Us, Again
Page 11
She blinks so fast I can’t tell if that was the shine of tears I just glimpsed or merely a reflection of the light coming through the window.
“You can’t promise that. You spent really crucial years of your mental and social development locked up, and you need to catch up on all of that …”
“Babe,” I stop her, covering her lips with a gentle finger to soften the rudeness of the act.
“Analyze me all you want, throw me in your lab, scan my brain, assign me a team of shrinks, take out all those textbooks of yours and highlight every chapter that applies to me … tomorrow. Today I just want to be with you. Nothing else matters besides that.”
“Great sex isn’t—”
“First of all, it’s un-fucking-believable sex. And second, you know that’s not what I mean.”
I take her hand, raising it up between us so our interlocked fingers are directly in her line of sight.
“This is what I mean. I get that you’re probably not ready yet to admit you feel it too, but don’t lie to me or yourself by denying it. It’s not just sex—it’s us. Just sitting here next to you … it’s everything. My fucking heart beats for you, Z. I don’t know what else to say to make you get that.”
She takes a deep breath.
“Okay,” she whispers, leaning over to place a kiss on top of our clasped hands.
I wrap my arms around her and pull her back on the couch with me, and then I just hold her. And, yeah … it’s everything.
17. SHOW ME ON A RULER
Mackenzie
“Shift your hips a bit … No, this way …”
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Trust me, babe, it will.”
“Oh yes! That’s working. Keep doing that!”
“Shift back a little?”
“Ouch.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Ready to try again?”
“It’s too big, Graham.”
“No, this is gonna work … Okay, on three. One, two, three …”
“I think I’m stuck.”
“Oh, fuck. Hold on.”
“… there! I told you it would fit!”
I wipe sweat from my forehead as I step back to view the king-sized mattress we just managed to squeeze through my bedroom doorway.
Yes, a mattress. A couple of days ago Graham declared he’s sick of not having enough space for his long legs on my full-sized bed, and then suddenly this morning there were delivery men at my door with this mattress and in my room assembling a massive bed frame. Seriously … he bought me a bed. I considered putting up an I-am-woman-hear-me-roar protest but decided it’s not worth it. He has been spending almost every night here, and it is a nice bed. He definitely won’t miss the money. Plus, he distracted me very effectively right as I was about to argue, and I may have lost some brain cells because I suddenly thought it was a great idea.
Graham has lifted his shirt and is currently using the hem to wipe sweat from his own face.
Holy mother of lickable six-packs.
“Like something you see?” he asks.
“Maybe …”
But I lick my lips, which cancels out my attempt at being coy.
“Want to break this thing in?”
“Right now? I’m all sweaty and it doesn’t have any sheets on it.”
“Sounds great to me.” He shoots me that mischievous boyish grin that is almost painfully adorable displayed across his manly scruff-covered face.
I respond by pulling my shirt over my head and throwing it to the floor. I mean, what the hell, right? And … I can never resist those abs.
He tackles me onto the mattress within seconds.
* * *
It’s the strangest thing, starting to date someone you’ve previously been in a relationship with.
It’s both new and familiar—there’s a sense that it’s the beginning of something but also that we’re already a dozen steps down the road.
I imagine it’s similar to the way I’d feel if I tried some of my old gymnastics routines now—I was a gymnast for years as a kid, but I haven’t done a backflip in at least a decade. Just like this thing with Graham, I would be rusty and out of practice, certain muscles unused to the activity, but on some level my mind and body would sink right into it, remembering things I never consciously realized were still ingrained within me.
Being with Graham again is stretching all sorts of muscles that are out of practice (and not just the ones he’s been giving a workout with all the sex, though that’s certainly happening). My emotional muscles—ones connected to my metaphorical heart, rather than the one pumping blood through my veins—ache from the sudden use after years of dormancy.
I think I’ve still been half in love with him all this time, without realizing or acknowledging it, and the sudden resurgence of those feelings is overwhelming. It’s something I told myself I would never experience again, that I would never fall into that trap. When I have quiet moments alone, the worry starts to seep in and remind me just how badly love once hurt me. How badly Graham once hurt me.
But, honestly, I haven’t been spending that much time alone, and it’s hard to focus on anxiety with so many orgasm-induced happy chemicals in my brain.
I can’t remember the last time Graham didn’t spend the night in my bed, though our sexual escapades have definitely not been limited to the nighttime. We’re as bad as two horny teenagers. Though, actually, we’re so much worse now than when we were teenagers because there’s no impending deadline of a curfew or parents coming home to put limitations on our alone time.
