Little Black Book (Original, A/L Romance, Oneshot)
Spring cleaning had always been her thing, and she’d realized that even though they’d been living in the apartment for years, they still had boxes they hadn’t even gone into, or at least hadn’t touched for a while. So she’d hauled them down from the closet and set Adam and Nate on one, going through another herself, with the orders that they were to determine what to keep and what to toss. It was a daunting task and one that was going to take at least an afternoon or two.
Cleaning was hard, though, Lauren had learned, when you had a five-year-old son and a husband who could sometimes act that age. She loved Nate and Adam with all her heart, but sometimes she had to send them out to the basketball court a few blocks down just to get some peace and quiet with her vacuum and Swiffer. Today, however, was chilly and drizzly, and with no hope of exiling them to the court, she figured it was better to rope them into cleaning with her.
“Mommy! Look, I’m Daddy!”
Nate skidded to a halt in front of her, wearing Adam’s old home team jersey, which was several sizes too big for him and therefore adorable. She quirked a smile, reaching out and ruffling her son’s hair gently. “Yes, and you’re just as handsome. Daddy’s probably so proud.”
“Damn right I am.” Adam’s voice, calling from somewhere behind the couch.
“I told you not to use that word in front of him!” Lauren called back, laughing as she shook her head. She got up, walking back with Nate to where Adam was sitting with the box and kneeling down. “Your stuff from high school, I’m assuming?”
“Looks like it. The jersey, some yearbooks… Mom packed this one, I think.”
She reached into the box, pulling out a small book and flipping through it-Adam had never been the reading type; she’d sometimes been his walking Cliffs Notes, reading the books he didn’t want to simply because she had the time and, well, did want to. Finding a book in the box was… unexpected, to say the least, so she stopped at a random page and read a few lines.
Tricia Garvey. Three weeks. Max’s.
Rachel Baum. Two and a half weeks. Her place.
Catherine Kingston. Four weeks. My room…
Adam was looking through one of his yearbooks, showing Nate the pages dedicated to the basketball team, so it wasn’t until she tossed the book back into the box like it was on fire that he looked up and noticed her face.
“Laur, what…” he started as she got up to head into the bedroom, before he picked up the book and looked it over.
Oh, shit.
He scrambled up, handing Nate a small ball to play with and then following his wife into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them as Lauren went to the closet and started rummaging. He figured it was best not to get close-she usually wanted space when they fought-and instead stayed across the room, near the window. They argued quietly so Nate wouldn’t hear.
“Lauren, that wasn’t… you weren’t… supposed to see-”
“Well, yeah, I’d imagine a guy wouldn’t want his wife finding a list of the girls he used to screw. Damned inconvenient to keep something like that around, huh?” she half-growled, shoving the dresses in the closet to one side and still hungting.
“I wasn’t the one who packed the box, Laur! I didn’t even remember I still had that thing!”
“Why, because there were too many damn names that you lost count?”
“No, Lauren, Jesus! Because the list stopped at you! I didn’t touch that thing after we got together! It went under my bed and I forgot about it and my mom probably threw it into the box thinking it was a playbook or something.”
“Yeah, a playbook you could pass onto your little buddies on that fucking team to keep score with! Was that what it was, Adam?” she asked, turning on her heel and seeming to forget about the closet for a moment, staring him down. “You and your friends, what, passed it around in the locker room or something? Took bets on how fast you could go? I mean, Jesus, Adam, I know you went through them like Kleenex, but two weeks and you were done with her? I don’t even have words for that!”
“Lauren, you knew this was how I used to be, okay? You knew me when I started dating, for Christ’s sake! Yes, I used to fuck and run, okay? It was what I did, and I’m not proud, and you know that. You know I’m different now. You know I changed because of you. Maybe I did keep track, and yeah, maybe it was bragging rights, but when it came to you, I stopped. You were different, Laur. You were always different.”
