Chapter 11 #2
This has been an odd dealbreaker on dates before, especially with guys who want to meet at a brewery and talk about their favorite microbrews and ciders.
Most of the time, I’m able to order a kombucha or a mocktail.
It’s not that there’s judgement—no, it’s that they wanted to have a shared experience. I just can’t go there.
Grams says it’s fine as long as you know your limits, but it has never tasted good to me and, without fail, gives me a headache.
Besides, I know her history, the way she tried to fill the space my mom left with bottles of wine like the one on the table.
We didn’t get close, not really, until she was sober and I was in middle school.
Still, she’s stayed strong all these years with a new fixation on puzzle games and fizzy water.
“Noted,” he says, slipping the bottle back in the bag. “Next time, I’ll come prepared with sweet tea or some of that fancy flavored water.”
“Sweet tea.” I nod. “Do you make it yourself?”
“With my Grampy’s recipe. Judging by the way you took your coffee and flutter around, I should have thought to bring something that suited the palate of a hummingbird.”
I open my mouth to argue but the visual is too cute to dislike.
A hummingbird.
“That’s what I thought you looked like—last night when I saw you flitting around with that bird song on your lips,” he says, and my face grows hot. “Guess I’ll have to keep sugary things around to lure you back to me.”
“I’ve heard Splenda’s a decent alternative.” I laugh.
We exchange glances, giggle, and all the feelings I had when I was working on my songs sit at the base of my throat, wanting to rush to his ears.
I glance at my keyboard and decide a second date serenade is probably a red flag.
At home, I’d suggest putting on a movie. With no TV, there’s nothing to distract me from the earthy smell of spring water on his skin. Nothing to distract from the weight of his gaze on mine. The rain calms to a drizzle, and the sound of cicadas picks up—a loud, rhythmic static.
“Do you think they know any covers?” I ask as the insects’ song grows even louder, nodding my head toward the sound. Tension builds between us as we sit, our thighs touching on the old couch. We’ve kissed. We could kiss again…
“I think they’re more of an experimental jazz type of group. You know, where each song tends to sound the same.” His reply is slow and thoughtful, and God, I really like this guy.
We laugh, and just like that, the conversation begins to flow between us.
His laugh is funny—loud and unashamed, and each time he throws his head back with shaking shoulders.
I fixate on his animated movements and the way he gets loud when he speaks about something that interests him.
It makes me wonder if Gil has ever been made to feel small. I hope not.
As the hours rush by and my eyes become heavy, he says the dreaded words.
“It’s getting late.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, but we’re somehow closer. His clothes hang on the same line as the pages of my journal, and I wonder if it’s some kind of cosmic sign: my past and future strung together. His eyelids flutter as we drift closer, pulled by a want I’m hopeless to surrender to.
We’re on each other in moments.
The mood is electric, like two shaken soda bottles ready to explode. His gentle grip is at the base of my neck where my skin is the worst. I gasp, quickly moving his hand to my shoulder, where his fingers stay for only a moment before gliding down to my waist.
The strap of my sundress has fallen off my shoulder, and Gil wastes no time covering the newly exposed skin in kisses. Summer rain patters softly on the windows, and when thunder booms and crashes, the safest place to go is farther into his arms.
“Marina.” The whisper of my name calms me, like cool waves on warm sand. There’s no more distance between us, our bodies flush, and the silky pieces of fabric wrinkles to the friction of our movements.
His knee glides between my thighs, and I swallow hard, deepening our kiss that grows more dangerous by the second.
I barely know this guy.
Still, the crash of emotions runs through my body all at the same time. I’m desperate and want more—of his warm touch, his soft lips.
We fall back on the worn leather couch, my body straddling his. He blinks up at me, his strange yellow eyes molten and filled with something I’ve only seen in movies. The ache of another M + G being carved into my heart is dizzying.
He wants me.
I want him.
And God, I need—
His body moves on top of mine, and I rock my hips to meet the thin fabric of that silk robe which isn’t doing much to hide our desire. Fuck, I’ve only known him for a day, and I’m not sure that it matters.
I’m not sure anything matters right now.
My fingers slide across his thighs, eager—too eager—to heighten the sensation. Want muddles my senses until all I can think about is what his voice would sound like moaning my name.
“Marina.”
He already says it like a song, but the desire to hear him scream it builds touch by touch.
My dress rides up past my thighs, and my bare skin slides across his.
The sensation is delightfully smooth, like covering myself in aloe and slipping into slick sheets.
The feeling is so perfect and new I let out a moan, clinging to Gil with wild abandon.
I try to thread my fingers between his and he pulls away, leaving me with a sharp, jagged breath.
“Wait—” he says, and I gulp.
What did I do wrong?
It had to have been something. He leans away from me, and I remove my hands as quickly as I can manage, scooting to the other side of the couch.
“Sorry, sorry. I just…” I pant out the words, circling around just how pathetic I feel.
I just what? Can’t stop thinking about him? Really like him? There’s nothing I can say that won’t scare him off—I misread this.
