by Lindsey Hart
She rummages in the bag by the couch and produces a bottle of green slime. It looks like how hair gel looked back in the nineties. Actually, it still probably looks like that.
“Since you’re not going to take a shower, and you’re not looking any better, let me put this on for you.”
I want to protest. I want to tell her I have no idea what the feel of her hands gliding over my skin will do to me. I want to apologize in advance for any inappropriate bodily response. I want to apologize for all of this, for her having to take care of my ass like this. I want to—oh.
Her hand hits my chest, and the cool gel spreads out over my skin that feels like it’s a thousand degrees. It’s refreshing. It’s cooling. And there’s pure relief. Steph’s hands are so small and gentle. I’ve never used aloe vera gel before, but then again, I’ve never burned like this. Usually, I take more care. Usually, I don’t even have the opportunity because the beach isn’t my ideal holiday location when I actually take one.
Steph spreads the gel over my chest, and her finger brushes my nipple. I stiffen, and my dick rises to the occasion. Literally, of course. She keeps working the gel into my skin, spreading it so gently that it barely hurts at all. No one has ever taken this much care with me, except possibly my mom, and again, we’re not going there.
I don’t really know where we’re going, so I make the terrible decision to blurt out something. “Do you think last night was a fluke?” I wanted to say something about it, to start the conversation, but not like that.
Steph is kneeling at the side of the couch, and I can literally hear her knees creak when she shifts position. She uncaps the gel and squirts a large amount onto her hand again. She stays silent. I can’t look at her, but I imagine she’s biting down on something, her cheek, tongue, or lip, to make sure she doesn’t snap something at me. But that’s not Steph. No, she would never snap at anyone. She’s too calm, too rational, too collected, and too held together. She seems to know what everyone needs before they even ask.
“Define fluke,” she says softly a minute later. Her hands start smearing the cool gel over my stomach and up.
I can feel her tremble as she brushes her fingers over my abs. I don’t know if it’s from being pissed or just because she’s trying to be overly careful, and she’s crouched in an unnatural position at an unnatural angle, and it’s straining her arm muscles. Her hands work over my lower abs, and my dick gets excited since she’s only a few inches away. I can only hope she doesn’t look there because I’m sure it’s noticeable. At least my cheeks can’t get any redder or hotter. They’re already pink from the sun.
“Mistake as in we were both a little drunk.”
“I wasn’t that drunk.”
“A little, I said.”
“A little, but not enough to not know what I was doing. Not enough to make a mistake like that. Try again.”
Try again? What the heck does she mean by that? “Do you think we should be careful that it doesn’t happen again?”
“I don’t think it’s like falling down a hole. Or is that not the kind of careful you meant? Or are you saying it was an accident, and you regret it even after you said all that deep and soulful stuff to me?”
I realize, finally, that she’s hurt by what I’m saying. Duh. Of course, she’s hurt. I’m being a dumbass, which makes me feel even worse, because if Steph is offended, the girl who is always unfiltered and open, then I’m in serious trouble. But then, she’s not being closed off. She’s being open now too, and this doesn’t have anything to do with a filter.
I have to brush my hand over my eyes and scrub it hard over my jawline. It hurts, but I don’t really give a shit. I’m trying to think of the right thing to say, except I’m not sure it exists. Anything I say is probably going to make this worse.
“You know about the company.” I finally settle for that because it’s safe.
“Yes. Of course. I also know there are these agreements you can sign saying that money and assets are protected. So, it’s kind of a non-issue.”
“Steph—”
“I’m just saying. That’s not a good excuse. If you’ve been using it all this time, you need to try again on that account too.”
“My ex-wife—”
“Treated you badly, and you’re scared to take risks because you think everything eventually goes to pot, and everyone will treat you like a dump, hurt you, abuse your trust, belittle you, and leave that lasting mark on you. Well, that’s the thing about risks. Sometimes, they don’t work out. But sometimes, they do. I guess you have to weigh the pros and cons.”
“I’m not exactly a scientist.”
“I don’t think you need a specialized degree to examine your own feelings, but then, what am I talking about? Tons of people pay specialists for just that. It’s why therapists charge a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. Never mind. I don’t even know why I’m arguing in favor of this. I already decided it can’t go anywhere because it’s totally inappropriate.”
“You just didn’t like my reasoning then.”
“I wanted to hear what you had to say. But you should know that even though we’re not doing this, and you’re right, it shouldn’t happen again, I don’t think of it as a mistake. And you’re a good person, Adam. You’re a great catch. You’re attractive, smart, funny, kind, dedicated, hardworking, and rich. Any woman would be glad to have you, and there are a ton of women who would take you without the rich part. There are people in this world who would appreciate you without the money or the company having anything to do with it. People who would willingly sign any agreement because you’re incredible, and they just want you.”
I’m more than flattered, and I’m also a bit shocked. Is that how she thinks of me? Last night, did it mean something for her? Has she been thinking about it for more than just the time we’ve been camping? We’ve known each other for a long time. We’ve worked together. Does she have feelings for me?
