Chapter 13
We walk out of Roberta’s office in a DAZE, silence lingering like thick perfume.
The sun has disappeared behind some clouds, only a few weak rays breaking through.
It still feels too bright, both of us too bare and exposed.
Without looking at each other, we lean against the hood of his ugly car, staring at the asphalt, not ready to share a small, intimate space again.
Cooper’s voice plays a hushed loop in my head. I wonder if you would change anything.
What a stupid question. I’d change everything and nothing.
I’d pick a different college and pick that exact same seat in that lecture hall.
I wouldn’t give him my number and I’d trip head over heels all over again.
Even with the hurt I’ve attached to the ending, I sometimes find it hard to regret how excited I felt to be with him.
Cooper’s arm brushes against mine, and I startle, expecting him to readjust. But he leaves his bicep gently pressed against me.
I don’t have enough fight left to lean away.
After a pause, his hand inches toward mine, then covers it, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze where they rest on the dirty metal of his car.
“Will you get dinner with me?” he murmurs. I look at him, my expression a deranged twist of delight and horror. His eyes flick briefly down to my mouth, then back to my eyes, a slight twitch of satisfaction playing at the corner of his mouth.
My throat goes dry, pulse pounding and nerve endings rerouting to the feel of his skin on mine. “You’re my ride, I’m kind of beholden to your wishes.”
Cooper laughs, the sound rough and low. “This might be the only chance I’ll ever get to experience that.
I better make the most of it.” He surprises me by releasing my hand and wrapping his arm around my shoulders, sliding me toward him.
I let out a flustered yelp as he gathers me to his chest, tucking my head under his chin as he hugs me.
I’m too surprised to move, to even breathe, the pounding of his heartbeat against my cheek matching my own anxious rhythm, encouraging me to run.
But he’s too warm and smells too good and feels too safe, and I sigh, melting against him, my arms snaking around his waist and holding him back. We stay like that for a moment, Cooper gently rocking us, the autumn wind twirling fallen leaves at our feet.
Too soon, he pulls back, looking down at me with a smile, his glasses slipping a centimeter down his nose.
If he kissed me right now, I wouldn’t push him away.
The thought is sudden and sharp, a flare in a midnight sky, red ink dropped in water. I shrug away from his touch and roughly push my hair behind my ears.
What is this? Longing? Why do I want to take up a permanent residence in that crease between his eyebrows? Why do I have the urge to huff the scent of his skin until I pass out? I’m disgusted with myself.
“Do you like pancakes? There’s a great diner a few blocks from here,” he says, pushing away from the hood of the car and looking down the street, oblivious to the absolute shit show of feelings erupting in my brain. “We could walk. Although the clouds do look a little ominous.”
I shake myself, taking a deep, calming (hyperventilating-adjacent) breath, then step next to him, dropping into my most apathetic voice. “Why do you insist on wasting my time on questions with obvious answers?”
Cooper catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, making me watch how hard he rolls his eyes. I pull back from his grip, pressing my lips tightly together to suppress a smile.
“You’re just always so sweet, Kitten, wasn’t sure how much added sugar you could handle.”
“Ew. I think I just blew my back out from cringing.” With a haughty sniff, I take a gamble and start down the sidewalk to the left.
“You actually aren’t the first person to say that to me,” Cooper says, letting me get all the way to the street corner before looping his arm through mine and turning me around, leading us in the opposite direction.
I swallow down my embarrassment, trying to listen to Cooper as he keeps up a steady stream of chatter instead of focusing on the feel of his arm still threaded with mine.
He walks us toward the pier, pointing out an ice cream stand that apparently has the best butter pecan, a kitschy gift shop with the finest airbrushed tees, a gallery that once showcased his roommate Steve’s ceramic collection.
“I feel like you’d buy art off cruise ships,” I say when there’s a lull and I realize he’s expecting me to actually contribute to the conversation and not have a full-blown physical crisis because his elbow slit is pressed against my elbow slit.
“Oh,” Coopers says, frowning. “Thanks?”
“I meant it in the most derogatory way possible.”
“We’re here,” Cooper says with a sigh, holding open the door for me. “After you… you turd.”
I stop in my tracks, jaw crashing open. Cooper giggles as he breezes past me. “Did you just call me a turd?” I hiss, following him to a booth. “No one’s called me a turd since I was like, twelve.”
