Eitan rounds the curve of my ass, squeezing, and I suddenly remember where we are. In a nylon tent, in the middle of the woods, just fifteen feet from the drunken campfire.
“Wait,” I whisper, trying to sound stern as his lips shift to my neck.
“Hmm?” he asks. His eyelids are heavy, like he’s drunk on our kisses. Intoxicated by me.
“Everyone is right there,” I whisper.
“I don’t care,” he mumbles. “They’re all too drunk to notice anyway.”
He’s right. We’re on the opposite side of the campsite, and I can hear from the distant chatter that the rest of Camp Goldberg is perfectly occupied. It’s just Eitan and I. Something about him makes me feel braver about anything. Everything.
I am free-falling into him. No parachute, no net. It’s like Lucy’s poem: fantastical and mad and unknown.
His hands—rather sure of themselves—tug down the zipper of my windbreaker and begin undoing my shirt’s buttons. One by one. Slow and savoring. I wish I was wearing the dress I saw in the window of that boutique, something soft that would feel like water slipping off of me. Something with a plunging neckline because, for the first time, the thought of undressing—of someone seeing the marks of my surgery—doesn’t fill me with dread.
Once my flannel is shed, I’m left in my small cotton bra. The last layer between Eitan and my chest. The cynical voice reminds me of what happened the last time someone saw the Frankenboobs.
“I can hear you overthinking,” Eitan says, his hands stroking my ribs. “Talk to me.”
I squint at him. “Just calculating the probability that these are the first reconstructed boobs you’ve ever hooked up with.”
“They are,” he says without blinking. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “but if you think this is a hook up, then I have bad news for you.”
My giggle is a balm on the chapped edges of my heart.
Eitan pulls back and tugs gently on my bra. “I’d like to see, if you’re open to showing me. Every part of you is beautiful.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I whisper hoarsely, trying and failing to sound like I’m not losing my mind. “And boys,” I add.
“Would you believe me if I said it’s not normally like this?” Eitan smiles, wry.
To say that I know what he means would be a serious understatement.
My hands drift up to hold my bra and the silicone beneath my skin. I might not have been born with them, but they’re mine. A part of my body, even if I didn’t choose them. I feel protective of them because they’re actually kind of cute, if you look at it objectively.
I’ll still love you, I promise this part of my body,even if he doesn’t.
I avoid looking anywhere but down as I unclasp the bra. The straps fall down my arms, but I can’t let go of the front.
I finally meet his eyes, preparing myself to see impatience, disinterest, maybe even repulsion.
But Eitan’s expression is patient. He watches me like he sees the cracks and understands that certain pieces are broken. And that it’s okay. That we’re both a little broken. That maybe our broken edges can fit together to form something new.
We’re in a tent, in the dark, in the middle of the woods, but the space between us is full of sunlight.
“Waiting for something?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks. Cocky bastard. Damn, he’s cute.
I let go of the bra and it drops to the tent floor.
Eitan is a magnifying glass focusing the sunlight on me so hard it singes. His lips are parted ever so slightly, and his breathing is shallow. I think (I hope) his pupils are dilating, opening up as wide as they can so not a single particle of light emanating from me is missed.
“May I?” he asks, though it was so soft it could have been lost under the whir of my thoughts.
I take a deep breath, prepare to wade into uncharted water. “My boobs don’t have a lot of sensation, or any really, but this area” —I grab his hand and pull it to the stretch of skin between them— “and this area” —I move his hand to the side, where the skin begins to curve over my ribs— “are very sensitive.” Even just the whisper of his fingers over it sends a shiver through me.
Eitan nods and leans down, pressing his lips to the square inch of space between my breasts. His hands grip me gently on either side and stroke the other sensitive areas I showed him. I let out a noise that could be called a whimper.
“Like this?” he asks into my scars, breath hot.
