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14. Who woulda known my front door would be so comfortable?

14

WHO WOULDA KNOWN MY FRONT DOOR WOULD BE SO COMFORTABLE?

E yes closed, I let myself enjoy this perfect moment: Will’s hands around my waist, my head resting on the place between his chest and his shoulder—what feels like a perfect nook made just for me—inhaling his scent like an addict. This is Will. All of him.

His breath is warm on my ear when he finally speaks after a full slow dance in silence. “My mom was in a car crash almost five years ago that left her paralyzed from the waist down.”

My breath hitches, and I hold him tighter to my body. He responds the same way, gripping me closer to him as if needing to hold me to him in order to get through the rest of the story.

“It was raining— pouring , really—and…” Even over the music and the loud crowd, even over the sound of laughter and dishes clattering from where we stand a few feet from the kitchen entrance, I hear him swallow hard. “And I was driving. We hydroplaned, I lost control of the car, and just… fucked up my mom’s life.” His voice breaks, but he clears his throat immediately after. Even so, there’s no way to hide the pain in his voice. The guilt and shame he so clearly feels for what happened to her.

I dig my fingers into him, pulling him closer still. “Will,” I whisper, wanting so much to help him.

“I—I wasn’t drunk or anything. I just lost control of the car. But…” He shakes his head, then breathes me in when he dips his nose in my hair.

“It wasn’t your fault. At all.”

“I know that. Still doesn’t mean I don’t feel like shit over it.”

“Is your mom okay now? I mean, you said she’s paralyzed from the waist down, so obviously not. But... is she okay?”

He understands what I mean.

“Yeah. It was touch and go for a bit. And things got really dark when the medical bills started piling up. The stress was…” He exhales, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if wanting to shake off the memory. When he seems to finally collect himself, he continues. “Mom’s a retired teacher, so it’s not like she had a ton of savings. Whatever she had was quickly depleted. And my dad’s been gone for a while—died when I was three—so it was just us dealing with everything and stuff. I had a different job back then and didn’t make much…” He frowns, his gaze lost as he stares over my shoulder for a moment before looking back at me. “Anyway. That’s why I don’t like the rain. Brings back too many bad memories.”

“I understand. And I’m so sorry it happened.” Some deep instinct wants to reach out and place a kiss on his cheek, wants to run my hands through his hair to make him feel better. But I can’t. “And are you guys okay now?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

“Yeah. She’s fucking amazing, honestly. She got used to a wheelchair in record time and does her physical therapy every day. Never complains. Bounced back with an amazing positive attitude. Honestly, there’s no one like her. She’s kinda like you in that way.” He smiles. “Scrappy.”

“But are you okay?” And it’s like hitting the nail perfectly on the head.

He almost slumps in my arms, the devastation in his eyes goes so deep I almost wish his guilt were a tangible thing I could physically fight off. It’s not like I have a particular talent in hand-to-hand combat, but I’d like to at least try and help.

“My mother is paralyzed because I wasn’t able to control the car enough to avoid hydroplaning. So, no. I’m not. But that isn’t fair of me to say. I’m not the one in a wheelchair,” Will says, his voice breaking. “She’s way too forgiving. Constantly tells me it’s not my fault and that I shouldn’t be putting myself through hell for her.”

My stomach twists at the pain radiating off his body. Every ounce of me wants to be the balm that heals it. “I agree with your mom. It’s not healthy, this guilt. I mean, the look on your face just now…” I shake my head, pulling back so I can press my palm to his cheek, feel the prickle of his five o’clock shadow beneath my fingertips like spikes pressing against my already aching heart.

We’re touching a lot. We’ve been touching a lot. Is this something normal friends do? Is it the alcohol that’s made us handsy? I know why I want to keep touching him—I’m crazy about the guy. But he clearly took one look at me weeks ago and decided he wasn’t attracted, so why do I feel him holding on to me like his life depended on it?

“You can’t hold onto this guilt.”

