Cuddle Like You Mean It

26. Chapter 26 Theo

Chapter 26 Theo

M aeve’s tips are simple—not that I asked her for any. I find myself looking back over the texts where she’s brazenly written out the following:

“If she says don’t stop—Don’t! I don’t care if a gorilla with a winning lottery ticket falls through the ceiling. Maintain the pace.”

“Talk, for the love of God, say something. Girls love a good smolder, but if you can’t muster any words, make some noise, dammit. Be a moaner or a groaner. If you’re silent, you’re a loner. HA, see, you’re not the only poet in this friendship.”

I spend the morning tidying and leaving the windows open because it reminds me of Staley, light and warm. A gentle knock greets me while I’m slicing lemons. This time with her will not be a session, this will be more intimate, with a whole new goal in mind. Getting to know her.

The hall takes me years to traverse—an analogy for the time it has taken me to feel comfortable around Staley, which I’m not entirely anyway. Twenty-two years old with minimal sexual experience isn’t something a man brags about, but with her, I feel assured that whatever version of myself I present is one she will welcome. Am I no better than all the poets before me by falling into what might be love? I’m not sure, but I’m at home with her, or I could be anyway.

Body and mind betray one another the moment I open the door to her sweet smile while trying to lean my body into the doorframe. This is how calm, cool, collected men stand, right? I revert to my usual stance and allow one of my hands to dive into my pocket to hide the slight shake humming through my body. Most of my nervousness comes from the gray area of Staley knowing I am Luca Blue, and I’m wondering which version is her favorite.

My shoulder slips past the frame, pushing me straight into Staley. She catches me without hesitation, her arms swooping behind the expanse of my back, her fingers unable to meet in the middle. I’m not a small guy by any means, and my stature is no match for Staley as she hooks her arms under my armpits to steady me. I know there is no way to keep either of us upright. I find a way to roll into the fall to protect her body. We both stumble down, but my spine meets the stoop as Staley collapses in a heap across my chest. In my mind’s eye, the fall is a slow motion free fall—where I save her from harm, and she adores me for my chivalry.

Staley yelps with laughter, her eyes wild at the terrible foray of a greeting I launched on her.

“The only thing that would make this better is if someone said, ‘Smile, you’re on Candid Camera .’”

Her penchant for all things nineties pop culture is as charming as it is surprising. We weren’t born in that decade, but I plan to tuck the thought away to ask her about it later. Tangled nerves and Staley’s body against my chest make me think that I would be okay with having her right here if it were for the whole sex-in-public thing being illegal. Gorgeous wisps of her auburn hair move with the breeze, tickling my cheeks, and there’s no stopping how our bodies reach for each other. The valley above her ass and beneath her bra strap is where my hands gravitate, and upon my touch, her muscles clench as a tiny shiver rolls down her.

“It’s c-cold out here.”

She rolls her eyes and drops her forehead to the center of my chest, clutching the front of my shirt in her hands. The warmth of her mouth speaks straight to my heart.

“No, Theo. I’m not cold. A little embarrassed, maybe. Can we go inside? I don’t mind a little PDA, but not when the P stands for porch if you catch my drift.”

Porch displays of affection? There aren’t nearly enough plants on this porch of mine to discreetly manhandle her the way I want to.

“Oh, y-yes.”

If my porch collision with Staley is this level of awkward, how will our date play out? She grazes my cheek with an innocent peck as she pushes up from my chest and stands, offering me help up. Hands linked, we step inside the foyer, where Staley slides her unlaced Doc Martens off and sets them by the front door. In the low light of the foyer, her eyes shift to a rich golden brown. Staley locks eyes with me and adjusts the rubber band of her ponytail. Dark brown eyes, steady on my every movement, and as if to taunt me, I put two and two together that her hair is in a wavy ponytail.

Drunk on Staley, I scan her from the top of her ponytail down to her bare feet—toes painted in a rebellious dark black catch my attention. Taking my fill of her presence is natural. I find her hands and fingers twisted up in one another—missing mine, I hope—wrenching back and forth.

Tension hangs heavy in the small space when Maeve’s advice comes barreling through my brain. Say something.

“You’re s-sexy, Staley. A sweet thing I want to savor.”

