Nine
I tell myself everything is going to be totally fine. That my panic on the phone with Mabel was just last-minute jitters. After all, we are doing something completely mad. And we are doing it fast . Three days later and here we are, getting ready to go to this place as man and wife.
So of course I’m rattled.
Of course I’m nervous.
And those nerves have nothing to do with the threat of catching feelings.
I mean, what kind of feelings could I even catch for someone like him? He wears bow ties. And the kind of trainers little kids wear in PE. And you should see him when I come out of our building, ready to start loading up bags for the road trip to the retreat that we have ahead.
He’s pulled his car around, and said car is as ridiculous as I remember from the times I’ve glimpsed it before. It’s a dull green, and incredibly old, and so small he doesn’t seem to fit into it. When he steps out it looks like a giant unfolding himself from the confines of a golf cart.
One of his enormous legs gets stuck. It takes him a whole minute to extricate it. Then he waves at me. Excitedly. As if we’re going on a fun holiday together.
Which, to be fair to him, we kind of are. But to be less fair to him, it’s seven in the morning and I have had zero coffee and I still don’t fully believe he is really this cheerful and sweet and decent. No matter what Mabel says about it not being a con, or how sick he gets over dishonesty, the other shoe is going to drop eventually.
It’s just not dropping today.
No, today he jogs over so he can grab my bags.
‘Darn it, I told you I would bring these down,’ he says. While I stand there, thinking about Jamie Fletcher. Jamie fucking Fletcher, who once told me he had a bad back so I would have to carry everything on our weekend getaway. And then I caught him having sex with someone else, in a position my back wouldn’t even let me get into. Yet here Beck is, just casually doing it, like of course he should.
Of course he should lift my bags like they’re nothing. And pack them into his trunk. And then even worse: he makes a little sound when he sees me going to the passenger side. A little oop , like he almost forgot something. And he darts in front of me, and opens the car door.
Without even looking at me for the impressed expression he should be expecting.
Though it’s there regardless.
I just can’t help it. It leaps onto my face, without my permission. And it lingers for way too long. I’m only lucky that he doesn’t care, that he doesn’t wait for so much as a thank-you, that he just heads round to his side, and jigsaws himself back into the driver’s seat. He seems surprised that I am still standing outside the car, dazed and dumbfounded. ‘Everything okey dokey?’ I hear him say.
Because he’s ridiculous, he’s ridiculous, god help me believe he’s ridiculous , I think, as I slide into my seat. Even though I don’t need god’s help with that. He definitely is, and he proves it again with everything he’s currently doing. He puts on driving gloves. He adjusts his seat, even though it doesn’t need adjusting. Each instrument is checked, and rechecked; he makes sure our seat belts are secured.
I honestly expect him to contact Mission Control.
Are we clear for takeoff , I imagine him saying.
But before I can laugh, he goes one better. He fiddles with the car radio, which I swear to god has an actual CD slot, until he finally gets what he wants. And what he wants is apparently the sweetest, most fun-sounding pop music to ever exist. It comes out of the speakers like some sort of aural strawberry-flavoured bubblegum, of the sort I usually pretend not to like or even wonder about. Though of course I can wonder here if I want – he won’t think I’m cringe if I do.
Who is this , I think of saying to him.
Only before I can the chorus of the songs hits, all bright and peppy but also somehow so desperately full of yearning for something better. Please, please, please don’t prove I’m right , she sings. Please, please, please don’t bring me to tears when I just did my makeup so nice.
And Beck joins in .
He bursts out with those technicolour words, so big and joyful about it that it actually makes me jolt in my seat. It startles me, even more violently than the luggage moving and the door opening did. I find myself staring at him again. In fact, I only tear myself away because I don’t want him to see me and stop. I just want to carry on listening to him hit every note with his surprisingly light voice, until the sound of it fills the car. Until it fills me up – because, you know, I think it will.
It does.
I feel like my chest is expanding with it, like I’m taking the kind of breath my body wasn’t capable of before, because of it. And it’s ridiculous and terrifying and against everything my mother ever taught me about how men are and the way I should act around them, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I can’t bring myself to make it stop or shake it off.
I just enjoy it right to the end.
Face turned away, so he won’t know that I’m all weirdly affected.
