Page 67 of Warmer, Colder

For several moments she bites at her lips, the uncertainty tearing her up. “I see someone who’s made a lot of mistakes.” Her voice is shaky as she scans herself. “I see someone who refused to love herself.” Tears break like rogue waves over her lashes, and she tries to turn away.

I sidestep her, careful not to touch her, but also firm in my barrier. “Don’t give up that easy.” Her nervousness is contagious, and I hate it. The hair along my neck prickles, hackles raising. I didn’t leave room for insecurity in my life and yet she seems to bring it out in me in death. It’s unsettling but I try to bury it deep with all the other secrets between us. I have to push through it.For her. For me. For us.“Loving yourself takeswork and I can’t do it for you. Everything we’re taught beats down that natural instinct to embrace ourselves, our bodies, our sexuality. Loving everyinchof yourself takes practice. You have to push through the discomfort.”

Becca closes her eyes and nods slowly. When she opens her reddened eyes again, I see a glint of determination. The spark of an ember.

“Alright, let’s go again, tell me what else you see.”

“I see someone who never allowed herself to embrace her sexuality.” She takes a deep breath and shakes out her hands, like she is shrugging off the discomfort. “I see a little girl who allowed herself to be swallowed up in her brother’s shadow instead of stepping into the sun beside him.” Her eyes dart away with the admission, guilt curving her shoulders and dipping her head.

The more I get to know her, the more her insecurities and her loving jealousy of her brother make sense. He had a freedom and ownership of self that she never achieved. I nod in understanding. To be a woman is to have someone—almost everyone—take pleasure in your body without your consent, without your knowledge even sometimes. “It’s okay, Becca.”

“No, it’s not. Who thinks those things about their family? Who says those things about the sibling who loved them?” She swings toward me, her eyes pleading with me to stop the hurt.

“It doesn’t make you a bad person. Our relationships with ourselves, with the people we love are complicated.” I sweep her hair off her shoulder, careful not to touch her skin while she’s in this unstable headspace. The last thing I want is for her to shut down, she’s opening up so beautifully, a budding flower that I can help bloom.

When I speak again, my voice is soft and even, reassuring and coaxing. “Do you want to know what I see?” I twirl her silkychestnut hair around my fingers as we stare into each other’s eyes.

“I see a beautiful, smart woman who’s gone through more than she lets on.” My lips hover along the curve of her neck, tracing it like I would if I were covering it in kisses. But instead of my lips, it’s compliments and nurturing words that pepper her skin with the intent of sinking deeper. “I see someone who denied themselves so many things they wanted in an effort to be everything to everyone.” My hands float over her shoulders, her arms, her waist, quivering with the need to touch her, to reassure her in the physical language I speak so much more fluently. “I see a woman who deserves someone who loves her exactly as she is.”

Becca turns away from me, pressing herself into the wall. I halt, my arms frozen mid-air about to circle her waist. Ragged breathing leaves her—her body’s instinctual coping mechanism going into overdrive—but she surprises me with steady words. “Go ahead.”

So, so gently, I bring my hands around her waist, settling them on her hips. “Is this okay?” She nods. We’re both rigid, but when she doesn’t flinch or push me away, I continue sliding them over her clothes until I’m encircling her narrow body. “Still, okay?”

Her palms flatten against the wall on either side of the slim, rectangular mirror, bracing herself, but she nods.

With hardly any pressure, I press my front to her back and hold my palms against her stomach. I’m not crushing into her, just bringing us together. The need to ask her if she’s okay again hammers against my closed lips but I force myself to remain silent and still. Time stretches between us, somehow feeling both too long and like it could never be enough. The knot in my stomach untangles as Becca begins to soften, tension releasing from her muscles.

Sinking into her, I greedily draw in the mouthwateringly sweet scent of her perfume that is enshrined in her skin. Dragging my nose up her neck, I bury it in her hair and revel in the notes of strawberry, peach, and vanilla. I ache to devour her, swallow her whole, she’s so close to being mine. Yet the shaking of her fingers that cover mine is a reminder to take it slow.What’s a bit longer when we have nothing but time?This is what she needs.

My patience pays off when Becca leans her head back, resting it in the crook of my neck. Her fingers curl into a fist against the wall, but she doesn’t pull away. Our eyes lock in the reflection as I tilt my head down and nod. Not breaking eye contact, she begins to guide my hands across her stomach, then her hips, then her pelvis. The fabric beneath my fingers is a barrier, and yet this is one of the most intimate ways I’ve ever touched someone. Thank god I don’t need to breathe because there’s no air in my lungs as I wait to see what she’ll do next.

“How many women have you been with?” Her voice shakes, a mix of awkwardness and dread.

“A lot,” I respond as honestly as I can.

Our hands stop moving. “Ten? Twenty? Thirty?” Her gaze fixates on the wall as she pries.

“Definitely more than twenty.” My tongue moves clumsily in my mouth as I fight the urge to deny or lie.Will she think less of me?

But Becca nods. “Makes sense.”

I snort, not sure whether to be offended or proud. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean look at you. Who wouldn’t want to sleep with you?”

“It was everythingbutsleeping.” I shake my head at my past self.

“Meaning?”

“Itmeansthat I never sleep next to people—never let anyone sleep next to me.”

“But—” I absorb every detail of her ever-shifting expression as her dark brows furrow, framing the confusion in her stormy eyes. “But you’ve let me sleep with you.”

“Right. You’re different.”

“Why?” The word is a wisp on the wind, but I cling to it. The truth is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bear to part with it when I’m finally making headway with her.What if it ruins everything?

So I lie. “Because I feel safe with you.” A half-truth. And yet, what should be a sweet sentiment tastes like the sourness of dishonesty.

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