Page 108 of Look, Don't Touch

“I know, that’s why I’m taking steps.” She squeezes my hand. “You need to talk to him, open up, and tell him why you think the way you do.”

Gooseflesh engulfs my skin, and the salad flops in my stomach.

“I know.”

“I know you know, but will you do it?”

“Astor…” I open my mouth to make an excuse or try to explain why attachment is so much harder for me. Nothing comes out. It’s all bullshit. She’s right.

No one has lost more than Arlo. No one has endured more. No one deserves more.

“He’s shown you his vulnerability, Hailey. He needs the same vulnerability from you.” Her gaze narrows. “You have to decide whether he’s worth it. Is he worth it?”

I meander through the gallery, waiting for the final piece for the gala’s silent auction to be wrapped so I can haul it home. It’s a nice piece by a local artist. Though not as big or as grand as I would have liked, it’s impactful.

Dreamstate by Elizabeth Lennie.

It depicts a woman in bed, entwined with her sheets that look vaguely like the face of a lover. To me, it speaks to the loneliness so many people face in this time of digital connection over the real face-to-face. I’ve never felt that loneliness even though my life has been an emotional desert. Not until Arlo’s presence and now his absence.

I’ve thought about what Astor said over the past three days. Maybe it’s good that he didn’t return last night as expected. It’ll give me more time to figure out what I’m willing to risk for what I want.

The gallery is busy for a Saturday. Which is why I find myself in the back room, seeking solace. My feet root in place in front of a painting that grabs me by the throat.

It’s us.

The negative space painting is by Jarek Puczel. Its background is pink and both the man and woman in the frame have nearly black hair, unlike Arlo and me. They’re leaning in close as if to kiss, eyes level with one another, but they cannot touch, cannot connect because their mouths are not there. They’re lost in that negative space.

I love it and hate it in equal measure.

The longing and the inability to touch perfectly mirror my longing and my inability to connect.

“It looks like us…a few months ago.”

Arlo’s perfect rasp tickles my jaw.

My breath catches.

Have I conjured him? Has my desperation to feel him, to see him, and to hear him manifested into a grand delusion?

“Not us now?” I ask my hallucination.

“I think we’ve come a long way from there, don’t you?”

His arms wrap around my middle, and he pulls my back to his chest. Tears prick my eyes. I turn in his arms and launch myself up. My arms wrap around his neck. I bury my face in his hair and breathe him into my lungs. My legs follow suit, twining around his middle.

The heat of his hand encompasses my nape. His lips pepper my jaw and the shell of my ear while his other hand grips my trousered ass and holds me to him. “See, we’ve come a long way.”

I lever back and kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone, as though he is my sustenance, my oxygen, my everything. He presses my back against the wall and kisses me the same damn way.

His warm fingers frame my face. His lips eat at mine. His tongue coils, and his mouth sucks.

“I missed you,” I speak my truth against his lips.

He pulls back, and I’m gifted with the intensity of the ocean in his eyes. It’s storming and dangerous, but it is meant for me. It is safe for me.

“My siren, my Hailey. I was ready to sell it all to get back to you.”

“You didn’t.” I grab his lapels and pull him closer.

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