Chapter 2 #2
“I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’m tired of showing up for wedding showers and baby showers and bachelorette weekends and these…
these big life events for others, and not having something of my own worth celebrating.
Or really, something that they think is worth celebrating.
Because whatever it is, it’s somehow not equivalent.
It’s not the same. It’s not something they think is worth showing up for. ”
A muscle in my chest twists as I remember the dinner I arranged after my last promotion.
One I’d made reservations for and sent out Evites for (and texts and emails to follow up when some people forgot to RSVP).
I’d coordinated the hectic schedules of my four closest friends and found a date that worked for everyone, and even though they all said they’d come, once the day arrived, I started getting the texts.
Davey’s throwing up all over the place. Sorry, girl, can’t make it.
Will have to rain check! Ryan had a hard day and I think I need to spend some time here. Can I take you out next week?
Sry, gotta cancel. Chaos in this house!!!! Could use the escape, but just can’t rn!
My boss, Natalie—who’s become something more than a colleague, but less than a real friend—was the only one who made it, and I spent the night forcing a smile and drinking too many lychee martinis. I can’t taste one now without feeling miserable.
At least when I attend my father’s wedding in two days, I’ll know exactly what to expect. I won’t have this feeling of losing something, of being left behind, because I’ve already experienced that. He abandoned me years ago.
“I’ve lived in the same city for years,” I say, “just like you, but I’ve never stayed put for more than a month.
I keep myself busy. I’m always going out of town, always trying something new, always doing something new, because the truth is—” A lump forms in my throat.
“The truth is, if I stay still for too long, if I stop and really take things in, I’ll realize that underneath it all, I’m lonely.
And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
He watches me for a moment, his eyes glistening, and then his arms come around me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft in my ear. And I sink into him, my head finding his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat, the comforting pattern of his breathing.
We’re silent for a bit, and I can’t remember the last time I was held like this.
I haven’t been with anyone since Bruce, my ex, and he wasn’t the type to offer comfort in this way.
Bruce listened when I was going through something hard, but he wouldn’t let me stew in it.
He’d offer advice, options, ways to tackle the problem. He didn’t hug for the sake of hugging.
And I never thought to ask for it.
“You don’t think I’m awful?” I say, pulling back a bit. “For feeling like…for feeling resentful—”
He shakes his head, something heavy and sad in the lines of his face. “I understand,” he says. “I’ve been left before too.” He pauses. “The anger, it’s what comes after you move past the denial. So, how you’re feeling, it’s natural. It’s a natural part of grief.”
Grief. It’s not a word I’ve thought much about, not something I ever thought I could feel, could claim, because I haven’t lost a loved one in that way. Not the way he has. But I have lost something, and I don’t know if I’ve ever allowed myself to really mourn it.
Neither of us says anything for a while, until the cloud that’s hanging over us turns back into mist, the heaviness fading away until all that’s left is the heady sense of relief that comes after a confession.
But it’s more than just the high of confessing.
It’s everything else that came after. The recognition, the sense of something shared, of being seen.
“So,” I say, “I guess I said more than one thing.”
“That’s all right,” he says with a faint smile. “I think mine was more than one thing too.”
He’s still holding me, his arms around me, mine wound around his neck. And it feels right to lift my face, to meet his mouth with mine, to close the distance between us.
It’s soft at first. Slow. A hello, again. The kind of kiss you might greet someone with at the beginning of a date. A graze of lips that grows slightly firmer before withdrawing. The start of something, a hint of what’s to come.
But I don’t want teasers of the real thing. I’ve been waiting all night for this, and I don’t want to wait anymore. I want it now.
I arch into him, my hips flush against his, and I relish the gasp he lets out as I feel him through his pants, hard and ready.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, and there’s tension across his face.
Something wild, barely restrained as he rocks forward, pressing exactly where I need him, brushing a spot that sends heat rushing through me.
“More,” I say, but when he repeats the movement, the buckle of his belt digs into my skin.
