Chapter 21
Over the last hour, we’ve left the city and driven north into a more rural area that looks like something out of a fairy tale, simultaneously eerie and beautiful thanks to the speckled reflection of the trees in the moonlight.
As we slow down and turn a corner, a two-story wooden cabin comes into view.
Ivy covers the walls, partially obscuring the large windows running up and down the face of the house, and there’s a wraparound porch with several rustic rocking chairs.
Water glimmers directly behind the cabin, and I can make out the edge of a dock creeping into the deep blue lake.
It’s beautiful. Dark. Peaceful.
My mind is anything but, ever since Harrison casually said “We’ll be staying in one of the upstairs bedrooms, if that sounds good to you” on the drive over.
That sounded great to me! Fantastic, even! I mean, that’s what I expected, right? But then I started spiraling and then I spiraled even more, and now I don’t know whether I want to attack him with kisses or cry and ask him for a hug.
There is nothing I want more than to spend the night in bed with him. And that pressure—that intense want—is my problem. As my therapist told me last week, You put too much pressure on yourself. Your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
I’ll put some more pressure on you, Key Lime had said. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I decided not to explore it.
Now, the light of the moon casts frightening shadows around the car as we unbuckle and step out onto the gravel driveway. Harrison grabs our bags from the trunk, and I follow him up the path and inside, quiet as a heartbeat.
A floorboard creaks under my foot as I walk through the doorway, my skin prickling as I tread lightly over the rustic wooden floors.
The main room has a basic living room setup, a floral-print couch and accent chairs around a wooden coffee table, an old TV mounted above the fireplace, a six-person dining table off to the left.
There’s a kitchen beyond the dining table, and to the right, there’s a flight of stairs leading up to the second level.
Harrison points toward a door by the fireplace—the primary bedroom, presumably—and puts his finger to his lips, letting me know his mom is asleep.
He’d come over to help me pack after work, intending to throw my stuff in his car, grab a quick dinner somewhere, and then get on the road.
Instead, we’d gotten distracted when he found Bananagrams in an open moving box (Assorted Closet Shit) and insisted we play.
That went on for an hour, and then we ordered food, and then the food got delayed, and we, in turn, got delayed, and suddenly it was already dark outside.
At least I beat him in Bananagrams several times.
Wordlessly, we climb to the second floor, the stairs creaking beneath our feet.
I have a sudden, painful flashback of walking from Hall Hall’s third-floor common room up to the fourth floor on that first Friday of college.
My pelvic floor cramps in response. So much has changed since the night I met Harrison, and yet so little progress has been made.
But I’m taking baby steps, and for that, younger Emma would be proud.
In a lot of ways, I really am Doing Better.
When we enter the room, Harrison sets my bag down by the bed, then takes a few steps back and leans against the doorframe.
“I think I’m going to go sleep in the other bedroom,” he says. “It’s right next door, if you need anything.”
I swivel on my heel. I can’t read the look on his face for once, which is absolutely infuriating. “What? Why?”
“Because I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you this nervous.
” He cracks a smile, even as his brows are furrowed.
[*1] “And I was there when you gave your senior honors project presentation. And also when you challenged that kid with the stupid name to a beer pong competition in front of the entirety of our sophomore year dorm.”
I sniffle, because apparently, I started crying at some point without realizing it. “John Johnerson?”
“You lost so, so badly,” he says, taking a step forward. His head is tilted sympathetically as he reaches out his arms. “Can I give you a hug?”
I step forward, wrapping myself around him and resting my head against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat right in my ear. It’s steadying, even as I take a shaky breath. “Have I ever told you I’d never played beer pong before in my life?”
He gives me a kiss on the forehead. “No, but I figured that out pretty quickly.” He squeezes me tighter against him as I laugh, his chest rumbling in sync with mine. “I’ll be next door, okay?”
I tilt my head up, resting my chin against his chest so I can look him in the eyes. “No, please don’t. Really. I think the only thing that’ll make me less nervous about you being here is you being here.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he whispers, his left dimple appearing.
