Chapter Seven
Taylor
“I got pizza,” I say, holding up a slice when Todd walks through the door.
“Good, I’m starving.”
He drops onto the sofa beside me, reaching for a piece, and I notice his knuckles are cracked. “Did that happen at practice?”
“What?”
“Your hand.”
“Oh . . .” He looks at it as if just realizing. “Jacob and I kinda got into it.”
“What about?”
“Nothing important.”
“Ah.”
I take a bite of pizza, then drop it because I’m not the type to pry. I mean, I don’t like it when people ask me too many questions, so I try to give them the same courtesy.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asks a moment later.
I turn down the volume on the Thunder vs. Cavaliers game. “Shoot.”
“Have you ever . . .” He clears his throat. “Faked an orgasm?”
I nearly choke on my slice of pepperoni. “What?”
“Sorry.” He grabs the remote to turn the volume back up. “Forget I asked.”
“No . . . that just caught me off guard.” I cough. “Does this have to do with your fight with Jacob?”
“Yeah . . . I texted Christian, but who knows when he’ll have time to text me back.”
After swirling my crust into some garlic sauce, I pop it in my mouth and chew. “You might just have to wait.” I swallow. “Because . . . I’ve never had to fake one before.”
“So there are competent men in this world, after all.”
“No . . . I mean . . .” I steal a glance from the corner of my eye. “I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“Oh.”
I exhale. “Yep.”
The basketball game ends but I couldn’t tell you who won; the TV just flickers as the tension pulses between us.
He breaks first. “You, uh, want to watch the postgame?”
Shrugging, I grab my cola to give me something to do.
I should have just lied, pretended I had a robust and varied sexual history, maybe even a story starring a mysterious European exchange student.
But I didn’t, and now the fact that I’ve never had sex is floating above us like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon.
“Can you just say what you’re really thinking?” I whip around to face him. “I told you this afternoon—I can’t stand things being awkward between us.”
“All right. Uh, is that by choice?”
“No. I mean, yes. Kind of,” I reply, trying for breezy, but my voice comes out tight. “I just . . . never had time or a reason to, you know?”
He nods slowly, like he’s still processing. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Is that it?” I ask because there’s still some new gravitational pull in the room—a black hole of mutual embarrassment, or maybe curiosity. “Or is there anything else you’d like to ask?”
His foot bounces—spring-loaded. Sometimes he does that when he’s anxious, and sometimes he does it before shooting free throws. “But you like . . . definitely want to, right?”
“Yeah, I mean, when everything calms down.” I gesture vaguely with my hands, as if the general busyness of my life is waving behind me like a banner. “Or, you know, someone offers.”
He glances up at me, his brown eyes soft. “I honestly can’t believe that someone hasn’t offered yet.”
I snort. “You were the one who questioned the competence of men.”
He chuckles. “True.”
My lips twitch into a smile, and we fall silent again, but it’s different this time. Todd takes another slice of pizza, and I change the channel to another basketball game.
Everything feels like it’s gone back to normal, so I don’t know what makes me say, “For what it’s worth, anyone who’s questioning your competence in the bedroom is likely incompetent themselves.”
He sits up straighter, grease gleaming on his knuckles. “That’s what I thought, but Jacob has a gift for making me doubt things I never worried about before.”
“Seriously? He’s the last person you should believe.”
“Apparently it’s what Samantha told him.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Scratch that—she’s the last person you should believe.”
“You never did like her, did you?”
“I didn’t like the way she treated you.” I purse my lips. “You were like her lapdog, posing for pictures, dragged along on her shopping sprees just so you could cart her and her purchases around. I honestly don’t know what you saw in her besides her looks.”
“She had her moments, I suppose,” he says, and even though the conversation is technically over, neither of us turn back to the TV. We’re side by side on the sofa, close enough that if I shifted my leg another inch, our knees would touch.
“Since we’re on the topic . . .” He finishes his slice and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I say something without things being weird between us?”
“I won’t let it get weird if you don’t let it get weird.”
“Deal.” He glances at the TV, then back at me. “If you ever wanted to, um—practice or whatever, with someone you trust, I wouldn’t mind.”
I arch a brow, searching his face to see if he’s bluffing, but he’s never been able to pull off deadpan—so he’s serious or at least, not unserious. “Practice . . .”
“Yeah, I mean, what’s an orgasm between friends?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I’m not exactly getting a lot of practice lately, unless you count, uh, solo drills.”
I crack up so suddenly I nearly spit out my cola.
“Just think about it.”
I nod, and he leans back, releasing a breath as he stretches his legs out onto the coffee table.