I glance over at the still-blank canvas on the easel by the window. But I don’t mention it. I sit down next to her and pull her feet into my lap, digging my thumb into the arch of her foot. She lets out a long sigh, and for everything we’ve done this summer, this somehow feels like one of our most intimate acts.
“After batting practice,” I start, massaging her ankle. “I talked with some of the seniors about opportunities in sports beyond just playing. Things like PR, journalism, and coaching.”
“Sounds like a needed pep talk.”
I let out a resigned sigh and continue working my hands up her calf.
After we’re both quiet for a moment, I ask, “Why did you stop painting?”
She doesn’t answer, but she also doesn’t stiffen at my direct question. I press my thumb into the ball of her foot, like it’s the ‘speak’ button on a toy. “Not why you dropped out of art school, but why did you quit art?”
She doesn’t answer for a long moment, and I worry she’s not going to. I’m about to try changing the subject when she finally does
“Art had become something I was supposed to do for other people. Galleries wanted ‘Sophia Rhodes’—this image that my professors and mentors had shaped me into. But—” her jaw twitches a little like she’s planning what to say next, or maybe figuring it out for the first time. “I think I lost track of who I was underneath all that. Everything I made felt hollow, like I was going through the motions.”
“But Soph,” I wrap my hand around her calf and pull her across the couch cushions until her legs are draped across my thighs and I can cup her jaw. I’m so lost in the depths of her blue eyes that I almost forget what I want to say. But I drag my eyes away from her and gesture to the skyline painting leaning up against the bookcase. “Your art is stunning.”
“I don’t want it to be stunning. I just want it to be me.”
And it’s the realest thing she’s ever said.
She tucks herself into the cradle of my side, and I wrap my arm around her, like I can protect her from her demons.
“I just want to feel something again.” She murmurs into my chest.
I find her chin with my thumb and forefinger and tip her face to mine. I kiss her like I’m trying to memorize her—like I’ll never get another chance.
I want to remind her that she’s capable of feeling everything. Remind her that the little girl who was fearless about her art is still inside this incredible woman, who has been criticized to death—I want to help her find her way back.
She cups my face and kisses me back, like maybe she’ll let me be that for her…just for a while.
I know I’m in trouble. I know I’m in too deep. I know this isn’t what Sophie wants, that I’m not what she wants. But I’m so fucking selfish, or maybe so desperate for this woman, that I’m willing to be anything she’ll let me be for as long as she’ll let me. Especially if it helps her find herself again.
“This summer,” she says, her face buried in my neck, “this time with you. It’s been the most real thing I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe ever.”
I stand with her cradled to my chest and stride towards the bedroom. I think she’s going to protest—about her weight or where we’re headed—but she just grips me tighter. Cal comes home in a few weeks, our clock is ticking, and I don’t want to waste a minute of it.
I hold her in my arms at the foot of the bed and pause—for her to change her mind, to kick me out, to tell me this isn’t what she wants. To say to me she doesn't feel the same way.
“I need you inside me,” she whispers.
You’re already inside me,I think. But I lay her down on the bed and undress her like I’m unwrapping the most precious package.
Her body is so wildly perfect. Like every curve, every valley, every swell was made just for me. I want to memorize the way her lip tilts just before she laughs. The precise way her nose wrinkles when she’s concentrating. Or the way her cheeks flush when she’s turned on.
The realization that some other guy would get to know all that too…and have her heart, about steals the breath from my lungs.
But Sophie looks up at me with those baby blue eyes and gestures for me to come closer. “Will you hold me?” she asks.
As long as you’ll let me.
I slip out of my pants, and I curl onto my side next to her. I pull her tight to my chest, trying to connect our bodies at every point. She tangles her leg around mine.
She tips her face up to mine and takes my face in her hands, then she’s kissing me. It’s slow and deep, but there’s something frantic at the edges, something desperate. I try to pull her closer, to drown out the fear by eliminating the space between our bodies.
“Closer,” she whispers, and pushes at my boxers. I shed my underwear and peel hers off her as well until there is nothing but the cool foggy night air coming in the cracked window between us. She curls back into the cage of my arms.
“Please,” she says into the skin of my neck. It’s not begging—it’s permission. And nothing in the world has ever felt more right.
