I open the phone, crafting a message.I want to make up for last night. Come over in an hour?I hit Send, gut bubbling in embarrassment. He has every right to ignore me, to turn me down. Maybe it’s what I deserve.
It’s a presumptuous attempt, I know. But the thought of Rory here to fill the devastating silence is the only way I want to end this dizzying day. This whole twisted week.
This is the first text we’ve exchanged since finding each other again, and suddenly I wonder if he even has my number saved still. Should I send another, reminding him who it’s from? No. Too eager? God. A cringy reminder of how exhausting the dating game is. I plop the phone onto my stomach and let it sit there like a stone, accepting whatever is to come.
A buzz comes in, vibrating against my hip bone, and Rory’s name caresses the screen:I’ll be there.
The doorbell rings as the sun dips low, casting a copper glow across the lake-facing windows. I told my sister that Rory was coming,
so she slipped out with Wes for food a few minutes ago, leaving the house quiet. At least for a little while.
I fluff my hair before pulling the door open in a sad attempt to appear sexy and wind-swept—as if that will Band-Aid past impressions. Rory stands on the porch, effortlessly handsome, his smile easy, somewhat restrained.
“Hey,” he says, coy.
“Come in.” I step aside, closing the door once he passes, his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “Thanks for coming over. And for taking me home last night. I wish I could have gotten through the movie, at least.”
Rory turns to face me again. “We’ve seen it.” He shrugs. “And there’s plenty of time for more movies.” He approaches me, interlocks his fingers with mine just to fiddle with them. It’s a teasing intimacy that makes the back of my neck prickle. “There’s no reason you should feel bad about last night. Okay?”
I nod, feeling better about it already—feeling seen. In a way, protected. Like he notices what I’m going through.
He walks into the living room, glancing around at the tidy space. “Looks good in here. You guys did a lot since yesterday.”
Boxes are stacked against the far wall, the room feeling quite barren. The TV rests in its mount, pillows remain on the couch. But the personality has been drained from the space. I try not to focus on it now—or steep in the sadness of its change.
“Amelia and Wes—her boyfriend—did most of it,” I admit. “But Ididtackle that bookshelf,” I say, pointing at it—grand, empty now,near the windows. Its books are boxed up, little trinkets wrapped in tissue, framed photos tucked carefully into their own small crates. I don’t bring up the clothes. “And the armoire,” I add, thinking of the binoculars I sealed away, ready to put childish voyeurism behind me.
I had glanced out the window a few times while I packed up that armoire; realized that no amount of staring would tell me what I needed to know. Packing the binoculars felt like shedding a thin layer of paranoia, a quiet acknowledgment that I had to face Tim directly. If I’ll even do that. I doubt I’ll give myself the chance before we finish the house this week.
“Very impressive,” he jokes.
I follow him, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed.
“Where are they now? Your sister and her boyfriend.”
“They went out to grab some food. So…” I trail off, my body angling closer. “For now, they’re gone.”
Rory gives me a slow once-over, a seductive glint in his eye. The fading light paints his tight jawline rose as a fuchsia sunset passes through the windows. “Alone with me, huh?”
I smirk. “How’d you get so lucky?”
He chuckles, and for a moment, the tension softens. But when he steps closer, it builds faster than I can catch up with as his mouth finds mine. My hands meet the back of his head, thumb brushing his cheek as he kisses me—slow at first, then hungry. His grip slides over my back and pulls me against him in a frenzy.
Heat pours down me as I tug his pullover over his head, his hair mussing into something impossibly perfect. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t slow, hands already exploring the curve of my waist, the slope of my ribs. I peel my sweater away, teasing a line across the top of his waistband before he fumbles his jeans open. We’re clumsy withurgency, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths as clothes scatter to the floor, pockets emptying in noisy clangs.
Back in high school, we never made it this far. Our intimate encounters stayed innocent and restrained in the throes of nervous adolescence. Now, every touch feels like years of waiting have broken loose.
I pull my lips from his, circling his torso with my finger in deliberate slowness, feeling down every ridge of him, gripping him, forcing him to stillness.
He groans, wanting to close the space between us. But I don’t let up. I move down his body, kissing different spaces of his skin leisurely until he can’t stand it.
“Stop teasing me.” His voice is low, strained with need.
I smirk. “Do you want me?” And it’s not despairing, but confident.
I step back enough for him to stretch for me before letting his hands run down my body again, his mouth sucking at my neck, teeth running against my ear.
“You make me crazy,” he whispers.
