Page 6 of Every Version of You

His thick eyebrows dart up. “I did?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “I must have blacked out somewhere around then.” But then his expression turns interrogative. “Did you try to kiss me?”

“Me?” I blurt. “You’re the one who tried to kiss me!”

“Was not. You tried to jump me.”

“You’re delusional,” I scoff. “You were literally laying on top of me after dropping me during a dip.”

All of a sudden his eyes round with another memory. “Fuck. I shot the boot, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Whose shoe was it?”

“Isaiah’s.”

Raf makes a gagging sound. “I’m going brush my teeth. And shower. You can take mine since all the good stuff is in there. I’ll take the guest bathroom and meet you downstairs. You wanna go to White Dog Cafe? You can buy me brunch as an apology for trying to kiss me.”

“I did not! But yeah, let’s go. You’re paying. We’ll need to stop by my place first so I can change.”

“Sure,” he says, like we didn’t just talk about how we almost broke our twenty-two year no-kissing streak. He gets out of bed, showing off the way his broad muscled shoulders taper down to his tight backside covered by his black boxer briefs. His upper right arm is covered in wave tattoos, and Prison Mike stares at me from his bicep. Locating my dress pooled on the floor, he gently turns it right side out and inspects it before draping it over the edge of the bed neatly. “Looks to be in order and still clean. Good,” he says smiling at me. “I would hate for something to happen to that dress.”

God, why is he simultaneously the sweetest and most confusing human? I want to grab him by his big, stupid, handsome face, shake him and say: Stop being so nice, it turns me on.

I cover up my chest a little tighter with his soft, dark green duvet. “It would have been fine. That dress was like forty bucks. She doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Stop,” he says, shaking his head and moving toward the bedroom door. “That dress is special and I know you feel great when you wear it.” His dimples dig in even deeper before he pops out of the room.

Escaping to Raf’s bathroom is exactly what I need right now. It’s beautiful and modern, but I don’t pay much attention. I can’t focus on how well I’m cleaning my body with the whirlwind of thoughts placating my brain. Washing off my stupidity and replacing it with a fresh version of myself is rejuvenating. But then my traitorous brain reminds me… Raf almost kissed me.

Obviously we were both drunk because I know better than to give into those stupid urges. Not that I have any. But if I did…

No. Shut it down.

Leaning my forehead against the porcelain tile wall, I slough off the dangerously theoretical situation like my head and my heart are teflon. The shower takes longer than normal, but I needed a little more time to think. Even though all the aftermath makes sense, the blacking out part is still frustrating.

I’m worried I said something I’d regret to Raf. Like maybe I said something foolish that friends don’t say to friends. Things that shall not be labeled or given a name even within the confines of my brain. My only saving grace is knowing that he blacked out too. So if I did say something stupid, he doesn’t remember either.

Stepping out of the shower, I take my time inspecting everything he has stocked. He has a large collection of cologne, but I spot his go-to and take a whiff. He’s also an after-shave kind of guy apparently. That’s new. He never used to be.

Mmm, that smells good too. His cologne is a strong bergamot and lemon, but this aftershave balm is light like chamomile.

Listen, I’m as turned-on by a rugged mountain man as the next person, but there’s something about a man with a whole skincare set up, a beautiful grooming kit, and cologne collection that gets. Me. Going.

When I’m satisfied with my pampering, I reapply my sticky bra and throw on my dress from last night and head out.

We make a quick pit stop at my place where my chunky orange cat Razzel Dazzle yells at me for disturbing his peace. This dude is twenty years old and just won’t die. Not that I want him to. I’ve had him since I was a preteen and he’s been through too much with me. I think all my childhood trauma is keeping him alive honestly.

Snickering, Raf plucks one of my dark romance novels from the bookcase, fingering through the pages to the well-worn sections as I change into a cute spring sweater, jeans, and sneaks.

I’m grateful he’s distracted and not paying attention to my little rented one bedroom that I know he hates. He’s been here countless times over the last few years. It’s in a house with a family I know through my old job, but it is in a rougher neighborhood. A neighborhood Raf grunts his indignation at every spare moment he’s here. Like if he grunts enough I’ll finally find a safe neighborhood with cheap rent.

Pete and Sarah Boyer were kind enough to let me live with them for a reasonable rate. I wasn’t stretching the truth before: I make very little money even with a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s degree in counseling. I work in the non-profit mental health field at a few different public elementary schools—you know, where teachers and staff alike are notoriously paid well from the endless pot of gold the government gives them.

By the time we make it to White Dog Cafe, one of our favorite spots, the lingering unease from this morning fades away with that first clink of our mimosa flutes. “I’m so happy you're back, Raf. Cheers to the way it should be.”

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