“I lied,” I say. “I didn’t need to get anything. I wanted to give you something.” I hold out my arms, offering up a hug. There are so many deaths in the nursing home that I’ve learned a few things about handling grief. The first is that “I’m sorry” doesn’t always help everybody, but some version of “that sucks” always does.
The other is that hugs often say what words can’t.
Josh slides his arms around me and pulls me against him, and I settle my arms around his waist, my ear resting against his heart again, listening to that ever-steady beat. It’s hard to reconcile this Josh with the one he’s been describing.
“Thank you,” he says. His voice is soft, but it stirs my hair, and the tickle sends a shiver down my back.
“Of course.” I’ve seen this kind of regret so often. Of people not stopping by often enough, and so the last words their loved ones leave with are not the ones the living meant to send them off with. Of people who would do anything to get back a little more time with an elder who slips away.
We stand like that for a minute or so, and I try to let Josh be sad and not rush in with reassurances. He holds me and says nothing. I sense that his mind is far away, probably in the past. I hope it’s somewhere good with his grandmother and not in the regrets.
But slowly, so slowly I don’t notice until it’s shifted, the energy between us changes. One of Josh’s hands makes a gentle circle on my back, and I realize he’s offering me a choice: I can react like it’s comfort or like it’s an invitation. I tense, but it’s the stillness where you’re holding your breath before a moment. A big moment.
When I respond by tightening my arms ever so slightly, his other hand comes up to stroke my hair, skimming from the crown of my head to the tips resting between my shoulder blades. This sends another shiver down my spine, one he can’t miss. He does it again, and I hear the unmistakable increase in his heartbeat. It sounds much louder now as everything else fades away. The chill in the air creeping through a drafty window. The faint spill of light from his living room.
I close my eyes, and I hear only his heart, feel only the heat from his body, the gentle movement of his hands.
When the hand stroking my hair slides around to cup my jaw, he doesn’t need to apply any pressure for me to lift it and turn my mouth toward his. He dips his head, slowly, and I try for sanity one last time.
“This isn’t what I came over here for.”
He pauses. “I didn’t think it was. Should I—”
I tighten my arms again when his hand loosens slightly.
He smiles. “Good.” Then he brushes his lips against mine.
A kiss like this should be gentle. Comforting. Tender, maybe?
It is not.
Maybe it’s because I’ve heard the accelerating beats of his heart. Maybe it’s because we’ve done so much flirting with our fake dating. But this is fire. Hot. Intense.
He deepens the kiss almost immediately, and my arms fly up to settle against his chest, one grabbing his shirt to pull him closer, the other to keep me upright, because this man, Josh, myfakeboyfriend, has just weakened my knees. It’s a disaster.
I don’t care.
I want more of this kiss, of the way he tastes. His lips are warm and the right kind of dry, moving against mine so easily, like their touch creates a perfect chemical reaction, but when his tongue slides against mine, we plunge straight into physics. Explosions. Kinetic energy. Atomic-level wanting.
I give it all back. Every touch, every taste, every shortened breath. All of it. Until my wandering hands tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, and it draws a soft growl from him. So soft it’s more like a vibration.
But it slices through the hormone haze, and I stiffen. Josh stops and lifts his head. “You okay?”
I draw my arms back and brush some stray hair from my eyes. “Yeah. Yes. Fine.”
He lets go of me. “Who are you trying to convince?”
“I . . . me.”
He slips his hands into the pockets of his joggers and takes a comically large step back. “How’s that going?”
“I think I believe it.”
“That wouldn’t hold up in court.” He keeps his tone light, but now I see the first hint of concern in his eyes. “For real this time. Are you okay?”
“Yes. I don’t . . . I’m not . . .” I scrub my hand over my face. “Sorry. I don’t have any trauma like . . . that. I just . . .” This is going from bad to worse. If my AP composition teacher were here, she’d be slashing all of my verbal ellipses from the air with a vehement red pen. But how do I say, “The sound of how much you wanted me made me realize how much I want you, and I freaked out because everything else about you is what I don’t want”?
I don’t. I’m glad that my common sense is back, but only by one percent more than I regret it. The wishing we were still wrapped around each other part is at forty-nine percent. Instead, I say, “Sorry. You’re trying to tell me about some tough stuff and I’m all over you like cheap cologne.”
