Chapter 11: Feeling alone
The first sensation was a dull, deep ache between her legs, a persistent throb that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Clara shifted under the silken sheets, the movement sending a fresh wave of soreness through her core. It wasn't a painful ache, but a satisfying one, a physical memory etched into her muscles. She stretched, her body protesting with various other twinges – in her hips, her lower back – a full-body catalog of the night’s activities.
Her hand slid across the cool, empty space beside her.
She opened her eyes. The other side of the king-sized bed was vacant, the sheets thrown back. Only the impression of a head on the pillow remained. The faint scent of jasmine and sex hung in the air, underscored by the quiet hum of the fan.
A cold knot tightened in her stomach, a familiar disappointment that washed over her like a sudden tide. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling where the soft morning light cast pale patterns. The profound physical satisfaction she felt was now at war with a creeping emptiness. She missed the weight of another body, the sound of someone else’s breathing, the simple, intimate comfort of waking up entwined.
David's name surfaced in her mind, unbidden and sharp. He’d always been there in the morning, his arm slung possessively over her waist, his breath warm against her neck. He’d been the one who wanted the coffee together, the shared newspapers, the lazy Sunday mornings that bled into afternoons. The emotional anchor. The attachment.
And then her eyes fell on the bedside table. Propped against the base of the lamp was a small, torn piece of sketchbook paper, folded in half.
Her heart gave a single, hard thump. She reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly.
The handwriting was a quick, elegant scrawl.
Clara,
Didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful. I had an early meeting with a gallery curator – the one I told you about last week. Last night was… fuck. I don’t have the words. I’ll call you later.
J x
PS. There’s coffee in the pot. It’s probably still warm.
She read it twice, the knot in her stomach loosening a fraction. A meeting. A practical, adult reason. Not a rejection.
She swung her legs out of bed, the cool air hitting her bare skin, making her nipples peak. The ache between her legs was a constant, pleasant reminder as she walked to the kitchen. The apartment was silent except for the fan. The coffee pot was indeed still on, a half-full carafe of dark liquid waiting for her. She poured a mug, the warmth seeping into her hands.
Leaning against the counter, she sipped the bitter coffee and let her mind drift back to the feel of Jade inside her, the terrifying, exhilarating stretch, the way her body had yielded so completely. It had been more than sex. It had been a revelation. But was it a connection? Or just an unparalleled physical fit?
The phone sat dark and silent on the cool granite countertop. She stared at it, the blank screen a mockery of her hope. Jade was in a meeting, she reminded herself, an important one.
Her thumbprint unlocked the device with a soft click. Her messages app opened to her last conversation with Jade, a simple exchange from days ago about meeting. Nothing from this morning.
A hollow feeling expanded in her chest, colder than the ache between her legs. She knew it was irrational, knew the note was proof Jade hadn’t just vanished. But the silence felt heavier than any goodbye.
Her fingers moved almost of their own volition, swiping past Jade’s name, scrolling down through the alphabetized list. She tapped on David’s name. The last message there was from him, three weeks ago. ‘Hope you’re doing okay.’
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. The memory of his steady presence, the predictable comfort of his body in her bed each morning, was a seductive lure. It was an attachment, a known quantity.
She typed quickly, before she could second-guess the impulse.
‘Hey. You around? Can I come over?’
She hit send. The whoosh sound sealed it. The phone felt suddenly heavy in her hand, a guilty weight. She placed it back on the counter, screen down, as if to hide the evidence from herself.