Blindness

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I finished out the week in a rush. My portfolio critique went surprisingly well, and my boss was eager to show my work to the senior architect on the design team at the firm. I wasn’t expecting him to like my drawings, let alone show any interest. Of course, now I had a new deadline to contend with, and needed to have full-color drafts ready to present by the first of December.

Trevor was so proud of me. He even sent me a Monopoly box and changed all of the street names to somehow relate to my collection of homes. He wasn’t very accurate—he’s only seen my drawings in bits and pieces, so it’s not his fault—but the thought made my heart melt.

I was looking forward to our weekend together. I hadn’t seen Cody since the night of the kiss, and the more time that passed, the more it felt like a dream—and a mistake.

The flight to Washington is fast, just over an hour. I barely have time to start listening to my new playlist. I made a goal for myself to grow my music library, which, though classically honed, is in need of some new blood.

I decide to squeeze in another song or two while I wait for the plane to unload—I always sit near the back, close enough to a restroom, but away from the lights and the chatter of the front of the plane. I like to close the window, not really interested in seeing the angle of our descent or how high I am above patches of farmland. The tradeoff is a painfully slow exit once landed.

I’m feeling the heavy thump of the latest Arctic Monkey’s LP when I finally clear the gate and see Trevor waiting for me. He doesn’t see me at first, and his feet are shuffling with nerves, his hand holding onto a long-stem rose, which looks desperate for water. His jumpiness makes me giggle. When our eyes finally meet, his smile breaks through, and the churning in my stomach that’s been going non-stop since Trevor left the last time…quits. He’s wearing a long coat with a white shirt and dress pants, like he’s just left a courtroom. He has one of those plaid scarfs draped over his neck, and his hair looks flat, probably from the rain.

My lips are on his the instant he says hello, and he scoops me up, lifting me from the ground to twirl me around. “Man, did I miss you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine and giving me one more squeeze.

“Ditto,” I say, biting my lip in a coy smile. Coming here, visiting Trevor, is exactly as I always imagined. As we walk through the airport to the car and drive along the highway, I take in the rest of my setting. It’s perfect, exactly as I knew it would be, and when I close my eyes, I can imagine myself here—and I’m happy.

Trevor’s hand squeezes mine while we drive the short distance to his studio apartment. His building is posh, but his space is pretty small. Once inside, I slide my bags to claim a corner by the bed, and then freshen up in his bathroom.

“Are you hungry?” Trevor asks through the door. “I thought we could grab a light lunch, walk the city a little, and then come back to get ready for the show? I have reservations for dinner tonight at a place you’re going to love,” he says.

I’m starving, but I kind of want to stay in, spend a little time with Trevor in his bed—spend a little time erasing any remnant of my slip-up with Cody. But my stomach betrays me and growls the minute Trevor swings open the door. The sound makes him laugh, and he grabs my purse to hand it to me. “That’s a yes, then?” he chuckles.

“I guess so,” I say, a little embarrassed. I follow him out the door and hold onto his arm while he walks us down the hall to the bank of elevators. Everything here feels more important, more grown up, and seeing Trevor in this element brings out a whole new level of sexy. Unable to stop myself, I slide into him in the elevator and kiss him hard. He’s surprised at first, but reaches around to grab my thigh soon enough, pushing my back into the corner of the elevator. The ding halts our kiss and another couple joins us for the rest of the ride down. I slide my eyes to meet Trevor’s, and we both smirk.

He gets us a cab quickly, and we zip off to the monuments. I wore my heeled boots, and gray shirt-dress. I brought my long coat and am thankful. I feel the wind kick up from the curb as I climb out of the car and walk along the busy roadway to the Lincoln Memorial. There’s something about seeing these things in person that has me breathless. The history is powerful, but I think even more so I’m struck by the artistry—the fact that human hands can make something that is such a statement, so iconic, and so touching.

I wasn’t much for sculpting. I took one class in it at Western, but my hands were better built for pencils. Seeing something like this, close up, had me envious of those with the talent.