Page 84 of Over the Edge

“Then, it’s worth it.”

With the phone instead of a laptop we have to lean closer. Each of us tilt toward the screen, but there’s intention in how we keep an inch or two of distance.

Thirty minutes in, something relaxes between us. We meet halfway. His thigh pressing against mine. My head on his shoulder, obviously so I can get a better view, though I’m struggling to follow the movie. I convince myself that the only reason I’m not paying attention is because I’ve seen it so many times. I feel the flow of the movie like my own heartbeat. A heartbeat that I’m worried that he can hear thrumming loudly.

I blink and the credits are rolling. Even when the screen turns black, Garrett holds the phone in place, like he knows if he lowers it we have to move. This position is an excuse we only maintained because of the movie, but now it's gone.

“Sorry about earlier,” Garrett says when he finally lowers the phone.

“It’s fine,” I say, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m saying I’m fine about.

“I don’t like how I snapped at you. I might not want to talk about work, but there was no reason to do that.”

“We all have our weak spots. No one is an island or however that saying goes.”

“Let me be sorry,” he insists. “You deserve more than that.”

“Maybe.” I give a wavering smile that he might not see in the dark.

“You do. You deserve so goddamn much.” The sentiment is a caress I dismiss.

“Says my fake boyfriend.”

I don’t know what I deserve. Who am I to judge that? In recent years, my wants and the wants of those around me have twisted and knotted together. As I’ve pursued the one thing I thought I wanted, I’ve driven a wedge between me and the people I care about.

“Maybe that’s what I am,” he says, not sounding pleased with it. “But, remember, as long as they’re here in this house, you’re mine.”

My mind goes to wondering what that would look like, only to conclude that I already know. I know how his hands feel pressed over fabric, on skin. How his firm mouth can work against my lips.

“Am I?” I utter.

“Why is that a question?”

“Because if I was, things would be different right now.”

“Eve. Please,” he rasps. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I ask. He shifts, pulling the blanket so it drifts across my heated skin.

“I want to read into every word that’s coming out of those pretty little lips.” The words press against my inhibitions.

“As if you can see me in the dark,” I taunt.

“I don’t need to. My imagination is enough to torment me.” And he does sound like he’s close to anguish at the admission. The thought does me in. Neither of us will get any sleep like this.

“I’m yours.” I swallow my last bit of hesitation. “Read into it.”

I expect him to collide into me, for both of us to let whatever has been building burst at the seams.

But he doesn't. His hand cups my face, and he’s so careful as he brushes his lips against my cheek, where a tremendous amount of heat is gathering.

He pulls back, his nose trailing a line against my cheek. “Tell me what you like.”

“You keep asking me what I want,” I say.

“Why shouldn’t you have it?” Teeth skate along my collar bone. “Why can’t I be the one who gives it to you?”

My lips part as I form an answer and his mouth finds mine, swallowing any words I could have said. I’m thankful for it because I don’t know what I would have anyway. I want this moment. I’ve wanted this moment for so long, I doubt I even knew I was craving the press of his fingers into my side when I was lonely.

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