The pinch in my gut that feels like rusty nails and old boots trying to digest says I might not be completely devoid of feelings either.
The point is, we have to put it aside because we work together. Because I’m not going to fire Steph, and I know she’s not going to just up and quit because of what happened. She’s right, of course. She’s always right.
“That’s very…kind. Those things you just said about me.”
She ignores whatever I say, squirts more gel onto her hand, and reaches for my arm closest to her. The way her fingers dance over my skin makes me want to groan. It makes me want to lean forward and do exactly what we just said we couldn’t do. Like capture her lips, kiss her until she’s moaning too, get the red sundress off her, take her into the minuscule shower in the bathroom and see if we could break it, and then test out the bed after.
Fuck.
Fuck, shit.
Shit, fuck.
Her hands dance over my arm muscles, smoothing gently, massaging softly. She even takes my hand and rubs the gel over my red knuckles and fingers.
This time, I can’t stifle the groan. It should not be sexual, and maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that someone actually truly cares about me.
Steph’s head snaps up. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I don’t want to say yes and cover for myself because it will make her feel bad. But now, I have to think of something to explain that. “I mean, it stings a little, but that’s alright.” Lame. That was L-A-M-E. “I…do you know what it’s like to feel like you never fit in? Not really? Anywhere?”
Steph gulps. She moves her hands again, working gently on mine. She finishes that, grabs the gel, and shifts so she can move onto my leg. I don’t think leg massages are even a thing, but if they are, Steph should consider giving them out professionally. She could probably charge a ton for them because…just…god…
That feels good. Her hands on my skin, my burning skin, the cool gel, and the fire that’s burning through me. Soothing, aching, and her hands that are creating a whole different so
rt of fire, the bright flames. A different ache, a different burn.
“Yes,” she whispers. “When I was in high school, people used to make fun of me for being skinny, for being built like a boy. I even wore girly clothes, but they still called me Celery Stephanie. Do you know how many doctors have actually asked me if I have an eating disorder? I mean, come on! I’m not even that thin. I think I look healthy. I can’t help that I’m built like this. Like a ten-year-old boy.”
“You don’t look like a ten-year-old boy. I think you’re perfect.” I realize my face is probably the brightest shade of fire engine red, and the burn can’t possibly cover it, but I have to continue because this is important. “You look perfectly healthy. Lots of women are petite. I would suggest that those kids and teenagers were just insecure or jealous assholes, and those doctors had no idea what they were talking about, and they should eat a bag of big dicks.”
“A bag of big dicks?” She gapes at me, but then she laughs so hard that her whole body shakes. “I can’t believe you just said that. At work, you’re so proper all the time. You would never tell someone to eat a bag of dicks.”
“Just because I wouldn’t say it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought it.”
Her nose crinkles, but obviously, it’s because she still finds it humorously shocking. “I thought you had a pretty normal upbringing. That your parents made sure you went to normal schools and stuff.”
“They did. They tried their best for me, and that’s all they could do, but it was never going to go away—the fact that they were that rich, that I was their son, their only son, and that I was going to get this massive company. I always wanted to make them proud and run it. I never wanted to do anything else. I find business fascinating, and I’m good at it. I like what I do. Actually, I love what I do. But I didn’t love that people always knew. You said there are people out there who would just take me for who I am without the money, but I really haven’t met any of them yet. Friends, girlfriends, and even relatives. Everyone always wants or expects something.”
“The whole everyone has an angle deal? I don’t really believe that.”
I want to tell her that she should try having this kind of money and my family name and seeing how it goes for her, but it’s rude, obnoxious, and smacks of self-pity. She’s seen enough of that from me over the past few years. Way too much. I have to admit I’ve been in a pretty shitty place for two fucking years.
It’s this trip that got me out of it. It’s this trip that I finally did all those clichés—woke up, opened my eyes, and started to enjoy just being alive, even with the head wound, the snake who tried to kill me, the sunburn, the faulty tent, the storm—all of it.
I’m stunned to realize that I feel good. I feel…I feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time. I feel grateful. I also feel something that borders on happiness. Not just happy, but something else, something deeper. That feeling you can’t quite explain or define. I guess I just feel like I have everything I could ever want, right at this moment, and it’s strange because I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that way. I just told Stephanie that I felt like I didn’t fit anywhere, but it’s not true.
“The only person I ever felt wasn’t after me for something was, uh, Stephanie.” I realize I shouldn’t talk about my ex-wife right now. Not when I should be talking about us. “But even that turned into something else.” Maybe talking about Ex-Stephanie is the best thing I can do for both of us.
Clearly, Steph doesn’t like it. Her hands don’t get any rougher, she doesn’t even mistakenly hurt me by applying extra pressure when rubbing in the gel, she doesn’t even stop, and she doesn’t make a choked noise or bite her cheek or grind her teeth. I just know because I know her.
And it’s because I know her that I know no line will ever be crossed again, no matter what we feel or might want.