We can (and do) basically tear each other’s clothes off any time I’m not working or in class. All-night sex marathons, shower sex, floor sex, sex against walls, nostalgic cramped sex in his Range Rover … we’ve been insatiable.
Predictably, Marisa gets a kick out of providing commentary—over the past few weeks I’ve heard every possible variation of the phrase “fucking like bunnies.” But I find that I’m merely amused by the blatant attention to my sex life—I suppose it’s harder to get embarrassed when everything is being filtered through that haze of happy orgasm chemicals. I understand she only teases because she’s happy for me—it’s her unique way of being supportive. And to be fair, Graham and I haven’t exactly been subtle. Although Marisa hasn’t outright caught either of us bare-ass naked, there have been some extremely close calls.
After that first night when Graham and I “reconnected” (AKA we connected our bodies an insane number of times) when Marisa got home, she walked right up to me and, without a word, held out an old-school wooden yardstick.
It only took a second for me to comprehend she wanted me to show her on a ruler how big Graham’s penis is. While I was still blushing scarlet, Graham casually walked up from behind me and pointed to a number. They high-fived. Sometimes the two of them together legitimately scare me.
I’m well aware it’s not healthy to use sex as a way to push all of our issues to the side. The practical Psych major in me warns that we still have serious things to clear up and talk through, but when push comes to shove, I’ve let it go because I’m … happy. I didn’t even realize that I wasn’t happy before. Not that I was unhappy, but I was living a life of contentment that lacked the glow of joy. Sometimes it takes experiencing pure happiness to recognize how long you’ve lived without that feeling.
Being with Graham is like basking in the sun, and I’m going to allow myself the luxury of soaking in it for a little while longer. I promise the pragmatic voice in my head that I’ll go find an umbrella and sunscreen before I burn, because long-term exposure will require some moderation and protection. Just … not yet.
* * *
We’re entwined together in bed (the new one, all set up and outfitted with sheets), just enjoying the afterglow from yet another amazing round of sex. This time it was “I haven’t seen you in five hours” sex when I got home from class—because, you know, the horny teenager thing.
“New ink?” I ask.
After his parents died, I went and sat with him when he got the half-sleeve on his left arm that spans from his shoulder to his elbow—it’s a beautiful design of roses and a clock threaded through with intricately shaded vines and leaves, all in blacks and grays. For his parents, because his mom’s name was Rose.
He carefully peels the bandage back to show me five new small roses added to the design—gorgeous even while the skin is still a bit pink and swollen in the early healing stage.
“I couldn’t visit them, you know? So, it’s one rose for every year I didn’t visit or leave flowers on their graves. My whole life, every single year, Dad bought Mom roses on her birthday. When they died it was the least I could do to continue the tradition the way he would have wanted—one small thing that would have made him proud of me. But I fucked that up too.”
His voice is low and quiet, full of regret and self-condemnation. I think I have a better understanding now of why he was so desperate for the physical intimacy when I got out of class this afternoon (not that I’m complaining or was any less eager). I trace a finger around the bandage once he replaces it.
“I visited,” I whisper. My hushed admission seems to linger in the air between, which is now heavy with our confessions.
“What?” He shifts slightly so he can look down at my face.
“I went to their graves.”
No one knows this, not even Marisa. I hand him the secret, hoping it can ease some small layer of his pain.
“Every year. And brought flowers.”
“When?”
“Hmm?” I ask sleepily as I nuzzle back into him.
“When did you go?”
I open my eyes so I can look up at his face—his beautiful, fierce, tortured face.
“On your birthday. I figured they were the only ones who wouldn’t judge me for remembering it, who might understand why it still meant something to me. It seemed right somehow that we mark it together.”
He pulls me back in and wraps his arms around me.
“I love you so goddamn much, you know that?”
Too soon. It’s way too soon, my rational mind screams. We’ve only been back together for a few weeks.
And yet … I recognize this feeling. And it’s so much more than still being half in love with him as I’ve tried to convince myself.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He rolls us so he’s on top then takes my mouth in a slow kiss that builds the fire inside me all over again.
And then we have I love you sex. It’s the best kind yet.
18. THAT GLOW
Mackenzie
I banish Graham from the house for the weekend so I can catch up on my schoolwork. I’ve got a massive pile of papers to grade as well as assignments for my own classes that I’ve been putting off.
