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Grigor gets out of the shower and wraps one of George’s pink towels around his waist. For some reason she has dozens of fancy shampoos, body scrubs, and moisturizers, but she doesn’t have a plain bar of soap. Now he smells like a fucking cupcake thanks to the body wash he was forced to use, and he probably still smells like her too. When he steps out of the bathroom, she’s lounging on the couch, flipping through Netflix. She’s wearing his sweater; the one from his alma mater. She has one too, but she’s always insisted that this one is better because it’s his. And he has to admit, she looks damn good in it.
“What do you think,” she says, not even turning around because she knows he’s there. She’s always had this weird psychic sense about him. She knows when he’s lying. She knows exactly what to get him for his birthday. She can basically read his mind. They kill at charades. “Grey’s Anatomy?”
He rolls his eyes, and enters her bedroom to look for his pants; hastily discarded the night before. She does this song and dance every time, but they always end up watching the same thing. Ally McBeal. It was their show when they were married, and she always puts it on the morning after he comes crawling back to her apartment. It used to be their apartment, but they decided she got to keep it in the divorce, so now it’s hers. Aside from all of Grigor’s stuff being gone, it still looks pretty much the way it had before.
He picks up his shirt from the floor and slips it over his head. Still no sign of his pants. “Watch whatever you want,” he calls from the bedroom. He does find his boxers, hanging off the mirror of George’s vanity; the sex had been crazy last night. “I’m not staying.”
He can hear George’s laugh from the other room. “You say that and then you stay for dinner. Come here, I’m cold.”
Grigor sighs but eventually relents. He can’t leave if he can’t find his pants, that’s all it is. He tosses the towel into the hamper she keeps in the closet, and makes his way to the living room. She’s draped herself on the couch in a pose that’s obviously meant to seduce him. He knows he’s fucking pathetic for hooking up with his ex-wife, but its comforting to know she’s just as desperate. He’s supposed to have a new girlfriend now, but here he is, watching TV with his ex-wife on a Saturday morning.
She has the show on already, he recognizes Greg Germann and Calista Flockhart before he even glances at the screen. George nods over to the coffee table. “I made you coffee.”
“Thanks.” He tries to sound casual to hide his excitement because she makes the best coffee, just how he likes it, and no one else has ever managed to replicate it. “Have you seen my pants?”
“No clue.” He’s starting to think she hid them. He picks up the mug, still hot, and slides onto the couch beside her. George wiggles to get comfortable, and she fits perfectly against him, like a puzzle piece. Grigor takes a sip of the liquid gold that George calls coffee, and if he closes his eyes he can transport himself back to their college apartment, the one that they shared with Peter. The rain is tapping against the window, and it’s a bit chilly, but the warmth of her body against his makes up for it. If he forgets for a moment that he’s not supposed to be here, it’s almost nice.
“Peter mentioned that you guys went sailing last weekend. How was that?” Peter. Great. Of course she still goes out for drinks with him, but they probably didn’t fuck because him and Catherine are in couples therapy now, and he’s determined not to fuck the marriage up. Not like Grigor and George did. They didn’t even try couples therapy because when Grigor gave her the divorce papers he was certain they were a lost cause. It’s totally normal that he keeps his wedding ring hidden away in his nightstand.
“Fun,” says Grigor. She’s pressing her frozen feet up against his shins. She’s wearing his sweatshirt. And she made him coffee. Sex is one thing, but this feels so… domestic. Dangerous. “We really shouldn’t be doing this, George. I swear this is the last time.”
He just knows that she’s rolling her eyes. “You say that every time.”
“Well, this time I really mean it.” He sits up and George frowns. “We’re supposed to be divorced.”
“So I guess you just tripped and fell into bed with me, what, fifty times since we got divorced?” She’s sitting up now too, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
Grigor scoffs. “Is this really how you want to be spending your Saturday, watching TV with your ex-husband?”
George smiles. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.” Checkmate.
His lips are on hers before he really knows what he’s doing, and she’s tugging at the hem of his shirt. He puts the mug down on the coffee table and yanks the shirt over his head. She’s gotten rid of the sweatshirt and she’s not wearing anything else. God he loves when her hair is down like this. He takes full advantage and tangles his fingers in it. Her tongue is in his mouth and she tastes amazing despite it being the morning. It’s hot and heavy, and even though he promised himself in the shower that he wouldn’t stay, he can’t help but keep kissing her. His hands are on her breasts now, and he grunts when she gently bites that spot right where his jaw meets his neck. That’s the best/worst thing about hooking up with your ex-wife; she knows all your secrets. How you like your coffee, the bands you can’t stand, and exactly how to get you into bed. George hates couch sex (not enough space) and Grigor knows this, so he scoops her up into his arms and carries her to the bedroom.
Later, they’re tangled in her maroon bedsheets after the fourth round that day. The alarm clock beside her bed reads 6:37. Shit. He should go home, or to the bar, anywhere that isn’t here, but then he looks at her. She’s got a hickey on her neck. He pulls her against him and she sighs in contentment. His lips are back on that spot, and she tilts her head back to rest against his chest, baring her neck even more. This is bad, and he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he doesn’t stop. He’s never been able to resist George, and he probably never will. She rolls over and looks at him. “Wanna order a pizza?”
He stays the night. Again.