I wish I could tell her that I feel like I fit here. With her. Out here, where I don’t actually fit at all. Out here, where I set out to prove something and did the exact opposite. I can laugh at it now instead of beating myself up about it, instead of finding myself lacking, and instead of constantly measuring myself against the entire world and feeling like shit when I failed. That’s bullshit, and I realize it now. Why have I been doing that to myself? Why didn’t I see how hard I was on myself before? I could give everyone else a break, but not me. I could care about everyone but myself. Why? I can’t pin all of it on my ex-wife and what she said and how she treated me because that’s also bullshit. It’s my mindset, and it has to change.
It’s not a self-esteem issue. I think it’s just how I see myself. We’re all our own worst critics. That really is true, but I was overdoing it, going out of my way to sabotage myself and planting ideas of failure in my mind before I could even succeed.
I want to look at myself the way Steph is looking at me right now.
With so much hope shining in her eyes, so much pride, so much softness, so much…so much everything that I almost can’t breathe. She looks down quickly, letting me see it for just an instant, but making it clear she knows there’s a line between us. There’s always been a line. And it’s going to stay there.
If last night was a mistake, as I so insensitively and idiotically put it, then I’d like to make more mistakes. I’d like to obliterate that line, but I know what’s at stake.
Steph. Her job. I know she’d quit if things didn’t work out, maybe even if they did. I know she’d probably find an excuse to disappear because she wouldn’t think it was right even though other people at the company have met at work and dated. And even though it’s caused some drama in the past. I know she’d think it was the right thing to do. To take another job even if things were working out. I just don’t want to think about what would happen if she did that, and they didn’t. Work out, I mean. I don’t want to think about how I’d be the reason for her quitting and how I’d disrupt her life.
About how, in the end, I’d probably lose her.
That’s the one thing—I realize now—I can’t afford to do. The line isn’t about me. It isn’t about how I think about myself or what I feel about rejection or anything else. The greatest risks might come with the greatest rewards, but they’re often the most painful. Risks are worth taking, but sometimes, you just can’t.
CHAPTER 13
Stephanie
After our little talk the day before, it was clear we needed to spend some time alone. I cleaned up our stuff, moved the food from the cooler into the fridge, located my book, and retreated to the bedroom. It was super early, but after a couple of hours of reading, I felt my eyes getting heavy and gritty. I hadn’t heard Adam stir, and I left him alone, deciding he needed the sleep. Plus, I just didn’t know what to say. So, sleep was best. A good night’s sleep fixes everything, or so my mom always told me growing up.
Maybe it’s true because when I open my eyes, watery sunlight is flooding in through the lightweight white curtains at the large bedroom window off to the right of the bed, and the smell of bacon and eggs is filling up the small space. Or maybe just bacon because I can’t quite smell the eggs. Coffee. When I sniff again, trying to be discerning, I realize I do smell coffee, good coffee—the kinds made from an actual coffee pot.
I throw back the lightweight quilt and roll out of bed. I did put on my pajamas yesterday—the one dry pair I found. They’re just shorts and a t-shirt—gym shorts and a baggy old thing with a picture of a cow that I found at a thrift store and liked because I thought it was slightly odd and kind of cute. The cow is purple and green, and I just had to buy it. It’s seen five or so years of use, and it’s held up pretty darn near perfectly, making it worth every cent of the four dollars and ninety-nine cents I paid for it.
I’m a little embarrassed about being seen in pajamas because I feel it’s kind of intimate, and that’s not what I wanted to go for after our talk yesterday, so I put on a pair of black, distressed denim shorts and a black tank before I wander out into the living room.
Adam’s in the kitch
en. He is indeed the source of the delicious smells. For a guy who claims he can’t cook, he’s sure doing a good enough job with what he has at the moment. A frying pan is filled up with thick-cut bacon, and the other has scrambled eggs. The coffee pot is full, and it smells as dark and divine as it probably tastes.
Adam turns around after flipping the eggs to find me standing there. “Hey,” he says brightly.
He looks much more chipper this morning. As he said it would, his sunburn has turned into a really dark tan. His hair is still wet from the shower he must have taken not more than twenty or thirty minutes ago, and he’s sporting a plaid button-down and another pair of jeans. I have never, ever, seen him wear plaid.
He looks freaking fantastic in plaid.
God, he looks fantastic in everything.
I shouldn’t be noticing. Yesterday was a clear declaration of what will never happen again. I can’t just turn off my hormones or do away with my eyes, though, and Cooking Adam or Plaid Adam—take your pick on that one—is every inch a beautiful god.
I should probably be pissed at him for saying that what happened was a mistake. Or kind of saying that, but I know what his reasons are. I know he’s just trying to protect me, thinking of me, and not himself, thinking of what’s best for me in the future, thinking of how strange and awkward it would be if we got into something, and it didn’t work out, thinking, as usual, of everyone but himself.
I have to go with that. A, because I know Adam, and B, because anything else would just be really, really painful to consider.
So no, I’m not mad. I tell myself I can’t actually be disappointed either, because that was never supposed to happen. I just have to get over it. We kissed, and it was good. We groped each other, and that was good too. But it can be forgotten. The universe was clearly telling us we shouldn’t go further. That what we did was the end of it and shall never be spoken of again.