This time, I don’t hesitate before texting him back.
You could’ve redeemed yourself with a trip to the Natural History Museum. Everyone loves the gem hall.
I allow myself a moment to dwell on the memory of the two of us making out in one of the dark, sheltered corners, so far away from the throngs of visitors that we felt as if we were in a private room. Then again, we always felt that way.
Why are these rocks making me want to fuck you so badly?Reid had whispered, coming up for air.
Everything makes me want to fuck you so badly, I’d responded.
Now I feel my face flush, remembering how bold I once was with him. How could that have ever been me? Where did that version of myself go?
And how can I be that free, that brave, again?
Well, you and I loved the gem hall, Reid texts.
I startle when I hear a knock on my door, more of a warning than a request for permission. Emme comes in a half second later, wearing one of my velvet skater dresses from the nineties and a pair of high-top sneakers, her space buns freshly wound and spritzed with a fine sheen of pink glitter. She plops down next to me on the bed and leans her head on my shoulder.
“Who are you talking to?”
I turn my phone over in my hand. My first instinct is to deflect, tell her it’s no one. And then I remember I resolved not to do that anymore.
“Reid,” I say, feeling a little like a caught teenager.
“Mm-hmm.” She gives me an honest-to-god knowing smile. “Thought so.”
I laugh. “Why is that?”
“You’re doing a... thing. With your face.” She taps the back of my phone with an iridescent blue nail. “And you hid your phone, which makes me thinksomethingis going on here.”
“OK, Sherlock.” I stand and toss my phone in my bag. “Let’s go.”
At the show, my attention keeps faltering from the stage. I try to remain present, to appreciate the bombastic pop covers and the cotton-candy set, but my mind keeps doling out snatches of Reid. The way his breath felt against mythroat. The buttery-smooth sensation that slid over my skin when I got him to laugh. The uncontrolled, helpless sound he made when he slipped his fingers into me, somewhere between a groan and a sigh.
Intermission offers a gust of relief from the fantasies unfolding in my head. I’m finally able to wrangle my focus during the second act, but then it’s like the memories animate my physical form: My knee bounces, my fingers fidget. By the time Juliet bursts into a power-ballad rendition of “...Baby One More Time” after finding Romeo dead, I’m restless with unspent energy.
I pull out my phone to check my texts as soon as the curtains close. When we rise for a standing ovation, Emme shifts her hip to press against my leg.
“Mom,” she says, “you’re insufferable. Just go see him.”
From the set of her mouth, I know she means it.
I really do want to see him, but the concept of going on what would amount to a booty call feels truly preposterous.
“It’s late,” I say.
“It’s nine twenty-seven,” Emme responds.
“I don’t even know if he wants to see me.”
Emme looks at me like I’m truly missing the point. I don’t blame her—I can hear what I sound like as I give these petty excuses, but I can’t seem to stop myself from rattling them off.
After we’re herded out of the theater, we head east to avoid the cab-seeking crowds. We’re just about to cross Park when Emme stops me and takes out her phone. To my surprise, she actually puts it to her ear to call someone.
“What’s your dad doing right now?” she asks into it.
A garbled response on the other end. I am paralyzed by shock. And a little bit of fear. And then, an awed respect.
“Yeah, she definitely does.”
