Chapter 11
The sizzle of the pan fills the space between us.
Lexie sits at the kitchen island, bundled in an oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants.
Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her sock-covered feet rest on the rungs of the stool.
She has her hands wrapped around a mug of sweet milk like she’s trying to soak up all its warmth.
It’s a drink I used to make for Soph when she was down or couldn’t sleep.
Soft jazz plays in the background. I’d picked out something mellow, hoping it might soothe her.
While she was upstairs, I looked up info on anxiety.
There was so much to sort through that I barely scratched the surface, but one thing stood out: not everyone experiences it the same way.
So far, I’ve learned that for her, it feels like thought overload, and distraction, music, and calming activities seem to help.
I flip the omelet, my mind once again replaying our kiss.
I thought the tremors and shallow breaths were signs of her excitement.
I thought she was losing herself in a way that matched what I was feeling.
I didn’t realize, until it was too late, that somewhere along the way, her pleasure had turned into panic.
Her cries afterward had torn me up. She wanted me to leave, but I couldn’t, not like that. I couldn’t let her go through that alone. It’s what she’s used to—fending for herself and hiding her feelings. Not wanting to be a burden on anyone.
“You’re in your element,” she says, watching me over her mug. Some color has returned to her cheeks, but her big blue eyes are still shadowed behind her frames.
“I find it relaxing,” I say as I fold the egg in half, sealing in the sauteed vegetables and cheese before sliding it onto a plate.
“Very chef-y.”
Under different circumstances, I would’ve teased her back, asking if she found my chef-y-ness a turn-on. But with everything that just happened, I steer away from the joke.
I grab two forks and hand her one. “Mind if we share?”
“Not at all.”
Sitting on the stool beside her, I wait until she takes the first bite. Her eyes close as the flavors hit. “This is so good. Thank you. I love omelets, and the music’s a lovely touch.”
I grin, happy to please her.
We eat in silence; the only sounds are the tranquil vibrato of the saxophone and the scrape of our forks on the plate. It’s not awkward—the quiet feels like we’re both recharging after the emotional storm.
“Do you cook?” I ask after a while.
“I can. Nothing fancy, though. In Chicago, I lived mainly on salad kits, but here it’s been nice to prepare a meal and enjoy eating whatever I want.”
“You couldn’t eat what you wanted back home?”
“It’s not that I couldn’t; it’s that I gave in to the pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way. Never a hair out of place or a frown on your face. That’s an actual quote from my mother.”
Jesus. I shake my head. “That’s a lot to live up to.”
“It is.” She fiddles with the handle of her fork. “I tried so hard to be perfect—and failed.”
I tamp down a surge of anger, hating her parents for making her feel like she wasn’t enough. “You didn’t fail. You’re perfect just the way you are, Lex. Whatever else they expected was an impossible standard.”
“Not impossible to them.” She lets out a short, humorless laugh.
“I was always under a microscope. Speech coaches for my nervous stutter, posture training for my slouch, strict diets to keep me thin, and braces to correct the tiniest gap between my front teeth. It was never-ending. I spent years twisting myself into someone I didn’t recognize or want to be. ”
“You had the guts to come here and change all that,” I remind her. “That’s a big step.”
“It wasn’t guts that got me here. It was a thyroid tumor.”
“What?” My gaze swerves to hers, my heart hammering. Is it—?”
“It’s benign,” she quickly assures me. “I’m on medication now to get my hormones back to normal. I’m sorry if this brings up difficult memories of your mom being sick.”
I appreciate her sensitivity—the way she focuses on me, even in the face of her own struggles. “I’m okay, Lex. I want to hear about this. Are you in any pain?”
“No, it doesn’t hurt. I was tired all the time, and I’d lost weight, but I thought that was just from my hectic schedule.
I didn’t know anything was seriously wrong until I felt a lump while putting on lotion.
It’s tiny.” She takes my hand and brings it to the front of her neck, below the larynx, pressing my fingers gently to the spot. “Feel that?”
I nod, my stomach clenching. It’s the size of a pearl—firm and round beneath her soft skin. “How are you now?”
“Much better. But at the time, I was angry at myself for being so focused on pleasing everyone else that I neglected my health. This little lump was my wake-up call. It could have been worse. I got lucky, and it was the catalyst for me to take control of my life.”
“Your fuck-it moment.”
“Yeah. It was. But you must think I sound like some Karen—the poor white girl complaining about her poor, rich life.”
