Want.Another wishy-washy word with too many meanings to know for sure.
“I don’t know what I wanted. I dropped out of NYU first semester because I didn’t know what I wanted. I started dating them because I didn’t know what I wanted. I bought that island because I didn’t know what I wanted.” It hadn’t occurred to me what a pile of untended-to feelings I’ve been hoarding.
“I’m sorry, dude, but it’s still wild that you bought an island,” he says with only a little judgment. “Can you please tell me what you were going to do with it?” He’s asking in earnest, I can tell.
I press my head into my hands. “Throw a music festival called Prince-a-Palooza.” Saying it out loud magnifies my utter misjudgment. It was supposed to be my special thing. How had it all backfired and turned me into the family menace? I feel meek and dumb.
“That name is pretty fire, at least,” he offers, which incites me to go on. Getting this all out, finally.
“I thought with the right investors and musical acts, it could be the next Coachella. I wasn’t thinking of the work that would need to be done. Nor had I doneanyresearch into the field, but my intentions were good. I swear.” I hug a pillow to my chest. “Baz and Spencer had conceptualized it with me. It was this running conversation we had, but the problem is that I didn’t realize it was a runningjoke. I was taking it seriously, coming up with all these wonderful ideas and reaching out to contacts. I was knee-deep in yurt styles. Then when we broke up they made it clear how naive and stupid I was about the whole thing.”
“That’s shitty of them,” Hector says, coming to my defense. I nod in appreciation.
“A new LGBTQ club opened in Midtown last week, and I went to the opening with my friends. Baz and Spencer were there. I didn’t go over and say hello or anything, but I saw them flirt hard with and take home another guy. Cooler, fitter—if you can imagine—richer. Something inside me splintered. I felt full of wood chips.” My voice trembles as I tell it, the emotions still fresh. “So, in the heat of the moment, high off my ass, I called my real estate contact and told him to pull the trigger on the island purchase. The next morning, I woke up the proud owner of an entire piece of land surrounded by water.” That’s exactly how I feel right now. Drowning in a sea of my own making.
“I mean, dude, don’t get me wrong, that’s an extreme reaction, but sometimes people hurt us and then we hurt ourselves as some twisted form of punishment for not seeing it all sooner,” he says. The words wash over me in lapping, salty waves. I was trying to soothe him, and here he is doing it for me. And I know he means it, which means a lot.
“Thanks.”
“Making a bad decision doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“It was more thanone bad decision,” I confess. Most days, I’m a teetering trash tower of them.
He shakes his head, hair swishing. “You know what I mean. You might not want to own up to it, but you’re human. Humans make mistakes.”
His sweet words assuage some of the hurt. If only for tonight. If only while he’s next to me and his presence can ward off the unhealthy thoughts. I’m beyond grateful for that.
“You’re right,” I say after a beat. “And I never like admitting someone else is right, so…” My joking smile morphs into an appreciative smolder so intense it ripples heat straight down to my toes.
The movie is but background noise now. He’s got his eyes trained on me, watching like I’m more interesting than any film could ever be. “Even if they didn’t know what you were struggling with, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that.” Hector’s declaration is firm; his protectiveness blankets me. Rarely has someone defended me unless it was Sarah Pearson, someonepaidto do just that.
Hector’s saying this out of kindness. Not obligation. It’s sad, but it’s a first for me.
“Thank you,” I say with heart-stuttering breathlessness. I’d say it a million times if I could, which hits me square in the heart.
I watch him swallow, his throat bobbing. His eyes dip to my lips, and I take that as my cue to thank him in a different way. A way I’ve wanted to for a while now.
Boldness broadens my chest as I inch closer, lean in, let my flights of fancy come to fruition.
Except the sound of rattling chains and ghostly roars from my computer speakers make me realize: theseareonly flights of fancy. His eyes landing on my lips might’ve been a trick of the flickering screen. I was just seeing what I wanted to see.
I stop before I make an ass out of myself.
Only then he surprises me by whispering, “Please?”
And I don’t dare second-guess this Christmas miracle.
One hand finds his face. The other finds his waist. Our lips find each other’s for the very first time in a kiss that can only be described as overdue and yet still right on schedule.
Those thank-yous pass from my lips to his—for listening, for caring, and for,fuck, for kissing me back with so much enthusiasm. He tastes like peppermint gum and Yuletide cheer. His hands are big and rough yet warm and reassuring as they move from my neck to the sides of my face, tenderly cupping my cheeks. Somehow, cradled, I’m both breakable and indestructible. I want this feeling to last forever.
It goes on for minutes like that, the intensity rising. Silken locks slide effortlessly between my fingers. His scent is clean shampoo mixed with a heavenly musk. I harden with each brush of our eager bodies. His flannel rides up a tad, revealing that tantalizing line of skin, and my pulse jolts into my core.
Abruptly, I realize what those drunken rebound kisses on club couches were missing:connection.
That’s what I’ve been holding out hope for.
And here it is. Miraculously. In the flesh.