And thankfully it works. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy negotiating a roundabout, in a way that makes me laugh, and he laughs, and by the time he manages to get free on his third try, I’ve thought of something more practical and reasonable to consider and talk about.
‘You know, it occurs to me that we might need to know more about each other than just what you’ve already said about your pretend wife. Or what any husband of mine would have to grasp so I don’t die in front of him of an allergy he should definitely be aware I have,’ I say – because that’s what the questionnaire he gave me was like. And how his binder read.
They were really just lists of dry facts.
His favourite colour: yellow.
His favourite movie: Steel Magnolias .
His favourite drink: peach schnapps without the schnapps.
And honestly I could have guessed all of them. It’s the things I can’t guess that I need. Like the fact that he will suddenly sing when I least expect it. But he just looks puzzled. ‘Honestly the fact that avocados will kill you is a thing worth knowing, even when I’m not your fake husband.’
‘Probably so, but that’s not the point.’
‘So what is the point, then?’
‘That I didn’t know you liked music like this.’
He laughs for that. ‘But why on earth would you have to? Nobody is going to ask you about anything of the kind,’ he says. And that means I have to explain a little more, without saying too much. Or making him feel bad about the way he is. How to tell him his singing is something startling, yet also wonderful and perfectly fine to do, while at the same time not reveal that it’s wonderful to me , I think.
And that’s a tightrope it takes me a hot minute to find, I tell you what.
‘Maybe not. But they might wonder why I look shocked when you abruptly reveal that you know every word to a song like that, and sing it with the uninhibited gusto of a children’s TV presenter,’ I finally say, sure that I’ve got it.
Until I hear him groan.
‘Oh my gosh, is that what I sound like?’ he says.
And he sounds crestfallen. Crestfallen . It’s awful – and I can’t even fully undo it.
‘It’s not a bad thing.’
‘It sounds like one.’
‘Well, it isn’t,’ I say, firmly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with how you are.’
‘There will be if I want to pass as your husband. I mean, jeepers, that is far too silly for any husband you would reasonably have. No doubt he would sing something cutting edge, in a really cool and interesting way.’
I snap a look at him, eyes narrowed. But I don’t know why. There’s not a trace of snark on him. He’s just amiably driving along, at about forty miles an hour.
On a motorway.
‘Dude, I can’t even think what would fulfil that criteria.’
‘Just speaking the words to a Hozier song. That no one has heard of.’
‘So like, a super-deep cut. That you could only know if you went to an underground grunge rave.’
‘I don’t even know what a super-deep cut, underground grunge rave is. So yeah, that sounds perfect. That is the exact favourite music of a man you would marry if you somehow wanted to marry anyone. And so it definitely seems like a bad idea for me to bellow out the chorus of “Please Please Please” in front of people.’
No, I want to yell. No, you’re getting it all backward.
But the problem is, he kind of isn’t. I am the sort of woman who’d have a fucking nightmare like that for a husband. In fact I can almost see him now, in my mind’s eye. He’s wearing a jacket he claims he got off David Bowie’s corpse but really it came from a shop like FatFace, and two cigarettes are dangling from his lips for reasons he never explains, and every time we go out he tells everyone terrible things, like how only he knows the moon isn’t real.
However, just as I’m shuddering over this, I remember.
This may well be my real fate. But it’s not the fate we have to pretend I have.
I have an escape hatch here. A brilliant, perfect escape hatch, shaped like him, exactly as he is. ‘But people already know that you’re like that, Beck. So you can’t change to fit in with whatever people think I’m like,’ I say, and he starts to say something. To argue, I think.
Only he stops short. And I can see him considering.
Like he’s trying to find a way out of what I’m suggesting.
A way out of himself, I think, then feel my stomach drop. Even though he doesn’t seem tormented when he finally comes up with an answer. His chocolate-brown eyes spark with whatever argument he’s come up with instead. ‘Well, okay. Maybe I could just tone it down a little then? Or show a side to myself that is more the kind of thing you are into? I mean, we both like Star Wars and Quantum Leap . There have to be other things we have in common. Or things I could do much better so you might enjoy our imaginary life together,’ he says with what looks like satisfaction. He solved the problem, and that’s that.
I can’t give it to him, however.
Because I need him to understand something important.
‘What if I need to be better so you enjoy our imaginary life?’ I ask.