I must have misread this.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. Instead of moving away, or toward the door like I feared, he grasps my surrendered hands in his own, cupping them until they land on my lap. I don’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
He’s sorry?
“Oh…” I say, suddenly aware of how each piece of clothing on my body is askew. Gil got caught up in the moment. He never wanted to—he never wanted me. It’s been a day of fun with a girl he met on vacation. I should have never assumed anything else.
“Marina.” His voice is a gentle whisper.
I can’t do this—another rejection, another wrong signal.
Before I can stop myself, my nails dig into the uneven patch on my neck. What does grossing him out now matter if he’s about to leave?
“If it was too much,” he says, his voice deep and gentle, as his hand grazes my shoulder, “I’m sorry.”
If … it was too much?
“What?” I choke out, sure that I must have heard him wrong, considering I think I’m the one who jumped him.
“If I…” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you again all day, and I didn’t mean for things to get so—”
“Wait, wait,” I cut him off. “You think you got carried away?”
“I didn’t?” His voice squeaks in a way that’s endearingly boyish. It’s an adorable departure from his normal charm. Could he be as nervous as I am?
“No, no, not at all. Wait, so, you’re not…
you don’t want to leave?” I ask. When he pulled his body off of mine, that’s fully where I expected this night to head: him out the door and me asleep alone.
But Gil simply shakes his head. His hand grips mine with a soft squeeze, which I’m too stunned to return.
I didn’t mess things up?
“I’m a little new to all of this.” He swallows hard, shaking his head. “And truthfully, there are some things I want to tell you—need to tell you—first.”
“Oh…” I nod, brow furrowed. No one who has been romantically interested in me ever wants to just … hang out, but Gil does seem sincere, even though it’d be easy to jump to a conclusion here.
He doesn’t have a car.
I haven’t gotten any real details on where he lives.
And now there’s a secret?
I think he could tell me he’s an axe murderer and I’d probably still ask him to stay. If I could afford therapy, I think that fact alone would make any medical professional take me off their books, but here we are…
“Whatever it is can’t be that bad,” I say, forcing myself to keep the distance he created between us.
“It’s not bad,” he says, with a half-smile. “Just … different.”
I smirk. I think I can handle different. What I can’t handle—after the kisses and the touching—is being alone.
I’m no stranger to one-night stands, sweet words, and promises that vanish in the night, leaving me with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I don’t need him next to me if he’s not ready for that, but If I’m allowed to be selfish, I don’t want to say goodnight.
“Could you … stay longer?” I ask. “Like the night? I respect any boundaries or time you need, it’s just—”
It’s just… I don’t want you to go.
“It just…?” he presses, eyebrow arched and a teasing smile on his lips.
“Hang on, I’m trying to think of an excuse,” I say, drumming my fingers on my knees.
What can I tell him that is both going to make sure he knows I don’t want to pressure him to be intimate—and won’t make me sound pathetic.
Because that’s how I feel: clingy and awful.
Gosh, why can’t I think of a good reason?
“Darlin’, you don’t need one. I’m happy to—”
I shake my head. If he gives me a moment to think, I’m sure I can get creative with this. “The gators,” I blurt.
“The gators?” he asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The arch in his brow is somehow even higher.
“I mean, yeah. It…” I pause. I have no idea where I’m going with this. I’m dizzy with desire and fully aware nothing I’m saying makes sense. “You told me not to … stray from the paths because of them, so you should probably stick around.”
“You’re worried a gator is going to break and enter?” He leans back, the grin on his face both hypnotic and dangerous.
“I’ve heard most of the petty theft in Florida is done by gators,” I say with a shrug. “So, I mean it’s only logical if we stick together.”
“Lies the media wants you to believe.” His response is delivered with the utmost seriousness, his full lips drawn into a thin line before they curve back into what is becoming a familiar grin. Before he busts into laughter. “But I’ll stay. I want to stay.”
“Yeah?” I ask, unable to keep myself from scooting closer to him.
“Yes,” he says, closing the distance until our thighs are touching again.
“Okay, well, the bed…” I begin, sizing him up. Gil’s taller than me, and honestly, I don’t mind taking the couch …
“Is yours,” he finishes with a nod. “You don’t need to worry about me, Marina. I’ve slept on more uncomfortable places than an old leather couch.”
“If you change your mind, lock the door on your way out, alright?” I say. “Just take the key and maybe leave it under the mat or—”
“Unless you ask me to leave, I’ll be right here,” he interrupts, his expression flickering with something unrecognizable. “And if I were to hide a key, I’d think of a safer place than that.”
Is that worry on his face? I smile to myself, enjoying the feeling of his concern for a moment. But as we sit together, tension sparks between us like two teenagers ending a date. Do I let myself kiss him again? Do I wait for him to kiss me?
“Goodnight,” he says, his lips brushing against the top of my forehead.
As I stand, my knees wobble from under me.
I gulp. I’ve never known the power of a forehead kiss, but with the way that little peck is making me tingle from my toes to the top of my head, they could become addictive. Worse than espresso or an energy drink.
“Goodnight,” I whisper, hoping he’ll be right where I left him in the morning.