“Please don’t. Don’t make me feel like this is all in my head.”
It’s the tortured way he says it, and theplease, that sways me. I’m not sure I’ve ever been tender with Nicholas before, and what a shame is that? I don’t know how to be vulnerable with him, but there’s no alternative here. I have to tread gingerly. I try to kiss him, but he doesn’t move his lips against mine, waiting for the truth, breath releasing in small, staggered pants. He’s just as jagged as I am.
“No,” I say, gazing into his eyes so that he knows I’m being honest. “I’m not cheating on you with Zach or anyone else. I’ve never cheated. Why would you ask that?”
His reply tumbles out in a rush: “You don’t like me being around any of your work friends. Zach hates me. Whenever I see him, he’s hostile for no reason. You laugh really loud when you read his texts. And you’ve lost interest in me, which isn’t in my head, either. I’ve felt you going away.”
What he says actually makes sense, but at the same time it’s so absurd I can’t help the laugh that bursts from my chest.
It’s the wrong reaction. Nicholas’s eyes flash with anger. He tries to push me off, but I surprise him by locking my arms around his neck. Still shaking with laughter, I say, “I’m sorry. I’m just imagining the look on Zach’s face if he heard you accuse him of messing around with me.”
He’s embarrassed and irritated and struggling in earnest now, so I hurry up. “He doesn’t like you because you’re a scary bogeyman dentist and he thinks you’re on the warpath to give him twenty root canals without anesthesia. He’dloveknowing he’s been living in your head like this, because that’s just Zach. He enjoys irritating people. But no, there’s nothing going on between Zach and me. Ever. If you don’t believe me, you can go ask him. He and his boyfriend will get a kick out of it, I’m sure.”
Nicholas falls still, eyeing me skeptically. “Boyfriend?”
“Yep. I think he dates women, too, or he used to, anyway.” I shrug. “It’s none of my business. We’ve never been interested in each other like that.” I narrow my eyes. “What about you? Have you ever cheated?”
“No.”
He sounds sincere. Helookssincere. I want to believe him, but—
“Not with Stacy?”
He swallows and averts his eyes. My stomach bottoms out. “I was talking about Stacy to mess with you. I just wanted a reaction. I wanted to see if you’d even care if you thought I was...” He’s at loose ends, trying to come up with a decent explanation. “I shouldn’t have—ahh.”
“You deliberately tried to make me think you might be into another woman? To hurt me?”
“Not to hurt you. To see if you were capable of being hurt by it. It sounds bad, but there’s a difference.” I’m not sure there is.
“You’re right, that does sound bad.”
But I’m not blameless in all this. Just a couple of days ago, I filed a millimeter of wood off the leg of his desk so it would wobble. I’ve tried to drive him nuts on purpose, too.
With that, I lean in and kiss him again. His surprise gives way to desire, hands grasping my hips. It’s electrifying, how illicit this feels to me. I’m not the same Naomi and he’s not the same Nicholas. It’s like I’m cheating on my fiancé. The kiss keeps changing its name with new meanings. It’s fast and quick, hard; then slow, exploring. We’re in sync through every transformation, patient and then not, curious and testing and desperate. Above all, aware. I don’t forget who I’m kissing. I don’t tune out.
That’s the element standing out to me so strongly now: howalive this man is. Every piece of him, vivid, communicating with all of my senses. It’s not that he’s never looked like this, or felt like this, or tasted like this. It’s that I’ve been asleep. I wonder what kind of revelations he’s having about our kiss. What he’s discovering about me now.
It’s a wonderful relief that for these moments, we’re on the same wavelength. Fighting him has been exhausting and it’s a nice change of pace to steam up the room in other ways. I want to generate a fog of lust so thick that he’ll never be able to find his way out.
He tastes like candy, the kind that starts off sour and dissolves into unbearable sweetness on your tongue. We’re boiled down to base needs and nothing more. Hot, searing skin. Lowered lashes. Heavy breathing. Hands everywhere. I want him to touch me without wondering what I’m thinking—take the body, leave the heart. Being so close that he can’t study me is a blessing, hiding right in front of him, distracting him with my mouth on his neck every time he hesitates and tilts, searching out my thoughts.
I remember thinking during kisses past that him being too close to see my expressions provided good cover. I’m not sure what those kisses meant to either of us. For me, maybe unsatisfying release. For him, I think reconnection that never happened.
I’m still trying to decide what this kiss means when we break it. We pull away slowly, watching each other. He might have weapons behind his back, but somehow I don’t think so. Mine are within arm’s reach.
The emotions racing through me are so bewildering, I’m grateful when he gets up to go adjust the heat settings. I’m notusually a jumpy person, but right now I’m hurtling toward a full-blown panic attack. I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know what’s going on in Nicholas’s head these days. I certainly don’t know what’s going on in mine. I run to my bedroom, conscious of him watching me all the way up the stairs. Again, it’s like I’m moving underwater, under his microscope, Nicholas’s clever brain decoding messages I’m unknowingly sending with my gait, how far apart my fingers are splayed, the color in my cheeks. It’s never been so obvious that he can see right through me. The question is: how long has he been looking?
I can still feel his gaze pinned on me even while I’m lying in bed, heart thumping erratically, eyes wide open to absolute darkness.
It’s very late when I think I hear the doorknob rattle. I’ve locked it out of habit. Maybe I’m imagining the noise. I close my eyes for a moment, meaning to get up and go see, but when they open again a second later it’sdawn.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I get dressed in the frail morning light and creep onto the landing. Nicholas’s door is ajar, so I tiptoe closer. His bed is empty, the comforter printed with palm leaves peeled back. I know what that blanket feels like against my bare skin. I regard it like an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time, along with the headboard we picked out together. The curtains we picked out together. In those early days we would say yes to anything, floating on the high of trying to make each other happy. I would have slept on a sleeping bag if that was what he wanted.
His new bedroom is arranged the same way as our old one. The mattress is new, since I took our other one. Throwing a quick glance at the door, I sit down on the bed and do a little bounce. This mattress is so much better than mine. My room contains leftovers—the curtains that used to hang in our old kitchen, which means they’re too short and don’t block out enough light. My bedspread is a Christmas throw blanket.
I study the empty space beside his dresser and imagine mine next to it. My nightstand should sit on the right side of the bed, and its absence turns the whole room wrong. He keeps one of his pillows in the space where my head should lie.