And he snorts in response. ‘Yeah, I don’t think that can be true. I mean, for starters, you probably know how to do an awesome date night. And you say all the right things and go to all the right places and make all the right moves.’
‘I’m sure your moves are right, too.’
Come on , I think at him. Just concede before I have to start gushing over you.
But oh, the way he shakes his head. And lets out a chuff, of the sort some dad might make on discovering the cat rifling through the garbage. Not you in there again , it sounds like. And then he does his best to fish me out, and set me back on a more reasonable path. ‘The last date I went on, I thought it would be nice to invite the lady in question inside for a game of Monopoly afterwards. But unfortunately, she assumed Monopoly was a euphemism, and I was not aware of that fact, and so we played the entire thing for four hours and then I never heard from her again,’ he says, and just to cap it off, he shrugs at me with his face. He gives me a lot of chin, and a sheepish smile, and some twinkly eyes. Then he adds: ‘So you can see the problem.’
But sadly for me, I can’t.
Somehow, it just doesn’t happen. I hear him say she assumed it was a euphemism , and instead of laughing, all I can think is how wonderful it would be if for once it wasn’t one. If for once it wasn’t a code or an expectation that you have to guess at, shortly before someone tries to coerce you into sex.
And it makes me ache to think of it.
So much so, in fact, that I almost just tell him that it does.
But then I remember that this is not a normal feeling. Most people, I’m certain, would just hear the Monopoly part and run for the hills. To be honest, I’m not even sure why I didn’t. But no matter what caused it, I have to at least try to deny I’m a weirdo to him, in a way that also maybe helps him out.
‘It’s not that much of a problem. In fact, you know, for the right person that would be awesome. But I guess for most people, you might want to start out with more like dinner at a nice restaurant. Or drinks at a nice bar,’ I try, even though it feels like I’m pulling teeth doing it. Don’t ask me anything more about it , I find myself thinking at him. But I can already tell he’s going to. Every time I glance at him, his eyes are on the road. Yet somehow at the same time it’s like he sees nothing but what I have to say.
‘And what would a nice restaurant or bar be to you?’
‘Not something expensive, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I didn’t. I just meant probably not that weird pub near us.’
I think of it when he says it. The low gloom, the velvet seats, the incredible taste of the food.
‘You mean the one that does that Yorkshire pudding sandwich,’ I say, and he snaps his fingers.
‘You bet your sweet bippy I do. That thing is awesome .’
‘Sometimes I have dreams about it.’
‘The first time I ate it, I wept. Which is probably another reason I should never take a woman like you there. I mean, just imagine, you’re on a date with me and I start bawling over a sandwich.’
He chuckles to himself over that idea.
And I try to chuckle too – only the same thing happens as with the Monopoly nonsense. I wait for the urge to find it ridiculous, and it just doesn’t happen. Instead I get an even stronger ache of oh, that would be so nice . Followed by a much greater reluctance to correct him. And when I force out that correction, it doesn’t feel like I’m helping him. Or saving myself from seeming like I’m into him.
It feels bad. True, but bad.
‘Yeah, I think most women might find that a little odd,’ I say.
‘And that’s helpful for me to know. For the future.’
‘Good. Good. I’m glad.’
‘But also for this.’
‘Right, exactly.’
‘No crying in front of you,’ he says. Almost in a cheery singsong, I think.
And look, I could pretend it was just super weird when it was about a sandwich. But I can’t keep it up in the face of him saying that. It makes me mad to hear him say that. ‘Wait, no. That’s not what I said. I told you before, crying is fine, okay? You should be able to cry if you want to. And especially when we’ve already established that you can’t change that much. That in fact, if anything, it’s me who should have to be doing the changing. I should adjust to fit you. To be your ideal woman,’ I tell him, insistently enough that I know it’s too much. I can feel him glancing at me the moment we’re at some traffic lights. And I can hear him taking a breath to say something. Then not. Then again. Then not.
Before finally, haltingly:
‘I don’t want you to have to fit me. I don’t want you to contort yourself for this silly thing. And anyway, my ideal woman is just someone I can get along with. Someone I can talk to, and not worry about what I’m saying. Someone I can confide in. Someone who gives great advice. None of which are things you really seem to struggle with. I mean, you’re considerate and gracious enough with me that I doubt anyone would think, whoa, she really loathes every word he says,’ he tells me.
And though I wait for him to seem queasy, it never happens.
