"It's easier when you ask me," I say, and the realization sits funny in my tummy. "On the test, the words get jumbled. The options all look the same. But when someone asks me out loud, I just ... know it."
"Then we do it out loud." He says this like it's obvious, like the solution to my lifelong testing problem is simply Bernard Houser asking the questions. "Every morning, every night. We quiz until you can do it in your sleep."
Gianna appears with two plates: a mountain of meatballs in red sauce for him, a sub overflowing with the same for me. She sets Bernard's down and raises an eyebrow. "Look at you hydrating responsibly."
"It's ten thirty, Gianna."
"That's never stopped you before." She pats his shoulder and disappears.
I frown at the space. “She really doesn’t mind if you come in here before lunch?”
Bernard has his mouth full already. He chews a bit and says, behind his fist, “She comes in early to prep catering orders and such.”
I bite into the sub and almost groan. The meatball is perfect—tender, garlicky, the sauce rich and tangy against the crusty bread. Bernard watches me eat with an expression of open satisfaction, like feeding me is a personal accomplishment.
"Okay," I say, after swallowing. "I have a question that's not about cardiac conduction."
He picks up a meatball with his fork. "Shoot."
"When do we start the other lessons?"
Bernard's fork freezes halfway to his mouth. A flush crawls up his neck—actual, visible red—and he glances toward the kitchen, then the door, then back at me. "Maybe not the best place to discuss the, uh, curriculum."
"Nobody's here, Bernard."
"Gianna has ears like a bat."
"I'm not proposing we do it on the table. I'm asking when."
He puts the fork down. The flush has reached his ears. This enormous, confident hockey player who has reportedly slept with half of Pittsburgh's fangirls is blushing at the mere mention of sex with me. I find this deeply satisfying.
"Today," he says, and his voice drops. "If you want. Rookie's out until four."
The meatball sub suddenly requires all of my attention. I take a very deliberate bite and chew slowly, aware that my own face is doing something I can't control. “That works."
We finish lunch in a state of heightened awareness. Every time our fingers brush, reaching for napkins, I feel it in my spine. He pays the check, and I don't argue because I am saving all my argumentative energy for other things.
The walk back to the apartment feels like three hours. The elevator ride is silent. He unlocks the door. The apartment is empty, quiet except for the fridge humming and a barge horn from the river.
Bernard closes the door behind us and stands in the entryway, suddenly looking less like a confident sex tutor and more like a man who has realized he agreed to teach a woman about intimacy and maybe didn't think through the logistics.
"So," he says.
"So."
"Do you want to… should we… the couch?"
"Not your bed?"
"That's your room right now. I don't want you to feel like I'm—it should be somewhere neutral. Where you're not sleeping." He rubs the back of his neck. "The couch is neutral."
I sit down on the ten-thousand-dollar leather monstrosity. It's enormous, wide enough for both of us, deep enough to lie down. I understand now why Jason spent this much on a sofa. It's the size of a small country.
Bernard perches beside me, leaving a careful gap. He angles his body toward mine, and I'm struck by how large he is this close. The breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his thighs, the way his hands rest on his knees like he's not sure what to do with them.
"Okay," he says. "So. First thing. Tell me what you've done before."
"Done?"