At my lascivious admission, I take in how red Staley’s cheeks are, her eyes downturned, unwilling to face me head-on now. The click-clack of my typewriter heart is weary.

“I’m a bit nervous right now,” she confesses.

And bless her for taking the lead despite being nervous, guiding us down the hall, and pulling me by the hand until she stops abruptly at the edge of my office. Her back straightens as she admires the setting for our first date.

On top of my desk sits a sage-colored water pitcher filled with wildflowers next to a tray of hot beverages. Staley walks to the tray and turns to me with a look of surprise.

“A French press? With real coffee? But you don’t drink coffee, do you?”

I shake my head because the French press is for her. I got some scones from a local bakery and a fruit salad. Staley is always on the go, and I often wonder if she’s had time to sit and feed herself. I told her I’d make dinner, but I put some breakfast together too. Who makes sure she is taken care of? I want to feed her scones, press her espresso to a rich dark brown, and serve it to her any chance she’ll let me.

“No, I don’t drink c-coffee, but you love it. Is it too late for you to drink it?”

She presses the plunger until the spiral plate meets the finely ground beans. A swift cloudiness moves upward, the dark brew rising above, meeting the underside of the lid. Staley pours the concoction into her mug, dropping four sugar cubes in with a heavy pour of cream.

“I’ll drink coffee any time of the day. I don’t think it does anything except keep my heart running a million miles an hour.”

As if to prove a point, she pulls a long swallow and drops her head back in pleasure. Seeing her satisfied brings me comfort. Until this point in my life, every relationship has been one-sided, and maybe I’m too forward-thinking in calling what Staley and I might have a relationship with, but there’s a foreshadowing I can’t shake. My gestures are brushed off as too much, too soon, but as I watch Staley drinking her fill and taking her time doing it, I think maybe I’m not too much or too soon with her. I’m right on time.

“Theo, this coffee is criminal.” Her smile is worth every penny I spent on the best espresso beans I could find. “To quote Alcott, ‘I’d rather take coffee than compliments right now.’ I understand now because this is incredible.”

“You like Little Women ? Quoting A-alcott, who have you become, Staley?”

“What kind of question is that? A man might have raised me, but I wouldn’t be half the feminist today if it weren’t for the things he taught me. I might be shit at poetry, but literature was my dad’s jam, and he exposed me to enough for me to get by. Music too.”

Her proud rants are endearing. I’m embarrassed by how much focus I’ve given my troubles when Staley is in the throes of her own challenges. There’s a slight pause in her body language. I’d hand over my inheritance to hear what’s on her mind.

Staley holds her mug tightly. I motion for us to sit on the blanket. Staley sits cross-legged with her coffee clutched in her lap. I put the tray between us and serve her a plate with a floral cloth napkin on the side. Once she bites into the scone, another moan of pleasure leaves her pink, kissable lips, followed by words not translatable by the human ear. I will buy out the city’s scone inventory from here on out. I’ve never wanted to be a flaky pastry more than I do now.

“Tell me more about your d-dad.” Because I want to know why this brilliant woman is so spread thin. How did she get to this point in her life? I want to know her opinions on feminism and music and how lovely she looks in oversized overalls I could put my sturdy body into.

Staley hesitates and looks everywhere but at me. I can only imagine navigating her father’s health is difficult. She bites into a hunk of pineapple, far too large for her mouth, and stares at me blankly. Perhaps I’ve gone too far.

“Oh, I’m not sure there’s much to tell. He’s got dementia. I do my best to take care of him, and if I’m being sincere, I don’t think I’m doing a good job at it.”

As obnoxious and tiring as my mother is, she’s alive, knows my name, and is part of the family I have left. Staley fidgets with her cup and picks an imaginary fuzz on her leggings. This is hard for her, understandably so.

“From my end of th-things, you’re doing a helluva job. What’s the hardest part of caring for him?”

She sips her coffee and refocuses her gaze on my writing desk as if she’s never been asked this kind of question before.

“When he was diagnosed”—she pauses to gather herself before pressing forward—“he was diligent in planning all of his final wishes with me. It was painful because I did not want to discuss it. In my mind, the diagnosis had to be wrong, and we’d have many more years together, but he didn’t want me to have to handle these huge life decisions on my own. All he cared about was what it would do to me. Planning the end of his life while he was—is alive—it was awful.” She shakes her head, loosening the discomfort from her bones. Her eyes water, and my heart aches at the sight.