“I know. But it will never not be my fault.”

“Will. Stop. You’re not being fair to yourself.” I rub my thumb across his cheek, almost on instinct, in an effort to soothe him.

He takes my hand from his cheek and brings it between us as we sway with a soft, sad smile. “It’s okay, Bridge. I’m almost done paying for my sins.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” I ask, wanting to push, needing to push.

“Don’t worry about it. Soon enough, it won’t even matter.”

I huff a sigh, ready to burst in exasperation and demand he stop being so cryptic sometimes, but something takes over me. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the music, if it’s the dark lights or the comforting warmth of being in his arms, but I let myself get lost in his furrowed brow, in his dark eyes, and decide not to press him for more answers. Instead, I focus on how Will’s lips could be just half an inch away from mine if I just raised up on my tiptoes. If I just stretched up a little and?—

But the slow song ends, transitions into something fast-paced and upbeat; the crowd around us begins to move faster, bumping into us, breaking whatever magic or moment had started to build. It’s like waking up from a dream you never want to let go of. And I almost wail as I feel his arms slip away from my waist, see the corners of his mouth drop, and hear his voice over the music as he tells me it’s late and he better get home, but can he walk me back to my place before?

* * *

True to his word, he walks me all the way from the Garment District to the hell that is the Times Square subway station, and even takes the train with me down to Chinatown. I tell him it isn’t necessary, that I’m fine, but there’s no walking him off the edge of that cliff. And it is a damn cliff in the sense that I feel we’re in danger.

Our friendship has, once again, evolved—but in a different direction. It’s obvious I’ve been having non-friend friendly feelings for Will for a while now. But this is different. We almost kissed . And he pulled away.

I want to dig a hole and bury myself there, a thousand feet below ground. I want to never see him or anyone else ever again after how embarrassingly idiotic I acted. He had just told me about his mother’s tragic accident, just opened up to me about something huge, and I almost kissed him!

I am, it’s clear, beyond a next level idiot.

No wonder he wants nothing to do with me.

A couple of blocks from my apartment building, as thoughts of all the mortifying ways in which I embarrassed myself run through my mind, I exhale loudly.

“Bridge?” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and gently takes hold of my arm. “You good?”

I force a smile because, on top of not being able to control the urge to kiss my friend, I can’t control the urge to sigh—a fully controllable bodily function.

I’m a mess. An absolute nightmare. I’m beat up and tired and heartbroken. Yet still, he stands there in front of me, cold, humid wind pulling at his hair, rain long gone, with a look in his eyes I wish I could properly read. In anyone else, I feel like I could confidently identify it. But after everything that happened tonight and the last two weeks, there’s no way he’s looking at me with the kind of affection I think I see. It’s just wishful thinking , I tell myself. You think he’s looking at you that way because you want him to.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, faking my best smile. “You don’t need to walk me the rest of the way, though. I promise I’ll be okay. I can even text you when I get to my apartment. Even share my location with you, if you want.”

He grins, encouraged by my tone, but he doesn’t budge. “I wouldn’t mind having your exact location in the palm of my hand for whenever I want it. But nice try—I’m still walking you home.” To my dismay, he lets go of my arm and continues walking.

When we reach my apartment on the sixth floor, I half expect him to be out of breath, but he doesn’t even seem to have broken a sweat. And why would he, considering the amount of time he spends at the gym? And while he doesn’t look like he’s physically exhausted after going up six flights of stairs, when I slide my keys into the lock, ready to kick open my door, when I look up at him over my shoulder to thank him and wish him a good night, I do notice he’s almost panting. His cheeks flush as one of his hands grips the frame of my front door, arm tense as if he were losing his hold on himself and his grip on everything around him.

“Will?” I gasp when his pupils dilate as he leans in closer. He isn’t touching me, yet I feel the heat of him all over my body.

“I had a good time tonight,” he manages to say after appearing to struggle through his words.

