“Like you don’t have any?” I combat.
He laughs into a grin. “I consider some boundaries like cautionary tales. Proceed with caution, but you know, still go on ahead.” He flashes me the hottest smile I’ve ever seen, and I bear on my molars, my erection wanting pressure. A mouth, a hand, an ass.
Hismouth,hishand.
Hisass.
I find myself shaking my head.
“What?” he asks.
I have to tell him my biggest roadblock. As though it’s not in-his-face-obvious enough. “I value self-awareness.” I take a colossal breath. “Theabilityto understand and perceive every facet of my own weird existence. In Greek ethics, it’s said only the self-aware understand what is right, and therefore will have the knowledge to do what is good.”
I want to do what is right. To dogood.
To be good.
Farrow taps the middle console, his thumb ring clicking against leather. His hand is an inch from my arm. He nods, understanding. “And you see being with your bodyguard aswrong. And wrong leads to bad; and bad equals unhappy in your philosophically-bound head. You realize that not everyone thinks that way, Maximoff?”
My brows knot. “In what universe doeswronglead to rays of fucking sunshine and happily-ever-afters, Farrow? Please, enlighten me.”
“How about rewinding and asking yourself,is it really wrong?Or how about this one:what is ethical to begin with?Who decided on these moral rights?” He leans back, boot on his seat. “Or what about what Thoreau said?”
I frown. “You’ve read Thoreau?”
“I took philosophy and lit during undergrad.”
I give him a brief look like he’s flown off this planet. “That was oversevenyears ago.” And I doubt he reads in his spare time. While my shelves are stacked and stacked with comics, graphic novels, and philosophy texts—his one small bedroom bookshelf isbare.
“I remember everything I skim,” he says, not even lying about “skimming” texts.
One right turn and I drive onto our street.
We go silent.
I pass rows and rows of townhouses, both of our homes in view. Then I pull onto the short driveway. He clicks the garage button. And I park next to Jane’s baby blue Beetle. After shutting off the ignition, the garage door grinds closed.
We stay right here. Inside my three-car garage, sheltered from the Philly noise.
Quiet. Alone.
In one single breath, Farrow turns towards me. His arm extends over the back of my leather seat. My muscles burn and tighten like rubber bands that beg to snap. I want him evencloser.ButI hold still, marbleized.
His other arm rests on the middle console. His hand one move away from my leg.
Farrow caresses my gaze as he says, “Thoreau said, ‘Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life. So aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something.’”
His deep voice and Thoreau’s words pour through me like liquid honesty.“Be not simply good.”Self-perfection has its limits. Being moral, making moral choices—it all means nothing in comparison to doing good for others. I don’t need to be the perfect picture of morality in order to help someone in need.
I’d rather be good for something.
For someone.
So I look at him.
I’m talking areallook. Like I’m excavating his every thought and desire. My eyes bore into his eyes, and then my gaze melts in a carnal wave against his gaze.
Farrow returns the aroused, taut sentiment. Our short breaths are the only true noise.