Crushing is the first word that comes to mind. To sit in the same space of her pain is a privilege, one Staley does not hand out freely.

“And y-your mom?” I ask.

“What about her?”

Her comment catches me off guard as it’s laced with indifference.

“Is she n-not in the p-picture? There’s no one else to help you?”

Staley brings the mug to her mouth, takes another drink, and then shrugs in my direction.

“I’m adopted. From day one, it’s been me and Dad, which makes this whole, him having a deteriorating disease, all the more cruel. He chose me, and in some ways, I chose him too. Now, he’ll never see the fruits of his fatherly labors. He was—is the best dad I could ever ask for. For a while, I had other people in my life, but illnesses bring out the best and worst in people. I can say that’s true about me. Some days, I have so much anger coursing through me I could flip a car over or tell meathead poetry students off—other days, I’m the saddest of the sads, but I know no one is more alone than my dad, even if I am right next to him.”

I extend my hand and brush it against her shoulder to ease the sadness I’ve brought to the surface. She leans into the weight of my touch and smiles at me with gratitude.

“Anyone l-lucky enough to love you must be an amazing human.”

“I admire him, you know? How many grown men are out there adopting a toddler on their own? No partner. I’m not saying it was easy, but there were days I wished I had a mom or someone around to love me as much as he did. There’s this notion that because someone is adopted, they should be grateful and never complain or wish for anything different. I would never, ever take back what Dad and I have had together, but it’s normal, you know, to want more.”

She asks me about my mother.

“Anyway, how about your mom? She’s a real dream.”

“Ha. If by d-dream, you mean a permanent episode of sleep paralysis, then yes—dreamy.”

A tornado of laughter twists through our shared space, and we’re casualties of complicated parents tossed around in a funnel-shaped cloud of trauma and family dynamics waiting to spit us out.

“So ...” she says, reaching for my hand. The warmth from her coffee cup resonates from the palm of her hand.

“So ...” I brush the back of her knuckles with my thumb.

“Do you normally have your first dates at home?”

“Yes. I mean, n-no. I assumed this would be a mutually comfortable territory for us to s-spend time together in. The outside world isn’t p-patient with people who stutter.”

“You don’t date? Why not?”

Here it is. The moment you’ve been waiting for. Be ready for her to run off.

“Um, I’ve tried, and long story s-short, women tend not to want to continue with things.”

Her mouth quirks up at the side in questioning. She leans across the blanket to set her mug down. I savor the dip of her cleavage, a small accidental offering from her body to mine.

“I don’t understand. Are you a serial killer who leaves letters for the cops in the form of poetry? Because I think you could be far more clever than that. You’re worried about how many things are on my plate, but how do you find the time to add murder to your schedule between grading papers and other activities?”

I laugh because Staley’s ability to bring fun to a subject I have a lot of feelings about is a breath of fresh air.

“I w-wield a pen, not a knife. The consensus is my non-confidence. A stutter isn’t a trait many will swipe on, or they might, but then they meet me, and the gig is up. I can’t speak for the few I’ve tried to d-date, but my takeaway is they h-hesitate at the way I speak.”

Staley’s once relaxed state tenses, her hands moving to her rubber banded ponytail. She takes the sides of her hair and tightens it. It’s silly of me, but I envision her preparing for a street fight with mean girls who have dumped me, gathering up her loose ends to make her less of a target.

“What a load of bullshit. There’s some idea that when people say um or uh, while pausing a lot while speaking, it’s due to them being weak in language, slant, or ability, but it’s the opposite. Sure, they’re filler words, but for the listener, it’s a chance for them to process what’s coming next, and it is easier to remember too. To all the girls you tried to date before I say—I’m glad they, uh, didn’t, um, wait around long enough to, um, like, memorize how damn sexy your voice is.”

This is the catalyst, an invitation I have waited years for. Staley utters what I never expected to hear. She is riled up from her rhetoric of defending me, and I take this window of time to bravely make a move.

I come to my knees in front of Staley. Her eyes turn up at me when my thumb and forefinger clasp her chin.

“Um, can I k-kiss you now?” This is an intentional stutter to prove her hypothesis and allow her to process what’s next.

