even in her baggy, paint-splattered overalls worn over a skimpy tank top, Jecka somehow still looked chic.

Birdie put on a Nina Simone record from those stacked by the player and settled into the armchair. For a few minutes, she watched Jecka mix up some paints and start slashing them onto a canvas, stepping back every now and then to consider the composition. Then Birdie flipped open her own notebook.

Her new idea, centered around an exploration of her dad, was taking shape almost of its own accord. Connections and themes and punch lines kept popping into her brain. Birdie had been working on it every day. Plenty of past hookups had seen her perform, but they never saw the effort that went into those seemingly off-the-cuff performances. Birdie liked that Jecka got to see this side of her—the side that took joke construction seriously, the side that wanted to dig into this difficult subject matter and unearth the gems buried in its dirt. It made her feel substantive. Like a real artist, not just comic relief.

Birdie hadn’t stopped thinking about what Jecka had said in the wine cellar—that Birdie needed to take her own life seriously. This work felt like that. Instead of shrugging off her pain or making a joke about it, she was doing the opposite—looking at it even more closely. Seeing it differently, just as she was continuing to see Jecka in a new, more intimate light.

When the sun seeped away from the downstairs windows, Jecka put down her palette and stretched, head tipping back.

Birdie imagined tracing her tongue along Jecka’s neck, kissing her collarbone, her mouth. The image stoked hot coals in her belly. She closed her notebook.

—

Upstairs, the living quarters were as clean and neat as the downstairs wasn’t. Tall arched windows were set into an exposed brick wall. A fiddle-leaf fig that wasn’t dead sat in one dust-free corner, near her fun-sized Christmas tree hung with tasteful silver baubles. The expensive-looking furniture was a palette of muted neutrals with a few carefully chosen pops of color: a bright orange cushion, a bold yellow jacket hanging on a hook.

Birdie placed the wine she’d brought on a dining room table the size of Alaska. The whole place was ten times the size of Birdie’s crash pad. There was even a laundry room.

As Birdie explored, Jecka washed up, changing into snug denim shorts and a cropped sweatshirt that exposed a sliver of her taut brown skin.

Birdie smiled at the sight, pausing at the doorway to what had to be the bedroom. “And what do we have behind Door Number Five?” She twisted the knob, revealing a king bed with oatmeal linen sheets and pillows, straight from a Parachute Home catalog. Birdie gave Jecka a look of faux confusion. “What is this? Soft, elevated flooring?” She took a seat on the end of the bed, bouncing experimentally. “Springy. Comfortable. I’m just not sure of the purpose of such an item. Care to”—she cleared her throat—“enlighten me?”

Jecka rolled her eyes with a smile, coming to stand between Birdie’s legs. “Maybe.”

Birdie rose to her feet, wrapping her arms around Jecka’s waist. Jecka’s lips were warm. Birdie loved the way their mouths fit together. The way she didn’t have to think about the rhythm of their breath and tongue. But Birdie was also eager to see how else they might fit together.

She let her fingers drift over Jecka’s sweatshirt, brushing her breast.

Jecka let out a small sound of pleasure, her voice already a pant. “When was the last time you were tested?”

“Just before Thanksgiving.” Birdie was pleased she remembered this. “But in the spirit of honesty, I did sleep with a couple different girls that weekend and haven’t been tested since.”

“A couple different girls,” Jecka repeated. “In one weekend?”

She sounded more surprised than judgmental, but Birdie still winced. “I live to give? But right now I only want to give to you.”

Jecka sat on the bed. “I’ve never had a one-night stand.”

Birdie sank down next to her, stunned. “Never?”

Jecka shrugged and shook her head. “Serial monogamist. I’ve only slept with five people.”

Birdie almost choked. “Are you joking?” Clearly, she wasn’t. “Oh. Wow. Cool.” Terrifying thought: “Do you want to hear my number?”

“Sounds like we don’t have time for that math,” Jecka said dryly. “Are you seeing anyone else right now?”

“No. I really dig you, Jecka. Just you.”

Jecka smiled, tugging Birdie closer. “I really dig you, too.”

Birdie pressed her lips to the curve of Jecka’s neck, inhaling the smoky-sweet smell of her skin. “Awesome.”

“But to be brutally honest—”

Birdie lifted her lips from Jecka’s neck. “What a fun way to start a sentence.”

“—I didn’t think I’d start hanging out with someone so…” Jecka trailed off, eyes squinting.

“Feel like you’re not going to say mind-blowingly hot, ” Birdie said.

“Unpredictable?” Jecka tried. “The last person I dated was a lawyer. Before that, a doctor.”

The inference being that Birdie was very different from someone with a stable, lucrative profession. Hard to pretend that didn’t sting.

“Right,” Birdie said lightly. “Grown-ups with space-age vacuum cleaners and 401(k)s.”

Jecka’s eyes widened. “You don’t have a 401(k)?”

Add it to the list of things to figure out. Birdie leaned across the duvet and Jecka allowed herself to be kissed. Once. Twice. Three times. “Oh, wow,” she breathed. “You are troublingly good at that.”

“Or maybe you just like kissing me.” Birdie kissed her again, and again, shifting their bodies until Jecka was lying back on her mound of pillows. Birdie dropped kisses on her mouth, her neck, the elegant ridge of her collarbone, while Jecka let out sighs of pleasure.

Birdie moved her hand south, grasping the edge of Jecka’s sweatshirt. Birdie enjoyed undressing any woman. But there was something particularly hot about removing clothing from this exquisite woman who was writhing with growing impatience underneath her. This was like unwrapping the world’s best gift.

Birdie pulled the top over Jecka’s head, tossing it aside. Jecka’s full breasts were encased in a cream silk bra edged in black lace. The sight made Birdie’s eyes feel like cartoon bombs exploding. Birdie was a breast man, always had been, always would be. She felt heavy with lust, eager to explore. To touch and play. Tongue Jecka’s nipple, see if she liked that. Kiss and suck and stroke every inch of them. Birdie promised herself to take her time with these gorgeous tits. Slowly. Thoroughly. But not yet.

Birdie slid her fingers past the smooth flesh of Jecka’s stomach. Over the top of her shorts. Cupping the denim between her legs with a quick, confident grasp, Birdie squeezed.

Jecka let out a cry, her eyes flying open.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Jecka Jacob.” Birdie spoke with quiet control. “I am going to take your shorts off. I am going to take your panties off. And I am going to make you come. Again and again and again. All. Fucking. Night.”

“Oh Jesus,” Jecka murmured, squirming.

“With my mouth,” Birdie went on, rubbing her thumb up and down the seam of Jecka’s shorts, watching the way it made Jecka moan. “With my hands. With whatever toys you’ve got stashed in that bedside drawer. And do you know what you’re going to give me?”

“What?” Jecka panted.

Birdie took Jecka’s earlobe in her mouth, biting gently, then speaking directly into the ear. “The benefit of the doubt.”

Jecka’s laugh became a groan as Birdie started circling her thumb with even more pressure. “Okay. Okay.”

“Okay what?”

Jecka laughed then groaned, growing desperate, her control slipping. “Okay, I trust you! Just please, stop talking and fuck me.”

With a flick of her wrist, Birdie unzipped Jecka’s fly and did exactly that.