I shrug. “Sure. Try being called cute your whole life—never pretty or beautiful or hot—and see how you like it.”
Graham cocks his head. “You’re definitely those things too, you know.”
He says it so matter-of-factly—not like he’s trying to cover up a blunder—that I’m tempted to believe him. Feeling my face heat ever so slightly, I look down at my notebook, clearing my throat. I read the next question I’d jotted down. “Uh … can you describe what attraction feels like from a guy’s perspective?” I say, taking my time to tear my gaze up from the notebook.
I can tell he’s trying not to chuckle at my question. Pickles saunters past, eyes on Graham the whole time, before hopping up into his cat tower on the other side of the room. “Uh … like, being horny?” Graham asks, eyebrows furrowed. He leans back against the couch cushions.
I wag my head from side to side. Not exactly what I was going for but … “Is that what attraction means to you?”
Graham opens his mouth, pauses, then says, “Good question. I mean, kind of.”
I wave my hand, indicating for him to continue.
He chuckles at that. “What more do you want?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “When you see a cute girl, what’s it like?”
He tilts his head in thought. “Uh … I guess I notice what she looks like first, obviously. Her hair, her curves, her smile. But there’s also an, I don’t know, aura, I guess? The way she moves,laughs, speaks. Her personality. There’s so much that goes into it.”
I nod, my brain stuttering over each point of his. I’m sure Graham has been with many girls with long, perfect hair, curves in all the right places, who enter rooms like a goddess who belongs there. And for the first time since starting this whole thing, something tight and painful twinges in my chest.
Jealousy.
I clench my teeth together, both in surprise and an attempt to push it away. Because feelings were not part of this arrangement.
“I’d assume it’s probably similar for girls, right?” Graham’s question pulls me from my thoughts.
I nod. “Yeah, basically.”
Graham looks over his shoulder at Pickles perched in his cat tree. “Cute cat,” he comments. Pickles’s eyes widen at the intrusion.
I smile. “Yeah, he’s not very social.”
“Takes after his mom?”
I snort. “I’m not antisocial, just introverted.”
Graham nods. “Yeah, you don’t run when I enter a room, so you’ve got that going for you.”
I smile softly.
Seemingly sensing the tone shift, Graham scoots a bit closer. “What’s up? You seem off.”
It’s strange having someone read me so well. Most people don’t. Has Graham always been able to read me this well? I swallow. “Nothing, just …” I’m not about to tell him I just had a jealousy attack over theoretical women from his past. “Overwhelmed, maybe.”
“Like I said, we can take this whole thing as slow as you want—”
“Not in that way,” I say quickly. “But thank you.”
“In what way?” he presses.
I grip the pen in my hand, staring at my lap. “I guess this wholeworldfeels overwhelming. Dating, sex, all of it. It’s not neat or tidy or predictable. And I just feel so … behind.” I bite my lip, feeling that familiar lump in my throat when I dwell on this kind of shit. I’m not about to let it get the best of me now, though.
Graham is silent for a moment. Long enough that I worry I’ve scared him off. But then he sighs quietly and says, “I think everyone feels behind in one way or another. Everyone has their one thing.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way before, I suppose. It’s probably true, that we each have our cross to bear, so to speak. “It’s just embarrassing,” I admit, and I finally brave a glance up to meet his eyes. “I mean, I’ve already utterly humiliated myself in front of you throughout this whole thing, but the topic of sex has always been this enormous embarrassment, my whole life.”
Graham smiles at this. “You haven’t humiliated yourself,” he protests.