He’s telling the truth. He really does see me as what sounds like a good person.
All of which sinks through me, like warm syrup. It sticks in a way I don’t think it ever even did when Mabel and Berinder said similarly nice things. And not just because I know it’s true, either. There’s something else about it, something soft and warm about the way he says it.
Like he’s wrapping his arms around me as he does. And now I’m embarrassed about thinking that, to the point where I have to brush it off. ‘Okay. But what about in terms of how I look and dress?’ I say, but all he does is deepen this imaginary hug.
‘There’s nothing wrong with how you look and dress.’
‘Oh, come on. There must be something .’
‘There isn’t, Hazel. I promise.’
He said Hazel, my brain whispers, in this hushed way.
As if I wasn’t expecting it. Or at least, I don’t know what to do now that him calling me Hazel is here. And in such a natural manner, too, like it took him no effort at all. Or as if he already thought of me as her, somehow, and was just waiting for the chance to leave Connie behind.
Which sounds mad, I know.
But it feels weirdly right. And that thought makes me go all funny and shivery. Then somehow I’m blurting out some panicked-sounding words. ‘I refuse to believe that. There must be a way I could look that would better suit who people think you should be with.’
‘If you suggest a perfect genius again I’m going to scream.’
‘So then give me something else. Give me what she looks like, to you.’
He seems to hesitate again. And I can see him really considering. Like he’s trying to get out of this, somehow – and it kind of looks like he has, for a second. I think something occurs to him, some kind of loophole. Only when he answers, all he says is, ‘I did think she might wear glasses.’
Which is exactly the kind of thing we need, truth be told. I mean, I would even kind of like doing it, considering how much I’ve always hated my contacts. They bug my eyes, they’re a pain to put in, somehow I never feel like I’m seeing all that well through them. So this is win-win.
‘Perfect. Done,’ I say.
And I must sound eager, because he carries on. ‘Plus probably she’s not afraid to be a nerd. So you know. Feel free to be nerdy.’
‘I will talk a ton about Quantum Leap .’
‘Yeah, but not just about Quantum Leap . Also writing things.’
‘So you want me to learn stuff about editing and publishing?’
Another pause. This one shorter, but somehow more tense.
Like he’s doing something dicey here. Though what that dicey thing could be, I don’t know. I only know that when he finally does answer, he sounds strange. ‘No, not – I mean, yeah, you could know some things. I could tell you things that I might come home and tell you. You know? But I was thinking more... whatever you came on this retreat for. Like, don’t be afraid to be super into it. Don’t be afraid to talk about it a ton and share it with the workshops and do a bunch of writing,’ he says, all up and down and halting, like he’s dodging bullets as he talks.
Though it doesn’t seem like bullets to me.
‘That sounds doable. Daunting, but doable.’
‘Don’t be daunted. This is just pretend, right? You’re just playing a role.’
I feel him glance at me again. And this time, I glance back. I meet his gaze.
Then we hold like that for what feels like way too long.
In fact, I know it’s too long. The driver behind us honks his horn at us. And even when he does, Beck does not pull out of the junction. He waits for me to answer the question. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yeah, this is just a role. So it doesn’t matter.’
Then he nods, slow and easy.
‘Exactly. And it wouldn’t matter if you dressed like a writer, either.’
‘No. Because that makes sense for the wife of someone like you.’
‘It does. And you know, if, say, you weren’t happy with some of the answers you put on that questionnaire? You could tell me other ones now. Like, instead of your favourite book being I don’t have one , you could tell me something else. Anything at all, in fact. It doesn’t have to be nothing, when your fake husband is an editor who loves all books, any books at all, and anyone who loves them all, too,’ he says, and now I can feel myself tensing, I can feel my mind going over my mum saying, Boys don’t like it when you do , I can feel myself wanting to say, No, no, no, hahahaha, what do you mean, like I have in the past to dates and boyfriends and assorted assholes.
But now he’s not looking at me anymore. And his expression is so guileless, and his gaze is on the road. Like he’s just super into getting this right. Plus it’s just like he said. None of this is real. I can say whatever I like – and somehow, I do. It comes out strained, but I get it out of me. ‘ Interview with the Vampire ,’ I say. ‘If anyone asks what my favourite is, that’s it.’