He pouts and tries to melt my resolve by giving me his most potent pleading look.
“The whole weekend? Come on, Kenz, you can get your work done with me here. I promise I’ll be good.”
I raise my eyebrows at him and pin him with a look that says, “Really?”
Even if he actually kept his hands to himself—and this is a big if, because I highly doubt it—there’s no guarantee that I’d be able to. When we’re in the same space, there’s this current of electricity between us that’s undeniable. The last thing I need is to have my attention split while I fight to ignore the sexual tension that inevitably builds in his proximity.
“I just need these two days with no distractions and a couple of nights with eight or more hours of sleep.”
Now hurt fills those expressive hazel eyes.
“Can’t say I’m happy about it, but I’ll do whatever you need. I’m just sorry I’ve been messing things up for you. The last thing I want is to drag you down. You should have told me you don’t sleep well when I’m here.”
He’s so earnest, so apologetic, so dejected. I’m filled with a rush of remorse and overwhelming affection. This man.
I’m sitting on the couch watching him shift from one foot to the other before me. I reach for him, and he gives in to my silent request, closing the small distance between us and taking the place beside me on the couch. Now that we’re almost eye level, I loop my wrists around the back of his neck and look right at him, wanting him to see the sincerity of my next words.
“Y, it’s not like that.” His posture softens at my use of the special nickname. “I don’t want you to leave, but I have to get this stuff done. And if you’re here, all I’ll want to do is spend time with you. That’s the problem—I’ve been neglecting my work because I just want to be with you. I’m going to hate not having you in my bed tonight. It’s not at all that I don’t sleep well with you here … We never seem to get a full night in because we can’t keep our hands off each other. And I’m as much to blame for that as you are.”
He grins wickedly. “Oh, I know, babe.”
“Do you hear me? I’m sending you away to punish and incentivize myself, not to punish you.”
He nods and places a soft kiss on my nose.
That tension between us starts pulling tight again, and I make myself get up from the couch and take a few steps away from him. I need the distance so I don’t throw my responsible plan out the window and spend the whole weekend in his arms. Must resist the Graham force field.
“Now go!” I push futilely at his massive shoulder, trying to sound stern but failing as a little laugh slips out. “I’ll see you Monday.”
* * *
Hours later, I’ve made a considerable dent in my grading pile and finished an assignment that’s due next week. As a reward, I’m taking some time to sit on the couch with Marisa and have a glass of wine. I suddenly miss hanging out with her, and I realize how long it’s been since we last spent time together, just the two of us.
“Sorry I’ve been so MIA lately.”
Have I become the girl who ditches her best friend for a guy? I cringe at myself. Worst friend ever.
Marisa bats away my apology with a flick of her wrist and a wave of her red manicured nails.
“Nah. I was going to give you a few more weeks before I called you out on it. If I got together with a guy as sexy as Graham, you wouldn’t hear from me for a month or two either. You’ve been through a lot—you deserve to walk around with that ‘I’m getting thoroughly fucked on the regular’ glow.”
I laugh, because I’m sure that’s exactly how I look.
“It’s been intense,” I agree.
“So, he’s obviously treating your body well—but we haven’t talked much since this all happened. How is he treating your heart?”
I smile, stretching my mouth so wide I’m sure I look ridiculous and lovesick.
“He’s been wonderful. He loves me, and I think I’m in love with him. Maybe I always have been,” I admit. “Being with him feels so right. Besides that, I honestly have no idea what I’m doing. We still have a lot of things to work out if we’re going to seriously do this, and I have to talk to my parents at some point, which I’m dreading, but for now …” I shrug.
“You’ve been making decisions using just logic for a long time now. I’m glad you’re finally letting yourself follow your heart. But it’s never good to be too far on either end of the spectrum, so make sure you’re not trading out one extreme for the other. Just try to find a place in the middle, where you’re listening to your heart but using your head too.”
I give her the closest approximation of a hug I can manage while we’re both still holding partially full wine glasses.
“How did I get such a smart best friend?” I ask.
“Mine’s not too bad either.” She winks at me.
We drink our wine and just chat, catching up. Then she brings the conversation back to Graham.
“So … mariposas en el estomago, no?
”
I shake my head, grinning—with Graham I have all the butterflies in my stomach.
“Oh, Ris, I couldn’t even begin to tell you all the places that man gives me butterflies.”