There’s a hitch in her breathing, and I plan to cause this reaction as often as she will let me. My thumb brushes across her peachy lips, which she kisses in return. Her eyes drift shut, and her shoulders drop.

We meet in the middle, her mouth on mine, and we’re all fidgety and electric—but we’re connected, and it’s symbolic of all the starts and stops it’s taken to get to this point. Staley’s kisses are soft and lyrical. The warmth of her hands hugs my torso, cause me to pull back for a millisecond.

“Is this o-okay with you?”

She nods and raises to her knees, putting us eye to eye.

“Theo, I need this, and you.”

Our foreheads fall against each other, and all it will take is for one of us to twist into the other, and the ride will move forward.

“Breathe for me, Staley.”

We’re all in. Her arms sweep up the flushed skin of my back, pulling me tighter to her chest. My God, she is strong in more ways than one. I repay her in kind with my fingers pressed tight into her hips, right on the crest. My mouth moves to her neck, and sweetness hits my tongue.

A tangle of clothes leaves the top halves of our bodies, and we remain chests heaving in synchronicity, searching the other’s face for the unspoken things between us. My fingers trace the edge of her bra until they reach the clasp centered between her breasts. Snap.

I curse the sun as its yellow glow paints Staley’s chest, casting gold across her teardrop breasts. My mouth meets the height of her rosy nipple, and I am a man unhinged and hungry for more. She clutches tufts of my hair as she arches into my tongue, serving me one of the smallest parts of her in the most demonstrative way. I tongue the pink bud, erect in my mouth.

“Theo, please. I need to hear you.”

I’m caught up in the half nakedness of her. I rest my head on her sternum, taking a second to take this all in, drawing my tongue up her chest and kissing her along the way. Then, across her heart, while my hand palms her breast.

“Sweet girl, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” As scared as I am, I find a steadiness in our connection that relaxes my voice.

My voice, solid and transparent, brings her body to a shuddering halt. She is breathy and eager, her cheeks blooming with swatches of cardinal.

“You don’t have to do that.”

I press another kiss into her chest and back to her nipple again.

“Do what?”

“You don’t have to be Luca when we’re together. Be Theo.” She means it, and I can see how sincere her eyes are as they soften their gaze at me. I melt under her request.

“Staley. With you, my v-voice is at ease, and it’s safe to say you make the practice easy.”

The explanation is enough for her to press me back into the downy blanket, and as much as I want to undress the rest of her one article of clothing at a time, she does the honors all on her own by removing her pants and panties that are high cut up on her hips.

“Not to kill the mood, but protection? I haven’t been active, and my last test was negative. I’ve got an IUD in place. What about you?” She says all of this casually, kissing me along the ridge of my jaw, without any shame, and I am grateful for her direct ability to communicate with me about our sexual health.

She moves to the top of my waistband. There’s no way I’ll last, not with her naked in front of me. I don’t dare look below her waist. I’ll be a goner. Her mouth is inches away from my dick, and I become undone. Embarrassed, I clench my eyes and slow my breathing.

“Um, there’s no need to w-worry on your end.” There is no sexy way to tell her that I’m negative too because I’ve never had sex before, and everything else, well, there is nothing else.

And because she reads me well, the message is received without me explaining further. She smiles, mischievousness filling every part of her face.

Staley makes fast work of unbuttoning my pants, relieving me of the prison caging in my excitement. How does one watch and not watch all at the same time? I want to burn every single frame of this foray into my mind and write love sonnets in her image so that students, for years to come, will need to interpret my many meanings of sunlight in an attempt to describe passionate love.

The side of her hand brushes against the underside of my erection, and it jumps in anticipation. She admires me thoroughly and releases a small breath through pursed lips onto my dick.

“Ahh . . . ohmygod . . .” I sputter out.

Adrenaline kicks in before I allow her to go any further. I move to a seated position, my palm sliding across her supple belly to her center. I pause for permission to enter, my fingers at the ready.

“Yes.” She hisses the command out.

My middle finger coaxes her pussy, slick with arousal, until I enter her, soft and teasing. Writing requires artistry, a flick of the wrist as one pens letters in cursive and bold, and my touch inside of Staley is no different. I take my time, swallowing up the fevered kisses she offers up. She acts as if I’ll never kiss her again, as if this is the last time and dear God, please do not let it be the last time.

