And he says it with such tenderness and sincerity that I almost believe it’s not just the endorphins talking, that he truly sees me as beautiful despite my scars.
There’s too much emotion swirling inside me as he gently withdraws.
I have to close my eyes, clutching the countertop, trying to catch all these feelings before they overflow.
“Are you okay?” He turns me around slowly, his hands on my shoulders. I force my eyes open to find his dark gaze searching my face.
“How can I not be okay after that?” I make my voice light. I glance away from his concerned gaze to survey the kitchen. “Sex without a condom is a bit messier, but hey, my kitchen needed a deep clean anyway.”
He laughs, but that almost makes it worse because I’m reminded of how Jared’s laugh is my favorite sound in the world.
He pulls away from me and heads round to the other side of the counter to grab me stuff to clean up.
I try to be funny and light while we clean up, but my chest is so full of feelings that I might explode like an emotional piñata.
Because that sex just showed me exactly how far from friends with benefits we’ve drifted. For me, it’s not just in standard relationship territory. It’s now so far into relationship territory that I need a new passport and possibly a translator.
I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. Ever.
Jared’s leaning against the counter, still shirtless. He’s staring at the unused condom on the counter with an unreadable expression.
It feels like we’re playing the world’s most obvious game of pretend.
The question is whether we’re both pretending the same thing.
Chapter 10
I drive to my appointment with my therapist slowly. And by slowly, I mean I’m doing thirty in a fifty zone, my hands at a perfect ten and two, checking my mirrors with the frequency of someone who’s convinced they’re being followed by ghosts.
The thing about driving after you’ve had your car plunge off a cliff and into a tomo is that every turn feels like a potential betrayal.
Annie’s office is an hour away, and I always leave twenty-five minutes early just in case.
I don’t actually remember my accident. The doctors said that was normal, that trauma often erases itself from our memories like a self-protecting delete button. All I have are the before and after. Before is arguing with Carlos about his work drinks and deciding to go for a drive to clear my head. After is waking up in the car with Jared talking to me, my body feeling like it’d been put in a washing machine on thedestroy everythingcycle.
But even though my brain doesn’t remember the actual accident, my body apparently does.
A teenager in a souped-up Honda zooms past me, probably thinking I’m someone’s grandmother out for a Sunday drive.I was that teenager once, weaving through traffic like I was invincible, music blasting, one hand on the wheel while the other gestured along to whatever story I was telling my passenger.
Now I brake for yellow lights and leave enough following distance to park a bus.
As I wait at a red light, watching a couple cross the street hand in hand, my mind drifts back to last night. To Jared inside me with nothing between us. To how he whispered in my ear afterward that I was beautiful, how he held me like I was something precious.
And my traitorous mind can’t help imagining a future with Jared. A future where we keep doing this.
A future where we’re the favorite uncles of Emmy and any other kids Sophie has, getting into arguments about whose turn it is to read bedtime stories. Where our kitchen counter becomes permanently traumatized by our enthusiasm, but we just buy it therapy in the form of expensive cleaning products.
I want lazy Sunday mornings, shared toothbrushes, and waking up with Jared’s arm draped over my waist like it belongs there. I want him to complain when I steal his hoodies and then quietly buy extras so I always have one to take.
The light turns green and the car behind me honks. Right. Driving. That thing I’m supposed to be doing rather than conjuring imaginary futures with not-even-my-boyfriend.
Annie’s waiting room smells like vanilla candles that are trying too hard to be calming.
“How are you doing today, Felix?” Annie asks as I settle into the chair that’s seen me through approximately seventeen breakdowns and one memorable session where I tried to convince her that becoming a hermit was a viable career option.
“Things are going okay,” I say cautiously. “My placement is still going amazing, and I’m loving everything I’m learning.”
“And how are things going in your personal life?”
