Chapter 23
The minute we return to our hotel room, we settle back into our earlier agreement.
No discussions about the future. About going home. About tomorrow.
There’s only this.
The rustle of fabric, the slide of skin against skin, the hitch of breath, and the weight of our bodies.
Familiar, but unrushed. As if we have nothing but time. A lie that we allow ourselves to believe.
I settle on top of him, my knees around his torso, and I take him slowly, watching him all the while. The flutter of his throat, the sudden rise and fall of his chest, the marks on either side of his nose, the smallest indentations from where his glasses were.
I lean forward, pressing my finger there.
“You should consider new glasses,” I say, my movements slow. Lazy.
He laughs, his hands coming to my waist, clutching at my sides.
“Yeah?” he says. He tilts his head up, finding my mouth, a soft brush of his lips. “Why’s that?”
“These ones hurt you,” I say. I pull back, and his eyes, which were blazing before, intense and focused, are now soft.
“I don’t mind them,” he says. “They work fine.”
I hum, but the sound turns into a gasp as he thrusts from below, no longer content with the languid pace I’ve set. His head falls back as I meet his movements, taking him deeper. Faster.
His hand travels from my waist to my stomach, farther down, applying pressure that takes me over the edge, and seconds later he follows, my name a sharp exhale out of his mouth.
When we disentangle our bodies, lying on our sides, face-to-face, my fingers rise again, tracing the bridge of his nose. “You deserve more than fine,” I say.
A wrinkle forms between his brows.
“With the glasses, I mean. If the ones you have are too tight—”
His forehead smooths out. “They’re only a little tight,” he says.
I kiss him then, unable to help it, because all of this is so him. Practical and selfless. It’s the sort of thing he would notice about someone else, that he would rush to fix for them. But he won’t do the same for himself.
“Get new glasses, Jacob,” I tell him, mockingly stern, and he smiles. His full lips spread wide, his teeth glinting in the dim light.
“All right,” he says. “I will.” And then his mouth is back on mine.
He turns me slightly, shifting us until he’s on top, his face hovering above me. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his thumb skimming the line of my jaw.
“You deserve more than fine too, you know,” he says. And then he shows me. With his hands, with his mouth, as he slowly makes his way down my body. Every inch of my skin comes alive, feeling worshipped at his touch.
We sleep, and wake, and pretend again. That the growing light in the room is a figment of our imagination.
That the snick of doors closing and the low chatter in the hall is not the sound of folks going down for breakfast. That the pings on our phones are not text messages from Maggie and my father, asking what time we’re planning to leave.
But when Jacob peeks at the screen and rolls over, hiding his face in my neck, letting out a groan that vibrates under my ear, I know the illusion is over.
“What time do you need to be back?” he asks, his voice rough, like gravel.
His hand skims up the side of my body, resting in the dip of my waist.
“I—I don’t know.”
I never did end up rebooking my flight, but it’ll take us about five hours to get back to Aberdeen and some time to return the car, and then I’ll need to collect the stuff I left back at my hotel. It would probably make more sense to fly out tomorrow.
“Hmm.” Jacob’s hum vibrates through me, against my skin. He leans over, his lips brushing mine lightly. My eyes slide shut as I enjoy the prickle of his morning stubble against my cheek, but he pulls back quickly.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. He swings his feet off the bed and walks into the bathroom. “Maggie texted,” he calls from inside. I hear the water turn on. “They want to say bye to us before we leave.”
“Okay.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes. “I didn’t ask, but do you need to get back in time for anything?”
“No,” he says. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay.” I grab a hair tie, twisting my hair into a bun. The back of my neck feels dewy, damp, heated from last night’s exertion. “I’ll just need to shower when you’re done.”
There’s a long, stretched moment of silence.
And then Jacob’s standing in the entrance to the bathroom, one hand on the doorframe. “Or you could join me?”
He’s not wearing anything. Without a towel wrapped around his waist, he’s all warm skin and muscled thighs, and I’m walking toward him before I even know it.
His hand grabs mine, leading me into the shower.
The water pelts my back, the pressure a touch higher than comfortable, but it feels nice, easing some of the aches, the places where I’m now sore.
Jacob reaches for the soap, working it into a lather, and I’m greedy, watching him spread it along his chest, his arms. He passes it to me, and I’m barely breathing as his eyes scan over me, his face etched with want, but something softer too.