And apparently I’m so tense I jerk like I hear a gunshot when he slaps his thigh. When he says, ‘Hot damn.’ Though it doesn’t last long enough for him to notice, of course it doesn’t. Because then he says: ‘That book is the greatest, I can’t believe that’s the thing you like. Oh my gosh, I just knew it was going to be something so fun, this is truly amazing stuff.’
And who could maintain their fear in the face of that?
I’m not even sure why said fear is still there, hearing him say it. You’re not fourteen anymore, you don’t have to keep this up, nobody is going to hate you if you suddenly say, actually I lied, I do like to read, it’s just that my parents drilled it into me that girls who do don’t get boyfriends and I was scared, I thought that was all that mattered, and even when I learned that I didn’t care that much about getting boyfriends, and started opening up to people about who I really am, I found that I was rusty about being this whole other person in front of people, and always nervous about my choice of favourites , I think, all in this big weird glut.
And somehow after those thoughts are out, I can say more.
‘I like science fiction, too. But before you ask, not in a really knowledgeable way. I probably don’t love the important and right stuff. It’s more like, you know. The one where he meets that alien and they help each other save the sun. Or those books about the half-robot murder person who falls in love with a spaceship computer. The kind of stuff serious readers think are junk,’ I say, strong at first, but increasingly jittery as I get through.
I just sound so clumsy, I think.
It even sounds like maybe he thinks so, too, when he answers.
‘Oh my gosh, you’re talking about Project Hail Mary and Murderbot ,’ he chuckles, and I stiffen just a little. I snap narrowed eyes at him.
‘Not if you’re going to tell me they’re ridiculous, I’m not.’
‘Hazel, my goodness, I’m not going to tell you that.’
‘You’re not? Not even a little?’
‘I told you, I like fun things. In fact, they’re two of my favourites, too. They are completely wonderful and charming and I can see exactly why you enjoyed them, just by going on your descriptions. I can tell that you just want a little love alongside your laser beams. Though even if none of that was the case, it wouldn’t matter. It’s totally okay to just like what you like,’ he says, so soft and sincere about it that I have to believe him.
Even if believing makes my breathing suddenly shaky.
I have to take a second, before I can answer normally.
‘Good. Because I do. I really do. And I feel fine about that.’
‘You should. Life is too short to live it based on someone else’s idea of cool.’
‘Honestly, I think I might make that my motto from now on.’
‘Yes. And then use it to tell me other things you love.’
Stop , my brain says.
But I’m no longer listening.
‘I think maybe music like this. Fun music. About... wanting things to be different.’
‘It’s a pretty good song, right?’ he says, and I don’t see him grin.
I can just tell he’s doing it.
‘Well, I can see why you sing along.’
‘Stick with me, kid, soon enough we’ll have you singing, too.’
Pretty sure I already am in my soul , I think, then actually do feel embarrassed. But not because of my cheesy taste in things, or the fact that I admitted it to someone. No, this time it happens because of how that sounds, in my head. Like maybe... I don’t know. He’s awakening something in me. Something big and heart-stopping and probably sexual.
When of course he’s not.
He’s just being kind. And kindness is not something that stirs anyone like that. People don’t get worked up over anything like kindness. And even if they did, I definitely do not. I like dirtbags, obviously. Dudes with hair that looks like it’s never been washed, and tattoos done by someone who is probably now banned from the industry, and penchants for persuading you to go into the club bathroom so they can do something weird to you that you’ve never heard of.
That’s what turns me on.
So it seems weird when I get that feeling again, that little tingle, to hear him say: ‘Do you think maybe you could reach into my pocket and get out my little notepad? I should really write some of these things about you down.’
Because it’s just his trousers. And the trousers aren’t even sexy. They’re these extremely thick sort of khakis – so thick in fact that his thighs could be molten lava, and I’d probably not get burned.
Yet still I stop short.
My hand hovers in the air between us, unable to go any farther. And that air feels strange, it feels heavy, it feels hot. Like if I push through, it might actually melt me somehow. I have to tell myself that this is ridiculous, that he told me to do it, that he doesn’t think a single thing of this, just to get there.
It’s only a practical little request , I think.
This is not a sexual thing.
But the problem is it feels weirdly sexual, when I try. The part in the material is just so small. Everything about it seems so tight. I have to kind of ease my fingers in, all careful and slow, and god the heat inside. It’s like sliding into some sort of furnace. My whole body flushes just from the feel of it – I haven’t the faintest idea how he copes with being this hot.