Making love to her is a written thing I have dreamt of repeatedly. I’ve drafted this action, never knowing if I’d get it right. My thumb meets her clit, and I make a valiant effort to work her over, but I stumble a bit as my hand slips and nerves get the better of me.

Staley grinds her wet center over my hand. She wants this faster than I care to deliver, or at least I think she does when she reaches for my hand.

“Ohh ... Oh, God, Theo, I’m going to come.” She groans out while guiding my hand at the right speed and angle she prefers. I’m grateful for her guidance and participation.

She whimpers, looks to where we are fused, and lets out a breathy whimper.

“You are so wet. And it’s for me, isn’t it?” I’m not trying to be anyone but me; it feels incredible.

Belief is often confirmed by vision, and Staley is glowing with want as she watches my hand grow slick. My voice is attractive to her. This connection is all the evidence I need. I could do this all day and all the days after if she lets me. The oddest thing of all, Staley says a little more as she releases my hand and allows me to take charge and lead us through this pleasure together.

“I don’t want to rush this, but you can c-come whenever you’re ready. We can d-do this again and again.”

Her head tilts to the side, capturing my mouth, our tongues tangled in need. The insides of her thighs clamp my hand as a full-body quiver rolls through her. I inhale all her euphoric cries, bottling them down for inspiration and safekeeping. Before I can say anything more or ruin what I was able to do with her body, she presses me back down to the blanket and straddles my waist.

“This is so good, Theo. So good.”

All of her wetness pools across the space above my groin as she places both of her palms flat on the floor by my head. How does a woman with so much sadness within her eyes hold this much fire? She pauses even though we’ve come this far. I want to list out all of the reasons why she’s safe with me. Pressed coffee and silly emails and fluffy comforters and dates on the floor.

“Staley ... It’s okay to l-let go. I’ve got y-you.”

My words, more potent than the prophetic declaration of an I love you, melt her. She nudges my nose with hers, bringing her right hand to my forehead to finger away my wild curls.

“You do, don’t you?”

Staley lifts her hips ever slightly to align the two of us. She cautiously eyes me, searching for some sign telling her she needs to stop. But I will not stop this. The head of me kisses her entrance, and I hiss at the grazing touch. I understand people who can taste music and smell colors because the connection between her and me is the sun’s heat rising and the night sky speckled with starlight, a beginning and an end for me to wish upon.

In slow motion, she lowers her entire body until I’m housed in the safety of her. A mutual sigh of pleasure leaves us, my mouth wide open with nowhere for my empty words to go but into a state of speechlessness. Delighted with herself, she shifts her body forward, intentionally and back with the kindest expression. She’s being gentle with me, taking her time, and it is surprising and healing. First times have the potential to be complete, unpleasurable experiences. All thumbs and one-sided, but this is not that. Staley makes sure of it. An animalistic grunt escapes my mouth, and I am a boneless mess. All the words I’ve read and all the lines I will write are incapable of capturing the true meaning of this with her.

If I don’t hold on to her, anchor her body into mine, I risk both of us floating away into the ethers. Staley guides my nervous hands to her hips, showing me how to help her move, her creamy skin peeking through the spaces between my fingers. I bravely push up into her, and she bites her bottom lip hard, mewling out a noise I need to record and play on repeat. Our languid movements build an urgency in me, and I grieve what I will miss the second I’m no longer inside of her.

“Staley ... wait. I’m not going to last t-this way.”

“Good. I don’t want you to.”

She already knows this. Pressing her chest to mine, she lifts us into a seated position so she is in my lap with her legs wrapped around my lower back. I didn’t know we could be physically any closer than we already were, and somehow, Staley found a way to allow me to go deeper into her.

“Theo, you’re so thick.” She trembles as she clenches around me.

I’m pleased to know that my dick does it for her.

I push into her, my hands nestled firmly into her ass to continue the pace she is setting with her own body. I groan and let my vocal cords be free with her. Her breath quickens and nails dig into my back.

She begs. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Not now or ever.” It’s a promise.

Her release hits my ears, perfuming the room melodically. I rock into her, my ass clenching in need preparing for my utter decimation, and it’s all too much at once. She’s warm, coating me as she rides into an orgasm that sends me over the edge. She’s a sun exploding above the horizon, painting the whole wide world with her aubades. I kiss Staley right into my undoing and ease her right into hers. How can this get any better?