“Me too. Thank you. For coming to see me.”

“Anything. Anytime. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.”

In all honesty, for a moment I almost forgot why Will and I even met up in the first place. Why we broke our rules and decided to leave our virtual relationship behind in place for an actual, in real life one. He made me forget about anything else that wasn’t him.

“Right. Work. Thank you for listening to me.”

He reaches out and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, following his movements with his eyes as he does. “You okay, then? For me to go?”

I catch his hand by the wrist before he can take it away, move it down to the nape of my neck where he digs his fingers into my hair.

“Do you want to go?” My eyes widen as I see the shift in his expression from sweet and caring to hungry and animalistic. Is this happening? I mean, he sort of rejected me at the bar, but now…

His eyes study me as he leans forward, almost pressing me against my front door. His hand moves to cup my jaw this time, forehead pressed to mine. I feel the inevitable crimson blush spread up my chest and neck, travel all the way to my cheeks.

He moves his lips to my ear and whispers: “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined running my tongue over that perfect fucking skin just to taste your blush?”

A breath gets caught in my throat, though no oxygen appears to make it into my lungs. I drop my keys and bag on the floor, freeing my hands to clasp them behind his neck. His hands fly to my hips beneath my open coat and he pushes me against my door with a thud, fingers digging into me. And that’s when it feel it . Pressed against my stomach, hard and long. And it feels incredible. Our lips are less than a centimeter apart now. The heat radiating from them almost burns. I ache, I whine, as he teases me, pressing a small kiss on the corner of my mouth, running his tongue on my bottom lip. I can barely breathe when he presses me harder still. He is predator and I am prey and I fucking love it .

“Please,” I beg him.

“Please what?” he murmurs, placing a kiss against the side of my neck. I close my eyes and swallow as I feel his teeth graze the delicate skin before following it with a kiss.

“You know what,” I whine, two seconds away from bursting into tears. I’ve wanted this man for what feels like a lifetime. And for some unthinkable reason, he’s here in my arms, and based on the very hard and very, very promising erection pressed up against me, he wants me, too.

While he’s kissing my neck, gliding his nose up and down, telling me he never would’ve imagined I smelled this good— So fucking good, Bridge; better than I ever could’ve dreamed —I still haven’t been able to do more than hold on to his broad shoulders for fear of passing out. “Will, please , god.”

“You are…” he huffs, his hands digging into my hair, hips pressing me into the door. “You are .” He practically growls the word, like my existence alone is enough to drive him wild.

Finally, he takes my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine, parting them with his. I can’t help the moan in the back of my throat when he nips at my top lip before soothing it with his tongue, or when I lick the inside of his mouth and he answers with a growl. I can’t help the way one of my legs wraps around his hip, the skirt of my dress riding up and exposing my thigh. The way I try to relieve some of the tension with friction. I can’t help the heat that builds between my legs and I think Oh my god, this is going to be the best sex of my life. The best sex ever that anyone has ever had. I just know it.

But something breaks through the fog of lust, a noise I’m all too familiar with. I hear the scratches and the wailing coming from the other side of my apartment door and some motherly instinct I didn’t even know I had manages to pull me away from thoughts of devouring this man. Ginger is howling aggressively, begging for food.

“Shit,” I say when I pull away, trying to catch my breath. “I—I have to feed her. It’s almost ten o’clock. Way past her dinner time.”

Will looks a mess, with his hair mussed, perfect lips red and swollen. His shirt somehow untucked and coat half pushed off his shoulders. When did that happen? I watch him try and process my words—it takes him a while to get there. “Ginger?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, run my fingers through my hair.

“Right. Your cat. Okay. I… Do you want me to go then?”

“No!” I say, a bit too enthusiastic. “I mean… No. Come in. It’s not the most luxurious apartment around, but it’s home. And I don’t want you to go.”

He grins and reaches for my hand. “You don’t?”

“No. Come inside; let me introduce you to Ginger.”