I sense Andrew close behind me. I ignore him, picking up my room instead. “You should probably wait a few minutes to make sure Teeny’s left the garage, but?—”
“Grace.” I ignore the sound of my name from his lips. A small protest. His hands are free after he sets everything on the floor. He walks toward me, still only in his underwear, and takes my chin between his index finger and thumb.
“Grace,” he repeats.
“What?”
“It’s fine,” he tells me. A somber mask makes his eyes look equally sad and afflicted, and I suddenly want to run my hand along his jaw. An act to soothe and reassure. “I’ll get dressed and out of your way.”
I almost tell him he’s not in the way. That he’s in no way intruding or impeding or anything in the category of inconvenient. I almost tell him to take his time. To stay for a cup of coffee or something as bold as some bacon and eggs. Or maybe even sit him down to go over what the hell happened last night and comb through our foggy memory to find ways to let it happen again without letting our guilt and shame ruin the best sex of my life. But I know we can’t. The thrill of our night has passed. The heat has cooled and in its place is this slimy film over my skin that feels akin to regret. All I can offer him is a paton the back, a handshake if I’m feeling brave, before he walks out the door. And I hate it.
I’m sitting with my butt perched at the edge of my couch after he’s disappeared into the bathroom, the hard skin lining my right thumbnail wedged between my teeth. I hear some shuffling, a toilet flushing followed by the water running from the other side of the bathroom door. After about fifteen minutes, the door clicks open. I bolt from my spot, shuffling my feet nervously as he approaches me.
“I used some of your mouthwash in there,” he informs me, jutting his thumb in the direction of the bathroom. “I hope that’s okay.”
I nod. He’s dressed back in his dress shirt and slacks, his blazer slung over his arm and his shoes dangling from his fingers. I watch him walk to the door, bending down to slip his shoes on. He pats his pockets, making sure he has everything as he finally turns to face me with an easy smile. Much easier than the stress rolling through me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, a tip of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. But not in the way that says he finds anything about this situation funny. He’s attempting to appear amicable. Probably to assuage some of the guilt rolling through me, but it does the complete opposite.
“Yeah,” I say, sounding anything but “fine.” “Thank you, I guess.”
His smile shifts into a grin. This time, he definitely finds something funny. “‘Thank you?’”
“Um, yeah,” I respond, avoiding his intense gaze as his eyes linger over my face. “I had fun, and…so, yeah. Thank you.”
He chuckles. “You’re welcome, I guess.” He doesn’t move to leave, and I don’t rush his exit either. We both stand there, stretching out this goodbye for a few more minutes. Pulling it taut so we can hold on to it for as long as we can. I don’t reallyknow why. All I know is I’m not quite ready to watch him go. And maybe he’s not ready to leave.
“Look, Andrew…I’m really sorry about?—”
My words are cut off the second he leans down and kisses me. I don’t push him away or stop the kiss or any of the things I know I should be doing to rush him out the door. Instead, I let the kiss linger. I don’t stop myself when my hands grip his waist, tugging him closer, and I don’t freeze when his own hands graze over my bare skin as he tucks his fingers under my shirt. I give myself this moment so I can hold on to last night. It’s all I’ll have.
He pulls away and leans his forehead against mine. I feel his hands move over my hips, his fingers pressing into my flesh possessively. I feel a dull ache spread across my chest, and I know our time is up. He needs to leave, or I may ask him to stay forever.
“Andrew,” I tell him, unable to stand the quiet and his intrusive gaze a mere inch away. “Last night was nice, and I had fun, but you know it’s a one-time thing, right?”
He drops his hands and takes a tentative step back. A single brow curves up toward his hairline, and his lips flatten into a straight line.
“Like, this cannot happen again,” I add, feeling like the room is closing in on me.
He hesitates a moment, looking like he’s searching for the right words to say. But what words are there when we’ve been thrown into this mess? And it feels like he’s having as much trouble as I am figuring out the right way to place this moment in our timeline. Where we go from here. And instead of arguing with me or telling me something that dissipates the crushing guilt that seems to be pressing me into the ground, he nods.
“Thank you,” I say softly, realizing I’ve already thanked him. But it’s all that seems to come to mind right now. The only words that feel neutral and fitting. And maybe even inconclusive.
“You’re welcome.” His face has a sulky pout, and I feel horrible. He isn’t some random blind date I never plan to see again. He’s Andrew Cohen. I may only know him as an extension of my best friend, but I still do care about him. I’ve never had any ill feelings toward him, and I hate that this is where we are right now.
I place my palm on his jaw. A placating gesture, and he looks at me. His face softens at the same time a small smile loosens his scowl, and his eyes turn round and innocent. It makes him look young. Oryounger.It places him on a map. Somewhere among people his age who don’t complain about loud noises at bars and day drink in a crowded pool with a DJ playing house music. Somewhere I don’t belong.
“Thank you for being so understanding.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me. He leans down, brushing his cheek against mine to offer one last small, reassuring kiss.
CHAPTER SIX
Grace
“I really thoughtyou two would hit it off.”
The expression I give my mom varies from disbelief to confusion, though I wish I could throw in a dash of outrage in there. “What made you think that?”