“See, that I find genuinely surprising.” He gives me a winning smile. I hate that mine matches his. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom. Try not to make anyone cry while I’m gone.”
“No promises, baby girl,” I call to his retreating back.
A beat later, our waitress appears. “What would you like to drink?” she asks, popping her gum as she places menus on the table.
I purse my lips as I scan the back of the laminated sheet. “I’ll have an iced tea,” I say. Inspiration strikes. “And he’ll have a glass of skim milk.” I gesture at Cooper’s open seat.
The waitress’s eyebrows quirk but she says nothing, jotting it down and then walking away. Cooper slides into the booth a minute later.
“Miss me?” I ask wryly.
His smile is a quick twitch, almost bashful, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the menu. I watch color creep across his cheeks, and I don’t know why mine share an echoing warmth. He clears his throat and looks at me, opening his mouth to say something, but the waitress is back with our drinks.
“Iced tea,” she says, setting it in front of me.
“And, uh, skim milk.” She places a full, creamy glass in front of Cooper garnished with a single ice cube and a striped bendy straw.
His eyebrows furrow, mouth hanging open.
“I’ll give you another minute to look at the menu,” she says before walking off again.
“Skim milk?” Cooper growls as he leans across the table. “Why the hell would you order me skim milk?”
“You made such a fuss about the oat milk!”
“So a tall glass of skim was the obvious solution?”
“I can’t win with you.” I shake my head, eyes fixed on my menu as I try to hide just how much fun I’m having. Cooper catches it.
“You might be the most conniving woman I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you.” I blow him a kiss. “Maybe you have more game than I’ve given you credit for.”
“That wasn’t a compliment,” he murmurs. “You terrify me.”
My heart does a little flip as if he just told me I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, but I keep my face neutral.
“What’ll you have?” the waitress asks, rematerializing at the edge of our table.
“Stack of pancakes,” Cooper says with a smile, tilting his menu toward her. “To complement the milk.”
There’s a substantial delay in how long it takes her to check her reaction. “And you?” she says, eyeing me.
“The same,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Hold the glass of skim, please.” She walks off with a pained expression and I make a mental note to tip her double.
“You’re something else,” Cooper says, voice low. I glance at him, expecting to see sharpness in his face—annoyance, resignation, disdain, something similar to all the other people I’ve pushed just a step too far—but he’s looking at me with a dopey expression. Almost thunderstruck.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Cooper’s face remains serene. “Tell me what you think it means.”
“You aren’t nearly as hot as Roberta. I’m not about to spill my guts to you.” I tear my napkin into tiny pieces as he continues to stare at me.
Cooper rolls his eyes, but it somehow feels tender and intimate. “Can I tell you what I want you to think it means?”
“If I say no, will you stop talking?”
“Probably not.”
I wave him on.
“In the six years since I’ve met you,” he says, placing his hands on the table, only an inch from mine, “I’ve never met someone quite like you.”
“Careful. You’re tiptoeing very close to ‘not like other girls’ territory,” I deadpan, moving my hands a millimeter back while they vibrate with the desire to move closer to his.
“But, yeah, I am exceptionally witty and brilliant.” The deprecation is a habit of self-preservation.
I can’t let him inflate me with false things when I know everyone opens the plug and lets out the air in the end.
His smile is indulgent, eyes fixed on my hands.
“And no one has ever challenged me like you do,” he says, inching closer until the tips of his fingers barely touch mine.
In a slow, steady movement like I’m a feral cat he’s trying to coax out from the trash, he rotates his wrists until his palms face up.
“I mean… congrats on being a white man in America,” I say, horrified to see myself broaching the minimal space between us, an electric hum moving through me as I lay my hands in his. What is happening ?
It’s because of the therapy. I feel too cracked open. Too raw. A fragile, pathetic creature that needs to be cuddled. My hands twitch as I try to will them back to my lap, but it’s like invisible strings are binding us together,
“Can I ask you something?” His thumb traces the edge of my pinky.
I huff, but it sounds soft when I was aiming for snotty. “If you must.”
“If… God, this feels so silly…” A blush creeps up his neck, across his cheeks. His glasses slip a notch, but he doesn’t let go of my hands to fix them.