Because that’s what people do, right?
When someone cracks,
you hand them a piece of you.
I don’t know. I’m not good at this part.
“Shit,” he says, jaw tight, my confession hitting deep. “That’s… yeah. I’m really sorry, Sonny.” His eyes look full of shit he'll never say. A whole story he’s swallowing back. “And here I was about to bitch about bein’ forced into twelve-hour Hallmark marathons every Christmas.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So if you ever get sick of one of your moms,
“I’ll take her off your hands…
“let me borrow the affection for a minute.”
Long enough to remember what it feels like.
His brows jump with a grin right behind.
“You? Walk into my house?
“Swear to God, my moms would lose their shit—first girl ever through the door” he says,
the thought of it dancing in his eyes,
then he leans closer, hand raised between us.
“Yo, you ever need it… you got me, aight?
“Say the word.
“I’ll hug and kiss the shit outta you.”
Yeah.
My heart just smiled.
But my brain slapped it off.
Affection’s easy.
It’s keeping it that fucks you.
Borrowing’s safer.
At least you already know it’s not yours.
“You really never brought anyone home before?” I ask.
“I’m real old-school. Italian moms, y’know how it is.” He grins. “Sunday dinner at the table. No flings at the house. No girls in the bed. After awhile, became my rules too.”
No one’s made it to his bed. And it makes me want to lie next to him even more.
He holds his glass, barely drinking from it, foot nudging mine.“Aight. Your turn. What do you do?”
“For work?” I squint. “Totally classified.”
