“So it’s settled.” She’s so out of breath she can barely get the words out.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Neither of us give a fuck about the other’s insecurities.”
I crack a laugh, falling back down on top of her, nestling my head into her neck and shoulder, letting my frame wrack with laughter on top of hers, which is doing the same. The first of many, many times I hope we’ll be lying down, her underneath me, as we’re shaking together.
TWENTY-ONE
ELLIE
Two weeks.
Do you know how much can change in two weeks?
Damn near everything, apparently.
It’s been almost two weeks since our first hang-out at my place, and there’s been many more of them since. Each night, we turn on our show and start chatting. A few nights a week, when I have the time to spare (been working on a secret pet project outside the office lately, so my time has beenextralimited), and when he can sneak away from his roommate and friends without raising their suspicions too much, we do that routine at my place. The other nights, we do it remotely, texting at a rate that makes me thankful we aren’t still in the twenty cents per text era. Not that he had any clue what I was talking about when I mentioned it.
He’s funny, he’s sweet, he’s charming, and he’s really freaking clever.
I’m falling for this guy a lot harder than I foresaw, even with all those butterflies and unstable organs as warning signs. He’s kept his word, keeping things professional during work hours, and taking things slow, staying friends, outside of the office, too. Friends who touch a lot more than most, perhaps—at least compared to the only kind of friends I ever had—but you know, nothing beyond that thus far.
It’s getting harder to keep myself away from him. From telling him that I’m ready for more. I’m taking way more late-night showers than I used to have to take, especially after those nights he’s been gracing my couch with his presence. He’s even gotten me to confess those to him, and he’s shared with me somepersonaldetails of his own. I don’t think it qualifies as sexting, at least Chrissy probably wouldn’t say so, but it’s racier than anything I’ve done over text before.
Tomorrow, Asher turns twenty-one.
And today, that fact hit me in a way it hasn’t before.
You might have called it a bit of a meltdown, but I’ll just say I’ve had trouble processing that. His age. How into him I am. How right things feel between us.
Which is why I changed into jeans and my cowboy boots the second I got home and Ubered to my favorite line dancing spot, with the intention to getwrecked. You know, have, like, one drink or something.
Let me tell you, the plan has beenworking.
I’m not saying you should run away from your problems, drown your fears in booze, but for someone who’s still struggling to balance what makes sense logically with what feels right with the rest of her, this is hitting the spot right now.
The guy next to me, at the bar, who’s buying me another round? He’s not quite doing it for me. But he is age-appropriate, late thirties, handsome enough, face covered in dark scruff and this blue checkered shirt that fits the vibe in here.
Kinda wish he was Asher. But the guy I can’t keep my mind from drifting to wouldn’t even be allowed in here until tomorrow.
I laugh at that, I don’t know why.
That’s a lie. I do know why, it’s the alcohol.
It’s not funny, I’m terrified by the depth of what I’m starting to feel for someone who is practically a child. A ten-year age gap might not seem that much in your forties or fifties, but at this point in our lives? It’s extreme. But the more time we spend together, the more I start to care for him, the less I find myself caring about things like his age and blowback from a potential scandal, and that freaks me out, to say the least. And the budding physical attraction between us? That might do me in on its own.
The guy next to me—Billy, apparently—takes my laughter as a compliment to his attempts at striking up conversation, thinks it’s an invitation. I don’t know how to get rid of him without being rude, so I focus on my drink, sway my hips to the beat, wishing I knew the dance to this song so I could attempt to join the folks out there on the floor.
My phone buzzes, giving me another thing I can focus on.
Crap. Went a couple hours without answering Asher’s texts, and by the time I scroll to the end of the chain of messages he’s sent, I can tell he’s worried.
Asher:
Ellie please answer me
Are you ok?
