I nod. “Come on.”
It never dawned on me that I have no reference as to what thirty-five hundred pounds is. Is it the weight of an average-sized sedan? Or maybe a teenage elephant? My lack of densityawareness is probably because I’ve never stood in my elevator, pondering over the words “CAPACITY 3500 POUNDS” on a metal placard while Googling “Things that weigh almost two tons.” My attention is usually on other things like my phone screen or my purse while fishing for my keys. But not tonight. Tonight, the center of my attention is on a safety code regulation.
Or at least, I’mtryingto make it the center of my attention if not to hold on to my restraint and willpower, then at least to prove to Andrew there are zero subtexts to my invitation to free use of my couch. It’s exactly what it’s meant to be—a friend considering the safety and well-being of another friend. But with the alcohol still buzzing in my veins and Andrew’s close proximity making the tequila run at a low simmer below my skin, I’m struggling. Desperately.
I’m trying to shove away the image of an unruly Andrew. His rumpled hair and loosely untucked dress shirt. Even the way his heavy-lidded eyes look more playful than lethargic. All of it needs to leave the deep recesses of my mind. Maybe swerved off the road by an adolescent elephant driving recklessly in a sage-colored Toyota Camry.
“What’s so funny?”
“Hmm?”
Andrew looks at me with a crooked brow and a smug simper. “What’s so funny?” he repeats.
I quickly shake off the image of a teenage elephant trying to talk its way out of a speeding ticket using words like “Bruh” and “No cap” and “This is high key sus” and slide on my poker face. “Nothing.”
“Oh, so now you don’t want to share your jokes with me?”
“I don’t have a joke,” I say innocently. “I’m just…enjoying my buzz.” It’s not a complete lie. Imaginary elephants with a licenseto operate heavy machinery don’t slip into my thoughts unless they are inebriated with a little liquid courage.
“Hmm,” he hums with disapproval.
The elevator continues its ascent and whirs loudly on its way to the sixteenth floor. Just as we pass the fourth floor, I feel a warm brush tickle my back. It’s slow and gentle. And acutely intentional.
“You have really soft skin.”
I peer over my shoulder just in time to catch Andrew’s eyes raking over my backside. More listless sweeps of what feels like rough knuckles roam over my spine, and I turn on my feet by reflex. But the axis my heels rotate on is more than my alcohol-infused brain can handle.
“Whoa,” Andrew exclaims, catching my elbow in his strong grip just as my balance teeters in the other direction. “You okay?”
I look up at him and nod. “Just lost my footing.”
His other hand is on my waist. To prevent a face plant, I assume. He squeezes my side and suddenly my hands are on his hard chest. To push him away, I suppose.
“Tree Hut had a sale on the watermelon shea scent.”
“What?”
“My skin,” I say. My paltry attempt at an explanation. “It’s a watermelon-scented sugar scrub. It’s supposed to exfoliate all the dead skin off me. And it leaves behind a…flavorful scent.”
He leans closer, the confusion edging away into intrigue. “So does that mean you taste good too?”
I nod. A dangerous gesture. I’m dangling a juicy piece of meat between us while telling myself to swat it away and claim I’m a vegetarian. But I’m not. Not even close.
I don’t know if I get the chance to ask him if he thinks swallowing watermelon seeds will result in growing one in the lining of my stomach. A myth I never debunked as a child. Thesilly question, as rhetorical as it is, is on the tip of my tongue. But it’s swiped away the second he pushes me against the elevator wall and kisses me.
As muddled as my head feels through the murky fog of desperate sighs and hungry lips, I’m vividly aware of his hand slipping past the opening in my back, running boldly over my rib cage.
It feels amazing. His hands on me, my hands on him. My knees feel wobbly. They buckle under the heat of our make-out session. He’ssucha good kisser. It doesn’t feel sloppy or inept. He knows what the fuck he’s doing. Yet, there’s a little flicker of light going off in the back of my mind. The minutest reminder that this is wrong. I shouldn’t be kissing Andrew in an enclosed space. Like a hook annoyingly tugging at the knowledge that this man I’m kissing is my best friend’s brother, my hands press against his chest, ready to push us apart.
Confident, assertive fingers grip my wrists and pin them behind me. “Don’t,” he commands.
I look at him, his dark eyes suddenly fierce and menacing. “Don’t what?” I ask weakly.
“Don’t act like you want me to stop.”
“I-I don’t—” I stutter. Fear clashes with curiosity in my stumped brain, and I’m scared to death the latter is going to be the victor. “We can’t,” I whisper.
I watch his eyes grow dark. It’s unnerving, and it sends a chill up my spine. He lowers his face, his nose running along the length of my cheek. “No one has to know.” His words are a claim, maybe even a promise. But with his raspy voice gently dusting them over the shell of my ear, it feels like a plea.
