She craves me.
Me.
My mind empties, and I become this giant mass ofneed. I wrap my arms around her, my hands smoothing up and down her wet back, then down to her ass, squeezing it with hungry palms. We stumble into the jet of water, my clothes quicklygetting soaked, but I don’t care. Not when my dream girl is finally kissing me. Not when I just watched her fall apart for me.
Turning us around, I push her into the glass pane, my hands now holding the sides of her face, deepening our kiss. Connie’s giggle bubbles out of her lips as she grips the back of my wet shirt with her hand.
“You’re soaked,” she says against my lips, giggling again.
I smile, kissing her again and again, feeling weightless and free.
“Like I give a shit.”
26
HUXLEY
The elevator doors ding open, and a blonde middle-aged woman with a chihuahua tucked into her large purse walks in. She gives me a double take but says nothing, slowly turning to face the doors while Connie is barely keeping it together beside me. She’s holding in her laugh, a small snort coming out from her nose. I can barely manage to save face, either.
I’m soaking wet.
My jeans are now dark blue and sticking to my legs, seeping water into my boots drop by drop. Given my current predicament, we agreed to stop at my place before the Remington so I don’t freeze to death.
I didn’t stay in the shower for long, but I wish I could have stayed in forever, if only to exist in that happy feeling until I died. But I couldn’t excuse my absence from Whit for much longer, although the thought of playing hooky sounded much better than working.
Connie continues to snicker beside me, trying to keep silent, and my smile is so wide it’s hurting my cheeks. I’mvibrating with a feeling I can’t quite place; all I know is that it’s making me feel good, likereallygood.
I might not know what this all means for Connie, but right now, I don’t care. Sharing a private laugh with her in the elevator of a fancy hotel is good enough for me.
Following her through the lobby, I stop us before we reach the exit. I grab her hand and pull her into my arms. Something tells me that as soon as we walk through those doors, the spell will be broken. Whatever happened between us in her hotel room was a fluke, a bizarre shift into an alternative universe, and as soon as the icy cold air hits our skin, we’ll revert back to our old timeline. I just know it.
Her lashes flutter as she looks up at me, a smirk still on her flushed lips. I kiss her effortlessly and with no resistance. To the strangers passing us in the lobby, we’re a couple in love sharing a tender kiss.
I like the idea.
I like that ideaverymuch.
The bellabove the door clangs as I walk into my brother’s restaurant, Enter Sandwich. It’s a quarter to six, and the place is full of young professionals grabbing a bite to eat on their way home from work. I scan behind the counter for Ozzy but don’t see him yet, so I sit at a free table and text him that I’m here.
I’m not in the habit of visiting his restaurant out of the blue. But he called when I was still at the Remington today. Told me I hadn’t come by since they had changed the menu and that I should come try it out.
Ozzy’s always so eager for us to hang out. Might as well get some free food out of it. It might also have to do with the need to keep my mind occupied after the morning I hadwith Connie. As predicted, things reverted back to casual friendliness almost instantly, and I’m trying not to let it sour the memory.
After a few minutes of waiting, Ozzy appears from the back, his usual smirk at the corner of his lip. He might get on my nerves most of the time, but I can’t deny the brotherly resemblance. Even down to the clothes we wear. Dickies and band tees. Shitty stick and poke tattoos that make it look like we’ve never seen the inside of a professional tattoo shop before. His keys jangle from his carabiner on his hip, and I unconsciously toy with mine.
“You made it,” he says, his smile widening. “Sorry, it took me a second. I was making you a sandwich.”
He slides a plate in front of me and the smell makes my mouth instantly water.
“What is it?” I ask as I force a disinterested look on my face.
Rotating the plate a full three-sixty, I pretend to inspect the sandwich, but it’s all a facade. I know exactly what this is: Sourdough bun, mortadella, melted provolone, Dijon, and mayonnaise.
“It’s your favorite,” Ozzy says casually, his elbow resting on the table as he sips a small cup of espresso. “Remember? From that small Italian deli near our old place.”
My heart unwillingly squeezes painfully at the childhood memory. It’s an ache that feels too vaporous to locate and soothe. It just haunts and haunts until it eventually dissipates if I ignore it for long enough. I’m not sure I would have remembered that Italian deli myself if Ozzy hadn’t mentioned it. Or placed the sandwich directly under my nose.
I don’t remember much from our childhood. It’s like a black void, consuming anything that comes close to its orbit. Good or bad, it doesn’t discriminate. But if I strain and concentrate hard enough, I can conjure up the memory. It’s frustratingly vague but somehow alsofeelsextra bright. Like a single ray of lightpoking through a cloudy day. Like one impossibly small positive amongst the total mess we had to live through.