“Theo. That was—something.”

I chuckle into the crook of her neck and kiss her delicately, savoring the places I might have missed earlier.

“Staley, it w-was everything.”

We spend the remainder of the evening in various cuddling positions: the Butt Pillow, the Counter Canoodle, the Spoon, the Half Spoon, and the Kangaroo Pouch. We skip over the salmon and risotto and settle for the scones, which satiates us fine. It’s effortless how we talk and talk until our cheeks ache from smiling for hours. The entire date, after the sex part, is a mad rush to know every teeny detail about the other.

I now know Staley has scars on her fingers from chastising a foul-mouthed parrot she once tried to correct, and she knows how I broke my collarbone in the third grade when Maeve made me climb the fridge to get into a stash of cookies her mom hid. This is the shift, and I need to understand if it’s okay to ask her for more.

“Staley, will you be my p-plus-one to the fundraiser?” My mouth rests above her belly button in a half-spoon cuddle.

The thought of her in an off-the-shoulder dress stirs my dick back to life.

The muss of her hair splays out behind her in this perfect cuddle for eternity. She leans her head down toward my mouth and sneaks a kiss in with a broad, blushed smile and nods.

This is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, now that I’ve finally done it. I know what Dickinson meant when she said hope is the thing with feathers because my affection for Staley is as plumed as an early bird with a worm. I drink her in and allow her warmth to kiss every part of my frame.

“But I get to choose my dress.”

We laugh and hold each other until it’s time for her to head home, back to reality.

The entire class is a long, drawn-out slog in which Professor Graham lectures on the importance of the line in poetry. If I were given a dollar for every time he told the class that poetry is not words, I’d be filthy rich and synonymous with every phrase meaning bored to tears.

The Craft of Poetry cannot be limited to the history from which it came. It must evolve into mixed forms of media and spoken verse in coffee shops and the social activist cries of mothers on the front lines of peaceful protests. Countless years of my life have been focused on using my voice to achieve clarity, but throughout practicing with recording devices and writing in the longhand, I’ve learned that poetry is nonlinear and forgiving in form.

Graham excuses himself early and leaves me to discuss the final details of the group projects. I keep it short and sweet and tell them they can email me any further questions. I don’t have the energy to hold their hands through every single bit of this.

“Jack, Alex? Please see me after c-class.”

It brings me great joy to see the confused glances they exchange. Gabby and Staley chat about something, oblivious to my request for the arch nemeses behind them.

Staley’s form is poetry in the physical form. I can still feel her touch humming across every expanse of my skin—this is poetry too. The form of Staley heats my lips, and I can’t help but release my tongue for a taste. She giggles, and if I could capture the sound in the form of balladry, I would.

Alex and Jack fight against the current of students moving to the back of the auditorium. Staley stalls in her departure, packing things into her bag slowly.

“Sullivan, you wanted to see us.” Alex addresses me for both of them.

“Yes. T-there’s an opportunity I w-wanted to share with the both of you.”

My voice quivers when I want it to be emphatic. Staley said the sound of my voice makes her feel lucky to be alive, and I hold all of the aces. I’m trying hard to believe her words.

“I need volunteers for an upcoming event. P-pending your attendance at said event, I can commit to adding twenty points to your group project’s final grade.”

Jack uncrosses his arms, lowering his guard. This isn’t me being some good guy, which I usually am. This is me desperately trying to adhere to my mother’s ridiculous needs for this event, and subjecting these two to my mother is a petty kind of punishment with an underhanded gifting of points to them.

“When and where? And can I get your deal in writing?” Classic Jack.

“I’ll send you the details v-via email.”

Alex nods and turns to leave. I return to my belongings strewn about the lectern to occupy my mind for ten seconds. Before Jack leaves I overhear him whispering to Alex.

“Are you seeing her again, tonight?”

Alex grits his teeth and smacks his arm, leaving Jack laughing at the trouble he’s caused. Alex falls back, leaning across the seat Gabby often sits in and whispers to Staley.

“Yesterday was great, thanks again.”

Dread fills my throat. Staley nods at Alex with generous eyes, and he winks at her. Jealousy is unpleasant, but Staley would tell me if there was someone else, right?