“It means I’d really like it if you stayed.” I give him my best puppy dog face, and I can tell from his eye roll that he’s already changed his mind. “Pleeeeeeease? Pretty pleeeeee—”
He leans forward and shuts me up by planting a kiss on my lips, then lets go of me and moves his bag to the other side of the bed. I’m still grinning stupidly and standing in the same place when he toes off his shoes and flops down onto the bed.
“What are you waiting for, then?” he asks, using his casual, playful humor to make me more comfortable.
It works, and I slide off my Birkenstocks and flop down next to him on my stomach, propping my head up with my hands.
He reaches over and grabs my right elbow, lifting it up in the air so he can scoot underneath it.
He places my elbow on top of his chest, and now I’m hovering right above his face.
“Smooth,” I murmur.
He looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before.
I’m going to have to edit the dictionary.
Apparently, there are some expressions he only uses in certain contexts (certain contexts that I’ve never been in).
I don’t want to think about—I’m not thinking about—the fact that someone else was previously privy to those expressions instead of me, but in this moment, I just feel very lucky to be on the receiving end of this bright-eyed, soft joy. [*2]
“Has anyone ever told you your eyes look like hot cocoa?” I ask, tracing my finger along his cheekbone.
Placing one hand on my waist, he uses the other to brush my hair behind my ear. “And has anyone ever told you yours look like a kaleidoscope?” His eyes dart in tiny movements as he studies mine. “Green, but with little flecks of blue and brown mixed in. The closer you are, the more you see.”
I run my finger down his cheek, tracing his lips, then running it across his jawline. He doesn’t move; he just gazes at me as I study the movement of my finger across his skin.
“It feels like I missed this,” I whisper. “Being able to touch you. Which doesn’t make any sense because I’ve never actually been able to do that. I’m missing something I’ve never done.”
“You always could’ve,” he says. “If you’d wanted to.”
I did want to, I think, but then the follow-up question would be why didn’t you? and we haven’t gotten to that answer yet, and I need to warm up a little bit before we get there, so instead I kiss him.
This kiss is caring, soft, and lovely. A love letter embodied. His hands are careful and gentle as he brings them up to my face, and as I open my mouth slightly, he lets his tongue run across my lower lip. A shiver of delight runs down my body.
“You okay?” Harrison whispers. I nod.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, even though what I should be saying is I need to talk to you.
“Yes,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek and whispering in my ear, “I’ve never been so sure about anything.”
His eyes are dark and sparkling, and I think I could lie here forever, gazing back at him.
There are multitudes in those eyes of his.
A dictionary’s worth of emotions. I want to stare at him until his innermost thoughts reveal themselves to me, then package them up and wear them in a locket, pressed against my heart.
He wraps his arms around my waist, planting several fast, furious kisses on my neck, and as I gasp with laughter and delight, he rolls us over, both of us landing on our sides, faces inches apart.
We lie there for a moment, eyes blazing. The only sounds are the quiet murmuring of nighttime creatures and the gentle in and out of our breathing. I weave my fingers through his hair and lean in, our kisses becoming more urgent and passionate.
It’s odd to kiss someone you know so well but have barely been physically intimate with.
I’ve always assumed I knew Harrison as well as I knew myself, but all of his mannerisms are taking on a new light in this context: the quiet mmm noise he makes when he’s deeply contented—turns out he also makes that noise when I suck on his bottom lip.
Fidgeting hands aren’t just for when he’s nervous—his hands now roam all over me, unable to stay still.
And apparently flushed ears aren’t just for embarrassment.
More entries for the dictionary. I’ll have to write an NSFW appendix.
I wrap my leg around him, drawing it up across his hip, and he lets his hands slip underneath my shirt, the feeling of his fingers on my lower back sending a startling blast of hot, blazing need through me.
Not a feeling I’m particularly familiar with.
Not something my body experiences often, if ever. But a good feeling nonetheless.
Something weird is happening to my body, and it’s not the tightness and cramping I’m expecting. Maybe I don’t need to have that conversation after all.
Miraculously understanding I’m perhaps too afraid to vocalize what I need, Harrison eventually leans in, nipping at my ear before whispering, “What do you want, Em?”
“More,” I gasp.
He nods against my neck. “Tonight is all about you. It’s all about whatever will make you feel good, and nothing more. Okay?”