“Something you as a girl wouldn’t understand,” he says with a hint of sarcasm, as if to say,obviously.
“Try me.”
“No.”
I huff. “You’re being a jerk.”
“Because I don’t want to tell you something?”
“We tell each other everything!” I exclaim.At least I thought we did.
“Not this.”
“I don’t like secrets between us.”
“I’m not crazy about it either, but it’s for the best. Believe me,” he says with a wince.
I twist my mouth in confusion because I wonder if it’s something he’s embarrassed to tell me. “I won’t…judge you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I know you won’t.” I’m curious what he could be hiding from me, but my thoughts are interrupted by footsteps on the stairs, and then Sara is walking down the hall toward us. It isn’t lost on me that Wild takes a step back to put space between us, and I briefly wonder what that’s about.
“What’s going on?” she asks with a head tilt to the side as she pushes her square frames into her dark auburn hair. She used tohave blond hair, but in the past few years, she started dyeing it for a change, and I love the color on her. She blinks her blue eyes a few times at us, questioning.
“We were just talking about tomorrow,” Wild answers.
“Oh. Yeah, I think I’m going to go to work,” she says, and I’m shocked. “I want to…stay busy.” Sara is a high school teacher—not at the school Wild and I go to, but at another school across town. “And then when I get home, we can do something? Unless you guys want me here in the morning?”
Wild shakes his head. “I’m going to sleep in, I think, and then I have my call with Dr. Rollins at noon,” he says, referring to his therapist.
We’ve gone through quite a few over the years until we finally both settled on the ones we liked. He doesn’t see his as often as I see mine, but he tries to check in with her once a month, especially on days like tomorrow.
“Me too.” I nod.
“Okay.” She pulls us both in for a hug. “I love you guys.”
“Love you too, Mom,” Wild says, and I nod in agreement. It isn’t that I don’t love Sara. I do. But I’m not as liberal with the L-word as they are. The first person I ever loved died while she was giving birth to me, and the second person I ever loved died four years later. I have a complex about what that word means, and I don’t go throwing it around often. I’ve said it to both Sara and Wild, but not as often as they do, and my reluctance to say it is something I’ve discussed at length in therapy.
The following morning, I wake up to the smell of cinnamon tickling my nose, and when my eyes flutter open, sunlight is streaming through my bedroom window. It’s a toss-up what the weather would be like in early October. Sometimes it’s warm and sunny, and other times, it’s rainy and chilly, but it seems like it will be the former today. I sit up in bed, wondering if Sara decided to stay home instead. After brushing my teeth andputting a sweatshirt over the tank top I slept in, I make my way down the stairs toward the smell to see Wild standing at the stove in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. I blink several times at the visual. Not only have I never seen Sebastian Wilder cook anything but toast and that nasty instant mac and cheese that comes in the blue box, but he’s also in his underwear, forcing me to expel the breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding since I walked into the room. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him in them, but it’s the first time I feel those butterflies at the sight. I’ve watched him grow from a boy into what looks like the beginnings of something… sonotboyish. His hair is still messy from sleep, like maybe he hasn’t been awake long, and my fingers itch to run my hands through it.
Maybe while my lips are on his.
My eyes slam shut briefly while I try to push the fantasy out of my mind, and when I open them, his back is still to me.
“Tell me you’re not going to burn the house down?” I tease as I move through the kitchen, and when he turns around, he gives me a smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Does it smell like it?”
I hop on one of the barstools behind the island in the center of the kitchen and prop my head on my fists. “Since when do you cook?”
He shrugs. “I looked up a recipe,” he says, then turns back to the stove. “I know it’s your favorite.”
“You’re cooking for me?”
“Of course, who else?” I get off the stool and make my way toward him, looking down at the almost finished French toast that looks as good as it smells, then back up at him. Tears prickle in my eyes, and his face falls. “Please don’t cry. I need to make sure I don’t fuck these up, so I can’t hold you right now.”
I blink the tears away and wrap my arms around him anyway, instantly comforted by his scent. I breathe him in before taking a step back to watch him finish making us breakfast.
Minutes later, we are sitting at the table eating in relative silence when I broach a somewhat uncomfortable subject. “Have you kissed a girl before?”
