Page 27 of Triple Play

My voice goes dry in my throat. “Amazing is an overstatement.”

“So amazing and modest.” Blake kisses my cheek. This time he doesn’t pull away. His palm cups my jaw.

I let the towel fall another inch. Then another. This isn’t a hint. Hell, it’s a damn siren.

He strokes his fingers up my arm. “Shira…” It comes out breathy. Then he kisses me long and slow and thorough. Up close, his eyes are hooded and blue. He kisses me again, more urgently, as if we’re making up for lost time.

Finally…I sweep my tongue in his mouth, reach for his hands to cup them around my body. His groan works its way through his chest. Somehow after hours in the car his hair still looks perfect. I can’t resist; I run my fingers through it to mess it up.

He grins at me, easy, and I reach for the hem of his shirt, pull it upward to reveal the lean cut of his abs. Fuck, everything about him is perfect, even the shape of his bellybutton and the splash of freckles he has along one rib.

But then he shakes his head, eases my hands away from his torso, placing them atop my knees. “Listen,” he says, “it’s been a long, stressful day. I should shower. I’m sure I smell as bad as you don’t.”

I should not—will not—pout. He’s already more than I could ask for. “In that case, get your ass moving.” I swat his hip playfully.

Blake laughs. “You’re a firecracker.”

“A firecracker?”

“In Atlanta, the team would always pop ’em off when we’d win. You’re who I want to see at the end of the night.” And he kisses my cheek again before he heads toward the bathroom.

A firecracker. Something bright but fleeting.

Or something that I can enjoy for as long as it lasts.

The mature thing to do would be to ask him what’s going on. I’ve been told I can be overly direct. I’ve spent the past month trying to soften my edges: to be the kind of girlfriend—or potential girlfriend—who Blake can see in his life long-term. If that means waiting, I can be patient. Still, I should ask. Tomorrow.

The immature thing is what I actually do: stomp my feet and let out a tiny noise of frustration. Quietly. Or quietly for me.

From the next room, the rattling stops. “Everything good over there?” Felix says through the wall.

“Yep,” I lie, “everything’s fine.”

Blake apparently takes the world’s longest showers. I have time to dry my hair, to put on a rudimentary amount of makeup.

There’s no way I can stand real clothes, so I tug on a pair of exercise tights and a cropped oversized T-shirt with a neckline wide enough it slides off my shoulder. Dance rehearsal gear. All that’s missing is a leotard. And a real dance career.

Despite the shower, I’m stiff. At least I can get a deep stretch if I can’t get a deep… I cut myself off from that thought.

Out in the kitchen-slash-living room, something smells like it’s been cooking. The oven yields a pan of bake-from-frozen mac and cheese—decorated with additional black pepper—along with a sleeve of garlic bread. A salad sits on the counter in a plastic bowl.

Blake must have made it while I was in the shower. Huh. I was expecting a few things thrown casually on a sheet tray, not an actual meal.

No matter how hungry I am, stretching before eating is always better than eating before stretching. I commandeer a chair from the kitchen table to use as a makeshift living room barre. Go through my warmups: toe bounces, heel lifts, shoulder rolls.

My mind wanders. Do the same movement enough times and you fall into autopilot.

Don’t think about Felix. I fold forward, lengthen my spine. Don’t let myself dwell on how I’m not thinking about him with my ass up in the air.

Don’t think about Blake. I send my arms toward the ceiling, infusing space between my ribs and vertebrae. Grasping for an invisible something just slightly out of reach.

Normally, at home, I’d follow this with a series of splits, but doing those in the relative public of the living room can feel…personal.

The water’s still running in the bathroom. Felix is somewhere. I don’t care. Fuck it. I drove for seven hours. I’m going to do some splits.

I start with seated ones: side splits that got a flurry of tips when I did them on the pole. The way Felix saw me. The way Blake will never—can never—see me.

I really need to get this whole situation off my mind. Standing splits require more stability than a chair, so I position myself in the doorway between the living room and the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

---