Something I’m afraid to name.
I turn away, picking up the shampoo, and I feel him behind me, closer, his leg slotting between mine.
“Can I do it?” he asks.
“What?”
“The shampoo? Can I—”
I twist over my shoulder. “You want to wash my hair?”
His throat bobs. “Yes. Please.”
I give him the bottle, and with one hand on my waist he turns me back around to face him.
“Why?” I ask, but then his fingers slide against my scalp and I almost moan. No one’s ever done this for me before. My head is cradled in his palms, and he’s massaging it in small circular motions that make me want to melt.
“Because I want to,” he says, the words plain. Simple. His thumbs move to the top of my head, pushing back my wet bangs.
“They’re new,” I say, and his eyes catch mine, his lashes long and spiky, water beading and dripping off his chin. “The bangs, I mean.”
The corner of his mouth rises. “I like them,” he says, and then he turns me again, my back nestled against his front, maneuvering the two of us to stand at the perfect angle so he can rinse the suds out of my hair.
When he’s done, he keeps me against him, and my head falls back on his shoulder.
His lips skim my jaw, and after a moment, I break from him, taking the soap in my hands.
He releases a breath, a soft sound of protest, but he stills when I run the lather down his back. I press my thumbs into his shoulders, hard, and his head falls forward as he lets out a grunt, a deep sound of satisfaction. One I’m now familiar with, but have only heard when we’re both in bed.
“Good?” I ask.
And he nods, letting me continue, my hands trailing down the rest of his body, washing him, and it’s only later, when we step out, when Jacob wraps me in a towel, giving me another to wrap around my hair, that I realize it.
Perhaps we were too exhausted, wrung out from last night, but neither of us reached for pleasure in this moment.
There was only comfort. Ease.
And care.
And as Jacob’s eyes meet mine in the foggy mirror, shining and bright and tender, I feel all the lines I’ve tried to draw grow cloudy and hazy, flickering out of sight until they completely disappear.
—
I think I’m falling in love with Jacob.
It’s the only thought running through my mind as I hug Maggie and my father, as we say goodbye. My father asks me to text him when I rebook the flight and to call before I leave, and part of me acknowledges it. A brief flash of that’s nice, but then my brain returns to a buzzing hum.
I don’t remember ever thinking this about my ex. The word love never flitted across my mind with Bruce. We met at some industry party. We dated for a year. His lease was up, so he moved in with me. And when he left, it barely hurt, because I had never expected it to last.
Because the leaving—whether it’s my father or a friend or an ex—isn’t what hurts. It’s the hope. The hope that this time might be different, that this person might stay. That I’ve finally found someone who thinks I’m worth sticking around for.
“What’s going on?” Jacob asks, and I blink.
We left the hotel twenty minutes ago, and I’ve been driving on autopilot. The road is straight and simple, the scenery a blur.
“Nothing.” The word comes out high and pitchy.
“Uh-huh.”
I don’t look over at him. His disbelief is palpable, something that radiates off him, floating in the air between us.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“About whatever’s on your mind? The reason you’ve been so quiet?”
“Uhh.” I enter a roundabout, following the lilting, robotic voice of the GPS. I’m still not used to these. I’m already on edge, sure I’m going to miss the correct exit, and now Jacob’s questions have my anxiety through the roof.
My hands clutch the steering wheel, my fingers starting to tingle. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.
Jacob’s quiet for a long moment, and his voice is soft when he finally says, “Okay.”
Minutes pass by, both of us silent, and Jacob shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “It’s not—I’m just in a weird headspace right now.” Which is true, and I don’t want him thinking it’s his fault. That I’m upset with him or something.
The only person I’m upset with is myself, because how could I let this happen? How could I have developed feelings for him? When I knew this couldn’t go anywhere? When I knew I had to leave?
“All right,” he says. We fall back into silence, one that’s slightly more comfortable than before.
“So, this wasn’t so bad,” Jacob says, his voice deliberately casual.
“What wasn’t?”
“Leaving Aberdeen.” My eyes flit over to him, catching a glimpse of his careful expression before returning to focus on the road. “I think I told you,” he continues. “But it’s been a long time since I left.”
“Two years,” I say.
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “You, uh, remember that?”
I remember everything you tell me. I remember everything about that night.
I inwardly groan. I’ve got it so bad.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as him.