“You didn’t want to go with them?” Jae asks.
“I couldn’t leave the city. Because of Grant, partly. And partly because I love this place too much.”
“What’s your favorite part of the city?” Jae asks me, a relentless list of questions coming out of his mouth.
“Is it bad if it’s a cliché answer?” I’m decisive.
“Yes, it’s bad! You fake New Yorker, you.”
“My favorite place is Central Park.”
Jaeshames me with a vapidtsksaying I should know better.
“I can’t help it. When I was ten years old, before I moved here, it was the first place we visited. And the moment I entered the park, I knew it was my dream to move here and be a painter.”
“All right, all right. I’ll accept that answer but only because of the childhood backstory.”
I laugh. “You’d have to accept it no matter what, because that’s the answer.”
We talk late into the night as usual, like there was no fiery kiss between us, and by the time midnight rolls around, I am falling asleep.
“Jae,” I say, my voice a secret. “Do you want to know something?” I am dazed by sleep.
“Sure, Riley, I always want to know.”
“I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I wish I could kiss you again in my bed. But if you came here, I don’t think I could contain myself.”
“I would be beside myself to be there, Riley, but I don’t think I could contain myself either.” Jae’s words echo through my chest cavity to crush and squeeze my heart, artery by artery, capillary by capillary.
“How did you know you liked me?” I ask.
“When I told you not to do something, and then you did it anyway.”
The kitchen.
“You were practically begging me to go in there.”
“I was not,” Jae’s laugh is stubborn and a stump in the ground. “You really should wear non-slip shoes.” Jae’s voice switches to serious.
“Will you let me in the kitchen tomorrow?” I ask him.
“Only if you wear non-slip shoes.”
“What if I don’t?” I tease.
“Then you can’t come in.”
“Or you’ll have to carry me.” I suggest
The thought of his arms around me again was dazzling. I would melt into them like a popsicle in the sun. He would haveno choice in the matter. I almost think better of it, but instead I speak again.
“I wish I could touch you again.”
“I can’t wait to get my hands on you.” His voice is low and husky. Even though we are only a few floors away, and it would be all too easy to show up at his door, he doesn’t suggest it. “I wish I could touch you now.”
“Where would you touch me?” I ask in a whisper.
“Please tell me what you’re wearing?” He asks once more.
