“So, it is someone?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s no one. I was crying…”
Weston waited, quietly. When he shifted again and placed his foot next to mine, I didn’t move. I tapped the keys on my laptop without actually pressing them down. The sound soothed me in the quiet library. The AC was blowing cold air right above me, making me tired and ready to curl up someplace warmer.
“It was no one,” I finally confessed. “Just me. In my head too much. That’s kind of my thing.”
“Making yourself cry is your thing?” he asked.
I had expected to hear sarcasm in his tone or see him wince. But what I got was a concerned wrinkle in his brow.
“It’s a stress-reliever. A habit,” I continued. Why was I still talking? The words tumbled out as if I no longer had control. Maybe I had been unconsciously waiting to confess my sadness after having so many failed therapy sessions. “I force myself to think of everything bad that’s happened and then, I have a good, long cry. I let it all out. I force myself to let it all out because I think afterward, I might feel a little lighter.”
I hadn’t though. I hadn’t ever felt lighter. This part I kept to myself because I was sure I’d already scared him. When people spoke about crying and alluded to depression the typical response was to pull away. No one liked to be under a dark cloud. Especially a stranger’s dark cloud.
Weston made a “hmm” sound and set down his pen. I searched his face for confusion, disappointment, disgust or disapproval. I readied myself for any of those reactions. Instead, Weston said, “Let me eat you out, Covee.”
My heart thumped against my chest and my throat closed, refusing to let me swallow anything - especially my words. “Excuse me?”
“Let me eat you out, Covee,” he repeated in a voice just as steady and serious as before.
God, Ihadheard him right. I studied his face. Guys like Weston didn’t hang out with people like me. I was mousy. Nervous. Terrible with getting my mouth to say what my mind wanted. From how he carried himself, I could tell he’d come from a good family. The type of family who woke up early to run marathons, did Pilates on verandas, and attended charity galas where they wore clothes that costed as much as their cash donations.
On the other hand, I couldn’t get my mother to return my phone calls. And I couldn’t get my father to stop sending me unwanted emails with attempts to reconnect. I could barely get out of bed to walk around campus and I sure as hell would never be invited to a gala.
“Let you…” I attempted to repeat his words but couldn’t get them past my lips.
I looked around the library to make sure we weren’t being overheard. The closest person to us was a guy watching a movie with headphones on. The next person was a librarian with his nose in a book behind a large desktop. Still, I leaned in towards Weston, intending to keep this conversation private.
“Why would you?” I was still blushing at even entertaining the idea.
“You just told me you make yourself cry. You’re stressed. I could help relieve some of that tension sans the inevitable headache you get from crying. I can be your distraction,” he told me. “Plus, it’d be fun. I think you’d enjoy it and I know I definitely would. I don’t see a downside to having fun.”
“I do.” I crossed my arms on the table to hide my chest. “It’s… weird. And it’d make doing this project awkward.”
“It doesn’t have to.” He leaned in closer too. Now, I could smell his fading cologne mixed with bar soap.
“We can have rules,” he whispered.
Chapter 3
Weston clickedhis pen and wrote something down in surprisingly neat handwriting.
No bullshit.
“Honesty. That’s how we make sure this doesn’t turn into something hurtful,” he explained. His eyes searched mine. I bit my lip and nodded for him to continue while still trying to wrap my head around everything.This was happening?
Listen to your body.
“What’s it telling you?” He waited for my response. When I hesitated, he reached over to turn my hand, so my palm was facing upward. His fingers found their way to my pulse. Weston waited until he felt its unsteady beating.
“Why cry for relief?” he asked.
I shrugged, watching his hand on mine. His fingertips were soft, but the rest of his hand was rough. There were calluses on his palm that brushed against the back of my knuckles.
“It’s like trying to make yourself laugh, I guess,” I told him. “Sometimes crying feels like the fastest way to release emotion.”
“Have you ever had sex?” he questioned. There was that teasing smile I’d been waiting for. It made him feel more approachable. He wasn’t judging, just learning.