She was wearing down and he knew it, but the slightest tinge of anger was still in her tone. “So if I go into that book I’m not gonna find some kind of… notation of how long it took for you to get me into bed or something?”
“No, you’re not. To be honest with you, Laur, that list stopped during that summer. Not too long before we got together. After Danny and Julie died… it didn’t feel right to be doing that kind of thing anymore. And then there was you. I stopped it, Laur. It still exists, and believe me, I wish I’d gotten rid of it or that you hadn’t found it, but I stopped and that’s what matters.”
Finally she nodded, taking a deep breath and almost having to shake herself off, turning back to the closet and resuming her search. Warily, he crossed the room to her, standing behind her and putting his hands on her hips, running his fingers over the denim of her jeans. She twisted in his hold, briefly nuzzling his cheek with her nose, a nonverbal I forgive you. After seven years of marriage, he knew her well, and he took it, quickly kissing her lips.
“What’re you even looking for?” he asked as she pulled down a ratty shoebox, opening it. All he can see is a beat-up book on top of two sheets of paper.
She sighed, smiling faintly and turning to face him, his hands still on her hips. “Remember how I told you about those really embarrassing love letters I wrote you before we were together?”
“I thought you said you burned them.”
“I said I was going to. Doesn’t mean I did.” She smirked a little impishly, holding up the beat up book and waving it around. “Inspiration for the gushy love letters. John Keats’ letters to Fanny.”
“You’re losing me here.”
“Fanny was his fiancée. He wrote her 39 letters before he died. I read them, I cried, I wrote to you. I figured that if I found something personal of yours, I’d let you read something personal of mine once I wasn’t pissed anymore. Here.” She shoved the box into his arms, smiling still. “You’ve been asking to see them for, what, nine years? The time is now, Cohen. Have at them.”
“You realize I’ll use these to embarrass you down the line.”
“Oh, I realize that. Trust me, I’ve probably run through every embarrassing scenario in my head by now.”
“Well, in that case…” He took her wrist, pulling her to the bed, and she practically fell on top of him as he unfolded the first letter. He smirks as he reads the first line, looks over. “You know I love you, right?”
“As far as they regard myself I can despise all events: but I cannot cease to love you. John Keats,” she smiled, leaning in and kissing his lips.
Cleaning was hard, though, Lauren had learned, when you had a five-year-old son and a husband who could sometimes act that age. She loved Nate and Adam with all her heart, but sometimes she had to send them out to the basketball court a few blocks down just to get some peace and quiet with her vacuum and Swiffer. Today, however, was chilly and drizzly, and with no hope of exiling them to the court, she figured it was better to rope them into cleaning with her.
“Mommy! Look, I’m Daddy!”
Nate skidded to a halt in front of her, wearing Adam’s old home team jersey, which was several sizes too big for him and therefore adorable. She quirked a smile, reaching out and ruffling her son’s hair gently. “Yes, and you’re just as handsome. Daddy’s probably so proud.”
“Damn right I am.” Adam’s voice, calling from somewhere behind the couch.
“I told you not to use that word in front of him!” Lauren called back, laughing as she shook her head. She got up, walking back with Nate to where Adam was sitting with the box and kneeling down. “Your stuff from high school, I’m assuming?”
“Looks like it. The jersey, some yearbooks… Mom packed this one, I think.”
She reached into the box, pulling out a small book and flipping through it-Adam had never been the reading type; she’d sometimes been his walking Cliffs Notes, reading the books he didn’t want to simply because she had the time and, well, did want to. Finding a book in the box was… unexpected, to say the least, so she stopped at a random page and read a few lines.
Tricia Garvey. Three weeks. Max’s.
Rachel Baum. Two and a half weeks. Her place.
Catherine Kingston. Four weeks. My room…
Adam was looking through one of his yearbooks, showing Nate the pages dedicated to the basketball team, so it wasn’t until she tossed the book back into the box like it was on fire that he looked up and noticed her face.
“Laur, what…” he started as she got up to head into the bedroom, before he picked up the book and looked it over.
