I tilt the phone down. I’m in a tank top, thin and loose, and shorts that sit low.
“Tank top. Shorts. No shoes. Hair is a disaster.”
“Nothing new there. Your hair is always a disaster.”
“My hair is carefully curated chaos and you love it.”
“You’re right, I do love it. I love it a lot.”
He says it simply. Not flirting. Just fact. And the fact of it hits me harder than any flirty line ever could.
“Your turn,” I say. “Show me what you’ve got.”
He tilts the phone down his body. The white T-shirt stretched across his chest, the blanket at his waist. The shirt is tight enough that I can see the shape of him underneath — the pecs, the flat stomach, the arms that have been carving themselves into my brain for weeks. He tilts back up.
“I swear you’re getting bigger,” I say.
“I do wheelchair push-ups every morning.”
“I think about you doing push-ups every morning. It’s becoming a problem for my productivity.”
His mouth curves. “Benji.”
“Yeah.”
“What would you do if you were here right now?”
The question surprises me. Because it’s honest. Mickey doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want the real answer to.
“If I were there right now?”
“Yeah. If you walked into this room. Right now. What would you do?”
I close my eyes. All that’s left is his voice through the speaker and the warm air on my skin.
“I’d take the phone out of your hand and put it on the nightstand. I’d pull the blanket off you because the blanket has been touching you all night and I’m jealous of a blanket. I’d sit on the edge of your bed and put my hand flat on your chest and feel your heart rate go up, because it would go up, Mickey. I know it would because mine goes up every time I’m within three feet of you.”
“Keep going,” he says.
“I’d lean down and put my mouth on your neck. The spot below your ear. The one that made you make that sound in the bathroom. I’ve been thinking about that sound. I hear it when I’m trying to fall asleep. I hear it when I’m driving.”
“Benji.” His voice is rough, lower than it was a minute ago.
“And then I’d pull your shirt off because I miss your chest. I miss the way your skin feels under my hands. I miss the calluses on your palms when they’re on my ribs. I’d put my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat and feel your hands in my hair. I’d stay there. All night, Mickey. I wouldn’t leave at visiting hours. I wouldn’t drive to the Holiday Inn. I’dfall asleep on your chest with your hands in my hair and your heartbeat under my ear. In the morning, I’d still be there.”
I stop talking, not because I run out of things to say. Because I can hear his breathing through the speaker and it’s uneven. His eyes on the screen are dark and open in a way I’ve only seen once before — in the bathroom, with my hands on his chest. And I realize that if I keep going, I’m building a night we can’t have yet. Not from here. Not through a phone.
“That’s where I’d stop,” I say softly. “Your chest. Your heartbeat. Your hands in my hair. That’s more than enough for me.”
His face on the screen is flushed. “Don’t stop on my account, Benji.”
“I’m not. If I keep talking about how much I want you, I’m going to get in my car right now and drive to Jacksonville at eleven-thirty at night. You need to persuade me not to do that.”
He knows I’m lying. He knows why I really stopped. I can see it in his face — the frustration.
“When you come back here again,” he says, “we’re finishing this conversation in person.”
“Promises, promises,” I tease. “I’ll hold you to that, Officer Weaver.”