I can’t help but laugh at the reference. “You don’t sound like a Karen. Your problems are real, Lex. Standing up to your parents, and after everything you went through with your health, that’s badass. Period.”
She relaxes into a genuine smile, and we fall quiet again as we finish the meal. When the plate is empty, Lexie stands and squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks, Chaz. For the omelet, for listening, for just being you.”
It feels like a pivotal moment, and I absorb it while she insists on cleaning up. She’s fast and efficient, loading the dishwasher and putting everything back to rights. I now better understand her need for order after not having much control in her life.
She dries her hands on the towel and leans back against the counter, her eyes shifting to the floor. “You must be wondering about what happened earlier.”
“I am. But you don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, but it’s only right that I tell you.” She lifts her gaze to mine and squares her shoulders as if bracing for strength. “I don’t enjoy . . . intimacy—any of it. I usually go numb and just fake it. It’s easier to pretend. Less embarrassing than the truth.”
Pretending? Faking? Numb? Every fiber in me wants to react, but I stay quiet to let her finish.
“With you, I wasn’t numb. I felt everything.
” Her breath catches. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to get that .
. . aroused. Or actually, you know . . .
have an orgasm. I so badly wanted that. Needed it.
But no matter how good it felt or how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get there.
That’s not your fault. I’m . . . I’m sexually broken. ”
Her shame cuts through the air, manifested by the tapping of her fingers and the quick rise and fall of her chest.
“Lexie,” I say, finding it mind-boggling that this gorgeous, sexy woman, who rode me like her body was on fire and left a damp mark on my jeans, can think she’s sexually flawed. “You’re not broken because you didn’t come tonight.”
“It’s not just tonight. It’s me. Even when I’m alone, it’s a struggle. That part of me just doesn’t work. And that’s not fair to you. Maybe it would be better if we stopped seeing each other.”
Hell no. My blood pulses hard at the suggestion. “Nothing that happened tonight or what you’ve said changes anything between us. We can figure this out.”
“This isn’t some challenge,” she snaps in frustration. “So far, you’ve avoided being typical. Don’t start leading with your ego now.”
Her words strike like a whip, but I hang onto my temper. “I’m not trying to win some game to boost my ego. I haven’t had sex in nearly a year because I haven’t found anyone I connected with. I care about you, Lexie. So, don’t lump me in with assholes who don’t give a damn.”
Her face falls, stricken. “I’m sorry, Chaz. That was a terrible thing to say.”
“That shit hurt.” I exhale, trying to ease the tension, though the sting is still fresh. “But it would hurt a hell of a lot more if you cut me off because of this.”
“You’re the last person I want to hurt.” Her eyes well up. “I’m just so disappointed in myself.”
I go to her and pull her against me. “Is this okay?” I whisper into her hair, not wanting to cause her to panic.
She nods, and her arms slowly close around me. We stand like that for a while before I speak.
“Maybe you shut that part of yourself off to cope, to not have to deal with trying to be perfect at yet another thing.”
She inches back, her face tilting up at me as if I might have touched on something.
“You’re not broken, Lex. You’re fucking sexy, I nearly lost my mind tonight.”
“That’s nice to hear.” She blushes. “But it has been a year for you, so you’re probably not that discerning.”
I laugh at her quippy comeback. “Trust me, it was all you. But seriously, it sounds like you got in your head. Wanting to prove something to yourself might have gotten in the way of just feeling, of just letting go. Does any of that make sense?”
“It does.” She nods. “But I don’t know if that changes anything. How can I make it good for you when I can’t even make it good for myself?”
I cup her chin. “You’re not going to have any trouble pleasing me.” I’m already primal with wanting her. “Use me to explore, Lex. Find out what makes you feel good. You call the shots,” I say, appealing to her need to be in control.
“But won’t you want sex?”
“Sex isn’t the prize, Blue. You are.”
It’s sad how much that surprises her. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before.”
“You’ve been around the wrong people.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Her hand comes up to my cheek. “I want to try, Chaz, I do. I just don’t know if I can get there.”
“Let’s just focus on one step at a time, like kissing.” I bring my mouth to hers and talk against it, “and touching.” I slide my hands beneath her sweatshirt and skim my fingers along her sides. “How does that sound?”
On a shiver, she presses the softest and sweetest kiss to my lips. I don’t need to hear her answer—I feel it in the way her mouth moves against mine—a little unsure but willing to take this next step with me.