Letter Twenty-Three #10
“Every time I go by Michael’s, I drop a few condoms into his nightstand drawer.” You paused to think. “He must wonder why he never runs out.”
I blinked at you. “What?”
“Sienna once told me she’s shit at remembering to take the pill every day, so I don’t want him running out of condoms.”
“So all this time, while I’ve been counting your condoms—and feeling devastated, by the way, over every one that’s ever gone missing—you haven’t even been using them all? You’ve been giving them away?”
“See,” you whispered, taking my face in your hand, “this is exactly why you shouldn’t rifle through people’s things. You got yourself worked up over nothing.”
“Wow.” I shoved your hand away. “So you knew I was counting them all along, and you were fucking with me.”
“I suspected you were still counting them, and let this be a lesson to stop going through my shit.”
I gaped. I huffed. For a second or two, I struggled to speak. “But I justified having Willoughby up to my room while you sat downstairs because I thought you were sleeping around—like, a lot.”
You sighed.
“In other words, you got burned, too,” I pointed out.
“Majorly,” you agreed. “I came back from England thinking…”
“Thinking what?”
You searched my gaze. “I’d have you all to myself.”
I snorted. “Well, I’m all yours now.”
“There goes my ego,” you said, clasping a hand over your heart. “Do you have to sound so miserable? Is the thought of being mine really that bad?”
My heart leapt at the word mine. “It’s just that I know how this goes, Casey. We’ll wake up tomorrow, and you’ll pretend this conversation—this whole night—never happened. But I’ll remember everything, and it’ll really fuck with my feelings.”
You leaned in close. “When we wake up tomorrow, I’m making you breakfast. Then kissing you.
Then asking if you’d like to get a coffee with me.
” You dragged your nose across my cheek.
“And when we get home, I’ll probably need to check your bruise again.
” Your fingers drifted up my skirt, lightly coasting along the top of my thigh, skimming the top hem of my underwear, ghosting over the bruise.
I held my breath, a pleasant tingling sensation climbing up the back of my throat.
You kissed the corner of my jaw, then whispered, “Just to make sure it’s healing properly. ”
I pushed you back, pulse spiking at what I saw. You were all tousled hair and shallow breathing and soft lust. “You’re not just hoping to get in my underwear, are you?”
Your gaze darkened. “That, too. But first you’ll have to promise it’s all mine, because I’m not sharing with anyone.”
That word again. Mine. “What are we talking about here?” I croaked.
“You know exactly what we’re talking about,” you whispered, fingers heading due south.
My heart skipped…while other parts of me clenched.
“But only if that’s what you want,” you said, fingers dropping to my thigh. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to do anything. We can take it slow. I can control myself.”
“Oh, I’m well aware. The last two years are proof of that,” I said. “But what about all the sorting you need to do?”
“We’ll sort it together, okay?” you said, withdrawing that rogue hand from my skirt. I might’ve lamented the loss if you hadn’t immediately grabbed my hand and planted your lips to the inside of my wrist. I never knew such a simple kiss could fill my heart so full. “I’m done fighting this.”
“But you must have a reason for fighting it in the first place.”
Your brows lifted. “Are you trying to talk me out of it?”
“No.” But I should have.
“It’s just this stuff with the Harrises, you know? The election’s day after tomorrow, and I just…” You couldn’t seem to finish that thought.
“How will you feel if she wins?”
“Like the odds are stacked against me telling them.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be seen as a problem. Like someone they have to figure out how to fit into their lives.”
“You aren’t a problem, and you already fit perfectly.”
You stared into my eyes. “Will you hold my hand? At the election? I know it’s lame to even ask. But will you stand by me and hold my hand?”
I smoothed down the little wrinkle between your eyebrows. “It isn’t lame, and of course I will.” After a pause, I added, “I mean, my dad will probably make me, anyway—so I can’t run off.”
You laughed—and so did I—but then we stopped, because there might’ve been some truth to my statement, which didn’t make it a laughing matter at all.
You kissed me, deep but soft.
I thought briefly of Michael. He wouldn’t take it well when he found out we were together. But that was a problem for another day.
I broke our kiss and pushed you back on the sofa. “Let’s watch the movie.”
We stretched out, lining our bodies up, and you pulled me against your chest. It was right—you and me, together—that felt right. I didn’t understand how it could feel right when everything about me was wrong, but I ignored that, too, and clutched your hand to my heart.
I forgot about Willoughby, his rejection, the fight with my dad, and somehow, despite the sharp smell of black marker still lingering on my fingers, all the truths I’d added to Libby’s campaign signs.