Oh, shit.
He scrambled up, handing Nate a small ball to play with and then following his wife into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them as Lauren went to the closet and started rummaging. He figured it was best not to get close-she usually wanted space when they fought-and instead stayed across the room, near the window. They argued quietly so Nate wouldn’t hear.
“Lauren, that wasn’t… you weren’t… supposed to see-”
“Well, yeah, I’d imagine a guy wouldn’t want his wife finding a list of the girls he used to screw. Damned inconvenient to keep something like that around, huh?” she half-growled, shoving the dresses in the closet to one side and still hungting.
“I wasn’t the one who packed the box, Laur! I didn’t even remember I still had that thing!”
“Why, because there were too many damn names that you lost count?”
“No, Lauren, Jesus! Because the list stopped at you! I didn’t touch that thing after we got together! It went under my bed and I forgot about it and my mom probably threw it into the box thinking it was a playbook or something.”
“Yeah, a playbook you could pass onto your little buddies on that fucking team to keep score with! Was that what it was, Adam?” she asked, turning on her heel and seeming to forget about the closet for a moment, staring him down. “You and your friends, what, passed it around in the locker room or something? Took bets on how fast you could go? I mean, Jesus, Adam, I know you went through them like Kleenex, but two weeks and you were done with her? I don’t even have words for that!”
“Lauren, you knew this was how I used to be, okay? You knew me when I started dating, for Christ’s sake! Yes, I used to fuck and run, okay? It was what I did, and I’m not proud, and you know that. You know I’m different now. You know I changed because of you. Maybe I did keep track, and yeah, maybe it was bragging rights, but when it came to you, I stopped. You were different, Laur. You were always different.”
She was wearing down and he knew it, but the slightest tinge of anger was still in her tone. “So if I go into that book I’m not gonna find some kind of… notation of how long it took for you to get me into bed or something?”
“No, you’re not. To be honest with you, Laur, that list stopped during that summer. Not too long before we got together. After Danny and Julie died… it didn’t feel right to be doing that kind of thing anymore. And then there was you. I stopped it, Laur. It still exists, and believe me, I wish I’d gotten rid of it or that you hadn’t found it, but I stopped and that’s what matters.”
Finally she nodded, taking a deep breath and almost having to shake herself off, turning back to the closet and resuming her search. Warily, he crossed the room to her, standing behind her and putting his hands on her hips, running his fingers over the denim of her jeans. She twisted in his hold, briefly nuzzling his cheek with her nose, a nonverbal I forgive you. After seven years of marriage, he knew her well, and he took it, quickly kissing her lips.
“What’re you even looking for?” he asked as she pulled down a ratty shoebox, opening it. All he can see is a beat-up book on top of two sheets of paper.
She sighed, smiling faintly and turning to face him, his hands still on her hips. “Remember how I told you about those really embarrassing love letters I wrote you before we were together?”
“I thought you said you burned them.”
“I said I was going to. Doesn’t mean I did.” She smirked a little impishly, holding up the beat up book and waving it around. “Inspiration for the gushy love letters. John Keats’ letters to Fanny.”
“You’re losing me here.”
“Fanny was his fiancée. He wrote her 39 letters before he died. I read them, I cried, I wrote to you. I figured that if I found something personal of yours, I’d let you read something personal of mine once I wasn’t pissed anymore. Here.” She shoved the box into his arms, smiling still. “You’ve been asking to see them for, what, nine years? The time is now, Cohen. Have at them.”
“You realize I’ll use these to embarrass you down the line.”
“Oh, I realize that. Trust me, I’ve probably run through every embarrassing scenario in my head by now.”
“Well, in that case…” He took her wrist, pulling her to the bed, and she practically fell on top of him as he unfolded the first letter. He smirks as he reads the first line, looks over. “You know I love you, right?”
“As far as they regard myself I can despise all events: but I cannot cease to love you. John Keats,” she smiled, leaning in and kissing his lips.