Twenty-One #2
It is fine. He needs to take the LSAT, and there aren’t that many opportunities. It’s not like she needs him there. Sure, it would be nice, but she’ll have plenty of things to do. She probably won’t even notice he’s missing.
Placing the last of the dishes onto the drying rack, Charlie turns and runs into his chest. Before she can shift out of the way, he presses a palm to her hip. Warmth blooms through her body from the contact.
“Charlie.” His free hand cups her face. “You’re incredible. You’re—” His lips twitch, and she stares at his mouth. “Exceptional. I’ve always known that.”
Her mouth pops open with surprise. The desire she’s held at bay all morning floods her senses. When he tips up her chin, she’s pliant and eager, wanting to kiss him so badly, and to hell with her rules—
Her phone alarm goes off. She springs back so fast she slams her elbow against the counter and quickly silences her phone, swearing under her breath. Heart slamming in her chest, she hurries out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back,” before disappearing into her bedroom.
She retrieves her birth control pack from her bedside table and pops the pill in her mouth, swallowing it dry. Returning to the main room, she finds Wes fiddling with the stove.
“Everything good?” he asks, not looking at her.
“Yeah. Just my birth control alarm. It goes off every day at seven p.m.”
He nods but says nothing, just opens the package of spring rolls and places them on a clean baking sheet.
She waits, sensing his desire to say something. “Go on. I know you want to ask.”
He glances at her. “Ask what?”
“Why I take birth control if I’m not having sex.”
He shrugs. “First of all, it’s not my business.” He finishes with the spring rolls and crosses the kitchen to toss the package in the trash. “And second of all, after years of listening to you rhapsodize about contraception, I’m well aware that birth control is not just for preventing pregnancy.”
She stares. When he looks at her, he rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “Don’t look so surprised. I do listen to what you say sometimes.”
A contented warmth billows in her stomach and flows through her entire body. She wants to rip off his clothes and jump him right there.
“I have something called endometriosis.” She pauses, but he says nothing, leaning back against the counter and raising his brows expectantly.
“It results in debilitating periods. I used to miss one or two days of school a month in high school because I couldn’t move.
The pain was so bad, sometimes I’d throw up.
” She presses her lips together, remembering it so clearly even now: lying curled in the fetal position, no amount of ibuprofen or heating pads providing relief.
“I never knew it wasn’t normal until Sy recommended I go to the clinic freshman year. ”
She didn’t know because her sex education classes hadn’t covered menstrual problems like PCOS or endometriosis. How many months of pain could she have avoided if she’d known her diagnosis sooner? How many days of her life would she have back?
“There’s still not enough information or research about it, and there are so many people with uteruses who don’t have access to birth control or who don’t even know that taking it can help.
” She pauses and looks away, feeling like a broken record.
“That’s another reason why the clinic is so important. ”
“It is,” Wes agrees.
The oven beeps to indicate it’s preheated, breaking the thoughtful quiet.
Wes slides the baking sheet into the oven and sets the timer.
Through the window in the living room, the early winter darkness is setting in, but inside Charlie’s apartment there’s a glow of quiet contentment.
The candle she lit early that morning still burns, filling the room with the scent of vanilla and coconut, mixing with the sweet aroma of the cookies.
Wes pulls the prosecco from the fridge, and with alarming dexterity, he removes the foil and the cage before uncorking the bottle with a pop.
He holds it up with a wide grin. “I say it’s time we celebrate.”
She pulls two regular wine glasses from the cupboard, and Wes pours them each a healthy glass brimming with gold liquid and bubbles.
He clinks his glass against hers. “Happy New Year, Rogers.”
They take a sip, the prosecco sweet and effervescent on her tongue.
“It’s not the new year yet,” she replies.
He rolls his eyes. “Close enough.”
He crosses the room and settles on the sofa. Charlie follows, observing while he makes himself comfortable on the couch, sprawled across the cushions like he belongs there, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to spend a relaxed evening with her.
Or does he have other expectations? Like a jolt with electricity, she thinks, It’s New Year’s Eve. People kiss at midnight.
Right?
Will they? Does she want that?
She doesn’t even need to contemplate her answer.