Page 51 of Virgin Skin

Once we’re finished eating, we clean up the last of the dishes together, piling them into the sink to deal with later. We took the blankets and pillows back to my bed last night, obviously, but we left the ones from his in a pile on the floor. While I start a new fire in the fireplace, Milo rifles through my old stack of DVDs. Power isn’t an issue, but the snow knocked out our internet service.

“What in the early nineties hell is this?” he asks with a giggle, holding up the box set ofBuffyDVDs.

I gasp and clutch my chest dramatically. “You don’t know aboutBuffy the Vampire Slayer?”

“No. I remember hearing the title when I was a little kid, but I was too young to watch it. Is it likeTrue Blood? OrVampire Diaries?Twilight? Goddamn, why are there so many cheesy vampire romances for teen girls?” He flips the box over to read the description while I flounder for a moment and try not to turn into a pile of ancient dust. A man who is too young to know aboutBuffy the Vampire Slayerjust sucked my dick. That has to be illegal. It just has to be.

“Buffy is not a cheesy vampire romance. She’s a fucking badass, and yes, she does fall in love with a vampire, but I promise you that no one sparkles.”

Milo snorts a laugh. “Alright, this sounds pretty legit. Let’s put it on.” He tosses the box to me, and I catch it. “Be right back.”

He jumps up and prances out of the room. My heart feels strangely light as I watch him go. Fuckity fuck, this is so bad. The damage is already done. I can’t undo what’s happened in the last two days, but once the roads are cleared and we’re back to real life, it won’t happen again.

Just one more day.

My stomach clenches and I’m not sure I believe myself, but I have to. I owe Hero that much.

He texted me again this morning, checking in and asking how we’re holding up. I’ve never felt like a bigger asshole in my life.

Before I can get too deep into my self-flagellation, Milo slides back into the living roomRisky Businessstyle. Shit, has he seenthatmovie, at least?

He holds up a bottle of sparkly purple nail polish and grins.

“I saw this in your medicine cabinet. Do you mind if I use it?”

I frown, trying to remember how or why nail polish would have ended up in my house to begin with. Then I shrug.

“Sure. It’s probably old though. I’m not sure if it’s from a few Halloweens ago or if one of my ex-boyfriends left it. Either way, it’s gotta be at least a couple of years. Does nail polish go bad?”

He waves his other hand, containing another larger bottle, dismissively. “There’s a trick. If you add a tiny bit of nail polish remover to it, it’s good as new.”

He plops down into our little blanket nest and gets to work doctoring up the nail polish while I put in the first DVD. The chipped nail polish he had on when we first met has long since faded or been chewed off. The first episode starts, and I settle down near him, leaning against the couch while Milo splays himself out like a starfish, his head craned at an awkward angle to see the TV, his hair falling messily over the bunched-up blanket he’s using as a pillow instead of one of the many cushions. It’s not exactly interesting to watch the slow, even strokes of the small brush over each fingernail, but I find myself doing it anyway.

He finishes his fingernails and puckers his lips to blow on them.

“Here.” I hold my open palm out to him and pull his feet into my lap.

He scrunches up his eyebrows in confusion until I nod at the bottle of polish. It still takes him another few seconds to connect the dots, and when he finally does, I chuckle, and he hands over the bottle.

“Don’t be mad if I accidentally color outside the lines,” I say, shaking the bottle the same way I saw him do before he started, then carefully starting with his biggest toenail first.

He laughs and wiggles his toes, which definitely doesn’t help. I pull the brush back so I don’t accidentally paint the whole toe, looking up at him with an arched eyebrow and a warning.

“Is that what you tell people you tattoo?” he teases.

I scoff and, once he’s still again, slowly dab polish onto the next toenail.

“I’ve done thousands of tattoos, but this is my first nail polish rodeo.”

“Fair enough.” He stretches out, tucking his arm behind his head, ignoring the show in favor of watching me paint one toenail at a time, so slowly he probably could have finished all ten before I’m done with three.

“Did you really want a tattoo or was that just your excuse to meet Hero?” I ask.

He wiggles his toes again, and I pull the brush back, waiting for him to stop squirming just like before. It doesn’t seem like he realizes he’s doing it, but once he does, he gives me a sheepish smile.

I grin and squeeze his foot reassuringly, then keep working.

“Yeah, I want one,” he says. “I keep telling myself I’m too indecisive to pick justonething to put on my body for the rest of my life, but I guess that’s why most people have more than one tattoo, right?”

---