My face goes hot. “Oh, my. Goodbye, Officer Weaver. I’ll see you at five-thirty. Don’t eat the cafeteria food before I get here.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I return at five-thirty with an extra-large brick oven pizza with Mickey’s favorite toppings. He seems more excited to see the box than to see me.
“Is that what I think it is?” he says.
“You bet. Brick oven. Sausage, banana peppers, extra cheese. I called ahead so it would be hot when I got here.”
“Benji.” He’s already reaching for the box. “You are my favorite person alive right now.”
“Right now? How about always? I’m going to need that to be permanent.” I set the box on his tray table, swatting his hand away before he can open it. “Hold on. I need to wash my hands. Don’t start without me.”
I walk into the bathroom. The counter is ADA height which means he can roll under it. Since the day Mickey was shot, we’ve not had a single moment of real privacy. Every room has had a door that a nurse could come walking through.
This bathroom has a door with alock.
I hop up on the counter and sit on the edge, legs dangling, my back against the mirror. I’ve either made a decision that I’m going to be very proud of or very embarrassed about and there is no middle ground here.
“Mickey?” I call through the open door. “Can you come in here for a second? I need to show you something.”
I hear his chair on the tile. The soft roll of the wheels, the slight squeak of the rubber on the floor. He appears in the doorway.
“What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”
“Close the door and lock it.”
He reads me fast, the whole picture in one sweep, me sitting on the counter, my face, the flush I can feel climbing my neck. He reaches behind him and pulls the door shut and locks it.
“Benji. What are you doing?”
“Come closer,” I say.
He watches me for a long second then he moves forward. The sink has the open clearance underneath and his chair slides right under the counter until his knees are between my dangling legs and his chest is inches from mine. We’re face to face for the first time without me bending down or kneeling or craning over an armrest. The counter puts me at his height.
“Remember that big speech I gave you at lunch?” I ask. “About me keeping my hands off you? About me sitting in my chair like a gentleman?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He gives me a quizzical look. “And?”
I reach over and grip his shoulders. I can feel the heat of his skin through his T-shirt, the round solid muscle I’ve been rubbing cream into for weeks. “I’m sorry, Mickey. I lied. It turns out I’m not capable of doing all that.”
I slide my hands down his chest and lean forward. My mouth finds the side of his neck, the spot just below his ear where I’ve pressed my thumbs a hundred times during the cream ritual, the spot I’ve mapped without ever putting my lips on it.
My lips are there now. His skin is warm and I can feel his pulse under my mouth, faster than a resting heart rate should be.
He makes a sound. Low, barely more than a breath.
I press my mouth harder against his neck. I drag my lips down the tendon, feeling every ridge, and his head tips back. His grip closes around my wrist, holding me there. Pressing me harder against him.
“This room,” he says, rough and low. “This is the first room we’ve been in together with a lock.”
“I know.” I smile against his skin. “Why do you think I lured you in here?”
He turns his head. The turn brings his mouth within an inch of mine. His breath is warm against my lips. His eyes are so blue, looking at me with a burning focus.
“Kiss me,” he says.
I don’t move right away. My hands are trembling on his shoulders and I need one more second to look at his face before I change everything. His breathing is shallow. His pupils are blown wide and the blue is just a thin ring around the black and the black is all want.