Or what he’s doing wearing trousers this tight.
Because they are, inside. I squirm all the way down to the goal, and I can feel the way the material clings to his thick thighs. It practically reveals every single thing about them to me. Even though I swear, I’m barely touching him at all. I hold my hand tight against the outer edges of the pocket, and yet all I can make out is the heaviness of the muscle there. The jump of his pulse. How weirdly tense it seems, as I slowly work the notepad free.
What does he have to be nervous about here , I think.
Then I look up. I see his face.
And I swear, I have never in my life seen anyone blushing the way he currently is. He is pink all the way from the roots of his hair to that jaunty little bow-tie of his. It’s so intense and so everywhere it almost looks like a flush, of the sort you might get when you’re about thirty seconds away from coming your brains out.
Though of course I know that’s not the case with him.
He’s not aroused . Of course he isn’t.
He’s mortified .
He thought I was just going to grab his fucking notepad. And instead I groped the inside of his khakis, somehow. I made everything weird, with my smutty brain and its inability to think of things in his terms. Because of course in his terms, this was an innocent thing. It was nothing.
It didn’t even cross his mind that it could be sexual.
How could it? He’s hardly done a sexual thing in his whole life. He doesn’t even grasp that let’s go upstairs and play a game means more than Monopoly to most adults. And now here I come blundering in with my super experience, imagining that everything is way more horny than it really is. Then foisting that horniness on him, for no good reason I can think of. Just get the fucking notepad and go , I yell at myself. And I do – I grab it and practically rip it out of there.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’ I start to say.
But he cuts in before I can add whatever mortifying thing I was going to finish with. ‘No, no, I shouldn’t have asked, I should have realized, I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, what kind of person expects someone to just touch them,’ he says. And he laughs, in a way that suggests he thinks I should laugh, too.
Even though I can’t, of course I can’t. Because the answer is right there behind my eyes, immediately: just touching is something husbands and wives are expected to do. All the time. Constantly.
Convincingly.
And right now it’s my job to say so.
‘Beck, I’m not sure you’ve really thought that through,’ I try.
But oh, I am wrong about that. I am really super weirdly wrong.
I can see I am, just going on his suddenly pleased-with-himself expression.
And now he’s talking, and oh no, oh no. ‘No, I have. I just figured that every time we have to touch each other like people who touch each other all the time, we would simply ask, softly, secretly. I can just whisper in your ear, before I lay a hand on the small of your back. Is it okay if I touch you there , I might say to you. And then you could shake your head no, if it isn’t, and I won’t. Or you can whisper yes, and I will. I will do only whatever you want, when you want me to, for whatever length of time you’d like it,’ he says, all in this perfectly ordinary, almost cheery tone. Like nothing he said is unusual. Nothing about it is anything but straightforward, and completely practical, and almost boring.
Even though I think I stop breathing somewhere in the middle of it all. I have to force myself to suck oxygen in, once he’s done. And suddenly, that furnace heat is everywhere. It’s not just my hand – it’s all over, it’s between my legs, so fierce I think I might be more aroused than I usually am over actual fucking dirty talk.
And I want to say it’s because I apparently really like the idea of putting a hand in his pocket. Or because I read too much into something again. Because he said touch you there , and my mind substituted in the word vagina . But I know it isn’t. I know it, I can feel it. I remember exactly when I felt that first wave of arousal. It was for the I will do only whatever you want part. That was what got me.
Even though that makes no sense at all. It’s not supposed to be sexy when a man makes sure you’re okay with everything. Everyone acts like that is the least exciting thing in the world. That it isn’t fun, it isn’t spontaneous, it’s not sexually dynamic. And I believed that.
I believed it so much that I steer entirely clear of any smut that says otherwise. I spend my time servicing myself to the thought of anything but such extensive and explicit permission. Yet somehow, the second I hear extensive and explicit permission , this happens.
And by this, I mean my whole body wakes up.
As if it had somehow been asleep, before right now.
It hadn’t understood, and now it does, and unfortunately for me that occurs about ten minutes before we get to The Land of Constantly Being Asked If I Want His Hands on My Body. And I already know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what the answer is going to be.
Yes.
Oh, yes.
Yes, oh, I never want him to stop.