There’s a Man in My Bed

The next afternoon, the institute took in two female pythons from a partner facility. I learned about their arrival from Dr. Carter, who’d stopped to ask whether Avery had been acting differently lately.

“He’s been acting like himself with more commitment,” I told her.

“It’s that time of year. We sometimes see changes in behavior during breeding season.”

She left me to finish my rounds. I looked up at Avery and thought about the last two weeks: the tail, the towel, the heart rate. Maybe he’d been as frustrated by all of it as I was.

The newcomers were brought through the service corridor in carriers on their way to their own rooms. Avery had an excellent view from the branch. He glanced at the first carrier, gave the second one a little more consideration, and then turned his head to follow me as I walked to the far sink.

“You had your chance,” I told him.

He followed me back with his eyes.

“I’m going home. I’m going to take off these boots, have a beer, and sleep the whole night without thinking about you.”

As promises went, it was wildly overambitious. I knew that as soon as I made it.

I hung my old sweatshirt on the hook by his enclosure. I’d brought it in at the beginning of the week and kept forgetting to take it back. Avery used to settle near it late in the afternoon. I liked having a reason to leave it there.

When I turned out the lights, he was waiting near the door.

I came back one step. His head turned with me.

“Good night, Avery,” I said. I went out before he could make a liar of me.

The staff cottages sat behind the greenhouse, two short rows of rooms joined by an uncovered walkway. Mine was at the end. I made a frozen dinner, left the dishes in the sink, and crawled into bed early enough to feel virtuous about it.

I’d pulled a quilt off the top shelf because the room cooled fast at night. Half of it ended up on the floor. I remember thinking I ought to pull it back up. I also remember thinking I ought to answer my mother’s text about whether I liked my new job.

I did neither.

Sometime later, something made a soft rasp near the foot of the bed. I pulled my feet up and tucked them under the quilt. The mattress dipped. I was far enough asleep to be irritated about it without being interested in what had caused it.

Then there was warmth at my back, and a little more weight at my shoulder. I rolled toward it. I hadn’t had another person in my bed in months. Apparently my sleeping brain had decided that if one happened along, we’d make room.

The next thing I knew, there was gray light at the window and a hand on my waist.

It was a remarkably nice hand. Long fingers, a small crease across the knuckle where the index finger bent, a thumb resting on the hem of my shirt. I took in all these details with the unhurried interest of someone whose brain hadn’t connected any of them to the fact that he lived alone.

Then it did.

I turned my head very slowly.

There was a man in my bed. Black hair. A small crease on his cheek from my pillow. His chin was tucked against my shoulder in a way I recognized before I could possibly explain why.

I sat up so fast the quilt went over the side and nearly took me with it.

The man opened his eyes.

I’d spent two weeks looking into those eyes. I knew the way they caught the light and the way his gaze settled on me and stayed there, even when there were several more sensible things in the room to look at.

“Avery?”

He reached past me and rescued the corner of the quilt.

“You said I hated you,” he murmured. “I don’t.”