The question seems to deflate her entirely. She shakes her head again, more slowly this time, and I watch in alarm as tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. She sits back on her heels, still straddling my legs but no longer pressing forward.
"Shit," I breathe, releasing her wrists. "Hey, come here."
I reach for her, and she doesn't resist when I pull her down against my chest. She's crying harder now, though still silently, her shoulders shaking with the force of whatever emotion has broken loose inside her. I stroke her hair and murmur meaningless comfort words while she soaks my shoulder with her tears.
"Just sleep," I tell her after several minutes, when the crying has subsided to occasional sniffles. "You'll feel better tomorrow."
I turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The bed creaks as I turn on my side and wrap an arm around her. Liv welcomes the gesture, snuggling closer.
Within minutes, her breathing deepens and evens out completely. I lie there in the darkness, trying not to think about the feel of her skin against me. I feel protective of this woman who doesn't need protecting. And that makes no sense.
17
LIV
Something warm is pressed against my back, and for a blissful moment between sleep and consciousness, I think I'm dreaming. There's an arm draped over my waist, fingers splayed across my stomach, and the steady rhythm of someone else's breathing against my neck. It feels nice—better than nice, actually. Safe and comfortable in a way I haven't felt in years.
I shift slightly, enjoying the sensation of being held, when my brain starts to catch up with my body. This isn't my apartment in Manhattan. The mattress is too soft, too familiar, and there's that distinctive musty smell of my childhood bedroom—old wood and fabric softener and the faint scent of my mother's lavender sachets. And this isn't a dream.
My eyes snap open.
I'm definitely in my old bedroom at the farm, which means the warm body behind me is?—
Oh God. Blair.
And I'm not wearing a shirt. I’m not even wearing a bra.
A wave of nausea hits me. My mouth feels like I've been chewing cotton balls soaked in cheap wine, and there's apersistent throbbing behind my eyes that suggests I may have had more than "a little bit too much" to drink last night.
Vague memories start trickling back in horrifying detail. The wine Emma smuggled from Mom's hiding spot. The way I felt watching Sailor laugh with Dad and Uncle Pete. The decision—God, the actual conscious decision—to walk over there and kiss her in front of them.
But it gets worse. So much worse.
More flashes surface like a horror movie playing in slow motion. Stumbling up the stairs with Sailor's steadying hand on my back. Her bringing me water and aspirin. And then—Fuck—I don't even know what happened after that.
The mortification is so complete that I actually make a small whimpering sound. Carefully, moving as slowly as possible to avoid waking her, I lift her arm from my waist and sit up to down the glass of water on my nightstand.
As I set the glass back down, trying to piece together exactly how much of an idiot I made of myself, I feel movement beside me.
"Good morning."
I freeze. "Morning."
There's a moment of silence, and then I hear a sharp intake of breath. Blair rolls onto her back, staring determinedly at the ceiling.
"Uh," she says, her voice slightly strained. "You might want to... you know. Cover up."
“Sorry.” I quickly pull up the covers. "Did we..." I start, then stop, not sure I actually want to know the answer. "Did you... I mean, did I..."
"Did we what?" she asks, turning back toward me.
"You know." I'm staring at her now, trying to read her. "Have sex. Did we...?"
"Of course not. You were drunk.”
"Are you sure? Because I'm not wearing much, and when I woke up you were all over me, and I don't really remember?—"
"Liv." She interrupts me with an expression that's half amused, half annoyed. "Trust me. I did not take advantage of you. Not for lack of you trying, though."
