Page 56 of Courtroom Drama
“Except for every moment of every day that we spend together when we’re not sleeping.”
“Yeah, but we’re never alone.”
I become highly aware of our aloneness now. “Can’t this be a padlocked diary topic?” I try.
He stares me down, eyebrow raised.
It seems odd timing to bring it up. I’m not certain it needs to be brought up at all. That presidential suite kiss seems like many moons ago, with all that’s happened in the trial and otherwise since. “Okay, so talk,” I say finally.
He licks his bottom lip, and I’m reminded of how he tasted. Warm. Wet. Hoppy.
“Well, you seemed like you regretted it. Like maybe it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing.”
I don’t confirm or deny.
“I just wanted to apologize again, if that’s the case. If you really do regret it.” He speaks with intention, like he’s been thinking about it, choosing his words, looking for an opportunity to bring it up.
I think of his fiery tongue, how it spilled into my mouth like lava. “I kissed you first,” I say. “I don’t want you to think you did anything wrong. You didn’t.”
He runs his hand along his neck again. “Other than potentially cause the mistrial of the century.” His eyes flicker in what I’ve come to know as his own form of a smile, and I do the same so I don’t think about the possible consequences of my questionable activities.
“It was fine,” I say, attempting to reassure him again.
“Just fine?” he asks, his face so inscrutable I almost believe he’s offended.
I shake my head and avoid a smile, refusing to give him more.
A new song plays—familiar, but not a Wrong Lyric song. The one that pulsed out the window of my father’s Buick as he backed out of our garage, ending our first kiss. “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran. It had just come out and was constantly playing everywhere, a marking of that point in time. I wonder if he remembers.
His face hardens as he looks at me, and we’re silent for most of the song. Finally, he speaks. “Did you have feelings for me? Back then?”
I swallow, continue to hold his gaze. “We were teenagers,” I say.
“And?”
“And you were my best friend. I’d be lying if I said I never thought about it. Never thought about... more between us.”
His pointer finger taps at his thigh.
I clear my throat and ask, “Did you?”
He continues to hold my gaze. “I think whatever we had got cut short.”
“That’s a fact, not an answer,” I press. This moment, this bit of conversation, feels important in a way that’s too complex to define.
He lets out a breath, something between a huff and a sigh. “I did. Of course I did,” he says.
A spark of lightning strikes from my stomach down between my legs at the admission I’ve waited ten years to hear.
27.
Contraband (n.)
illegal or prohibited traffic in goods; smuggling
Ididn’t do it
“So,” I say, still staring at him in the close quarters of his hotel room. “Maybe that kiss was...” I bite at my bottom lip, trying to ignore the throbbing heat pulsing through me. “...seizing the opportunity we never got back then.” I try on the explanation, see how it fits. It doesn’t seem wrong, but also, not wholly right.