I reach for it, wanting it off. Wanting everything off, but his hand encircles my wrist, holding me still.
“Are you sure? Do you still want—” He swallows, his throat flexing hard.
There’s effort written across his face, muscles taut and strained.
“I know what we just talked about, it was maybe heavier than expected, and I’d understand if you’d rather not…
if you’d rather have a night to yourself. If you’d rather I go.”
I shake my head, undoing his belt and sliding it from the loops.
“I don’t want to be alone.” I reach for the button of his pants.
“I want this.” I look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
I think I know his answer, but I want to be sure. “Do you?”
“Yes,” he breathes, and I don’t wait a second more.
I pull at his zipper, tracing the length of him through his briefs. I grasp him firmly, and his sharp inhale of breath ricochets around the room.
“Not yet,” he says, pulling away. “You can’t, I’m—” He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight, before opening them again. “I’m already too close. I need a…give me a second.”
His voice holds a trace of apology, but his admission is dizzying. I’m tipsy under the weight of his want, and I want him to know I feel it too. That there’s nothing to apologize for. That we can both give in to this, meet each other where we are.
“I don’t care,” I say, reaching for him. “It doesn’t matter, just—”
His hands come to my waist, his arms locked, holding my body at a distance. He steps forward, moving us together, until the backs of my legs meet the bed again.
“Sit,” he says.
And my mouth drops open. A nonsensical noise escapes me, something that sounds embarrassingly like gah.
Surprise lights his eyes. He looks at me for a moment, processing, and then something new settles over his expression. A confidence that almost borders on smug. He takes off his glasses and folds them carefully before setting them aside.
“Sit down,” he says again, and I feel his words like a touch. A languid sensation that starts in my lower belly, then spreads through my limbs as I slowly lower myself to perch on the edge of the bed.
After a beat, he mirrors the movement, his gaze holding mine as he drops to his knees on the floor.
“What do you like?” he asks, his right hand traveling up the back of my calf. “Being told what to do, is that…is that something you’re into?”
“Not, uhh—” He turns his head, and I gasp at the feel of his mouth, open and wet on the inside of my knee. “Not historically.”
He huffs a breath against my skin, the barest hint of a laugh, as his hand skims up my inner thigh. “Not historically?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I did like it. Just then.”
“Hmm.” His hand moves higher, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my underwear. “And this?” he asks, finding the center of me, pressing more firmly, his thumb sweeping in slow circles. “Is this something you like?”
I jolt, static electricity sparking at his touch. “Yes, please, I—”
His fingers travel to the elastic band at the top of my underwear. “Can I—”
“Yes, yes, please.”
He lets out another amused breath. “You’re so polite, do you know that? You’re so—” But I don’t find out what else I am, because when the cool air meets my exposed skin, he groans. “So beautiful, god. You’re so—”
His thumb comes back, finding me again, and I arch when he applies pressure the same way he did before.
He’s watching intently, his eyes following the movements of his hand, then flitting back to me, tracking my reaction, trying things out, then changing them until he’s found a rhythm that has me breathless, that has me pushing against him, wanting more.
“I need—”
“What do you need? My fingers? My mouth?”
“Yes. Both. Please, I—”
“Lie down,” he says, and the words make something shimmer inside me. Something magical happens when I’m given permission to do the thing I already wanted to do. I’ve been using all this effort to sit up, but now I get to give in.
I sink against the pillowy-soft comforter, but only for a moment. Soon the fabric’s sliding across my back as his hands grip my thighs, pulling me toward him.
“Oh, oh, I—” All coherent thought leaves my mind. His mouth is on me. His tongue sweeping, then retreating. His lips closing, pulling, sucking, and then opening again.
I can’t keep track. I can’t follow. I can’t do anything but feel.
“You’re amazing,” he says, pressing a kiss against me. “So open.” Another. “So honest.”
“Please,” I say, my voice wavering. “I’m almost, almost—”