It’s soft at first. Sweet. Careful. He’s either tasting me before he decides if I’m real or memorizing the curve of my mouth for later.
I make a tiny, needy little whimper and everything shifts.
His hand comes up to cradle my jaw.
And suddenly I’m not on the sidewalk.
I’m floating.
Drowning.
Melting.
Whatever the metaphor is for holy shit this man just kissed the stupid out of me.
He pulls back slowly, lips brushing mine like he’s not ready to stop.
Neither am I.
“I’ll text you?” he says, voice low, eyes soft.
I nod again, dizzy. “Please do. Or I’ll be forced to be more aggressive with my affection.” That was a little too honest.
He laughs. Kisses my forehead this time.
Then walks away like he didn’t just set me on fire and soften me all at once.
I sit in my car, hands on the wheel, heart a disaster, and whisper to no one, “I think I’m in trouble.”
I should not be allowed to drive right now. I am drunk on kindness. Buzzed on post-kiss dopamine and nacho cheese residue. This is worse than tequila. So much worse than tequila.
I’m gripping the steering wheel, blasting an old Mariah Carey song that I would absolutely never admit I know every single word to. My brain’s on a loop:
He kissed me.
He kissed me like he meant it.
He kissed me like I wasn’t a warning label in a sundress.
I hit a red light and slap both hands over my face and scream like I’m being exorcised. Just a raw primal scream into the void.
Benji is dangerously nice. I’m talking, pull-over-to-help-a-turtle-cross-the-road nice. Pick-up-heavy-things-without-being-asked nice. The kind of nice that makes me want to wrap myself around him like a scarf and never let go. And that’s not safe. Because the nicer they are, the harder they crush your ribcage when they inevitably decide they don’t want your unhinged ass.
I park in front of my building and just sit there. Staring into the void. Mariah is still whisper-singing about butterflies and I’m having an identity crisis in the glow of my dashboard.
Eventually, I shuffle into my apartment like a freshly laid ghost. Still warm with after-kiss brain chemicals. I peel off my dress and stomp toward the bathroom.
I stand under the hot water and let it scald me into the present moment. I even try doing that grounding technique my old therapist taught me. Five things I can see. Four I can touch. Three I can taste. Two I can overanalyze. One I can spiral about for six hours and still not resolve.
Benji’s hands. That’s what’s burned into my skin. Not the chlorine. Not the sun. His giant, gentle hands holding me like I wasn’t something wild. Sharp around the edges. Or just too much.
And he let me order pineapple and hot pepper pizza without flinching. That’s love. That’s marriage material.
I rinse shampoo out of my hair and immediately go to Amazon with still-pruny fingers.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve ordered him a custom banana-shaped pool float with his name embroidered on the stem. I’ve also ordered two keychains, his and hers. They say: “If lost, return to Delilah.”
I’m not okay.
