“Mhmm,” I say quickly, unintelligibly.
“What about here?” His lips move an inch to the right and kiss the scar that runs underneath my boob. I feel his lips on the seam and the skin beneath the scar, even though what’s above it is completely numb. The sensation is so thrilling I may catch fire.
“Yeah,” I get out between heavy breaths, “that’s a nice spot.”
“I was right,” he says absently. It takes me a second to register because he’s kissing his way toward my ribs, leaving a trail of chills in his wake.
“About?”
“Every part of you is so beautiful.”
My hands find their way into his hair and I run my fingers through it in response. It’s coarse and soft and just as fluffy as it looks. I sigh, and then I realize he said something that I missed in my haze.
“What?”
“I asked,” he laughs softly, “can I go down on you?” His seaglass eyes are an inch from my skin, and they’re so earnest it knocks me off balance. I tighten my hands in his hair.
Unwelcome thoughts puncture my haze, and I remember how reluctant Grant looked every time I asked him to do that. How he would just end up using his hand, and then get my orgasm out of the way so that we could have ‘real’ sex. I bite my lip without realizing it, and Eitan notices something’s wrong.
He squeezes my waist, bringing me back to the moment. “Hey, where did you go?”
I try to speak but nothing really comes out. Because now that the attention has been called to it, I’m fixating on the thought that I haven’t done this in a year and a half and I’m probably bad at it at this point and I probably won’t finish and then Eitan will take it personally, or translate it toshe’s bad in bed. And all he needs to do is walk ten feet at this campsite to find someone more ready and more eager and more talented in the bedroom.
My insecurities are a thousand needles, pricking in all directions.
“Hey.” Eitan holds my face, focusing my eyes on him and not the thoughts flitting over me like wildfire. “Tell me what you’re thinking because I can guarantee it’s wrong.”
“I haven’t—” I swallow, try to arrange the words so that they come out not sounding paranoid and overemotional and already insecure even though we haven’t even had sex yet. “Done this in a while—alongtime,” I emphasize, so that Eitan—known playboy—understands how different our lives have been. “Like so long there’s probably cobwebs down there?—”
Eitan laughs. “I don’t care, Ruby,” he says my name fondly. “I’m just happy to be here, with you. We could read your star chart or count sheep together. We don’t need to have sex.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, implying,No sex? Really?
His hands hold me a little tighter. “I’m serious,” he insists. “Just being able to kiss you” —he punctuates this with a loud, wet smooch— “is a stark upgrade from where we started this trip.”
This helps pull me out of my head. I like having something to be contrary about. “What ifIwant to have sex?”
“Then we will, at a pace you’re comfortable at. I’m not in a rush.” His arms band around my waist, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. Dear God, those forearms. Downright slutty. “We can do whatever you want.”
“Anything?” I think about a few things I’d pay money to experience: Eitan performing another Broadway showtune, giving me a full body massage, kissing me in a crowded room.
Eitan chuckles. “Should I be nervous? I think I should be nervous.” He grabs my face—confident but gentle—and kisses me. Splits me open, more like. I can feel the ripples of the kiss in my toes.
He’s still in his shirt, I realize with a slightly impatient grunt. The buttons are small and difficult to undo. I work on them, letting out pained noises of frustration when they don’t immediately give way. He shifts to kiss along my jaw and my neck, and I’m quite sure that nothing can stop me. I dosomething I’ve only seen in movies: I yank his shirt apart and those tiny, annoying buttons go flying.
His chest is moving up and down, weighed and buoyed by his breath.Miracle.The word shimmers around us. A miracle that he exists. That I’m alive, to experience this moment. That we found our way to each other.
His gold chain lays there, nestled within tufts of chest hair, and I finally see the pendant that’s been weighing it down, hiding beneath his shirt.
A goldchaidangles from his chain. Two letters,chetandyud, a Universe’s worth of meaning embedded in them.Life.
I don’t mean to hold my breath but I do. It’s one of the most important words for our people. Part of the commandment we are reminded of every Yom Kippur.Choose life.I haven’t heard the Torah being read since before my diagnosis, but I know the verse by heart.I put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life.It’s difficult to hear a God—whom you don’t believe in—command you to choose a life that gave you cancer.
I gave up on fighting with God—the Universe, whatever it is—about that commandment a long time ago.
But maybe this is one of those moments that could make it worth not giving up.
“Still with me?” Eitan asks.
