Page 91 of The ABCs of You & Me

“Anything.” He may regret that.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you? Or don’t, you don’t have to, I just–”

“I feel like I’m never going to be good enough for my family or…” he says, quickly before trailing off when his gaze meets mine.

I’m confused. I know his uncle has issues with him, but his family seems fine. “What do you mean?”

“My parents make comments here and there about how I could have been a teacher. How Ishouldbe a teacher, because men are teachers, not”—his fingers curl into air quotes—“‘helpers.’ They act like I’ve settled into a job because I’m incapable of being more.”

The audacity of the fucking patriarchy.

“More than what? Someone who makes the lives of kids easier? And the lives of teachers, for that matter? Someone who shows up every day and ensures that no child is forgotten or feels invisible? Someone who not only encourages dreams but dedicates himself to helping a kid achieve them? I don’t know how you could ever be more when you’re beyond enough.”

He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me. His eyes keep dipping to my mouth, and his breathing is more ragged. It would be so damn easy to roll into him and press my lips against his. Let all our feelings of inadequacy, shame, and anger evaporate. But I don’t want him to kiss me while my face is stained with tears and he looks about ready to implode with too many emotions. I don’t want him to kiss me while we carry the faint smell of a vet’s office, all antiseptic and sterile.

I want him to kiss me while I’m laughing at something silly he said because he can’t hold himself back any longer. I want him to twirl me in a circle and then hold me in a way that feels like forever. I want all the things he’s done to make me feel good, wanted, and safe to be real.

Scooting closer, I wrap my arms around him and tuck my head under his chin, breathing in his scent and laughing when the faint odor of sweat hits me.

“I told you I stink.” He laughs, pulling me in tighter.

“I don’t mind,” I whisper, my lips moving across his chest, only the thin fabric of his shirt separating us.

He starts playing with my hair, and the simplicity of the action has a few fresh tears slipping down my face. I asked him to show me what intimacy could be like, and he has managed to do it at every step. I spent years missing out on the most mundane yet pleasurable things. I never knew it was possible to feel like the center of someone’s world simply by the way they touched you, at least not until Foster opened my eyes to all the could-bes.

“Soph?” I wake to the smell of coffee and gold-flecked amber eyes. A girl could get used to this. “The vet called.”

I sit up so fast that Foster has to jump back to avoid a broken nose. “Is he okay?”

He nods, a soft tired smile stretching across his face. “He’s still out of it because of the drugs, but they got the elastic. Apparently they won’t know how things are until he poops.”

“Classic.” I yawn and rub my face. “When do you get to pick him up?”

“Tomorrow after work, most likely. They’ll keep him a little longer for observation.”

I study him for a minute. His hair is damp, which means he showered. Which means he was naked. Which means he was naked in the same space where I currently am. I’m woozy for a second as all my teenage fantasies come roaring back.

“Coffee?” he asks, and I rip my gaze from his hair back to his face. My god, his face. How is it even better now than it was back then?

“Coffee, yeah. Coffee would be great.”

“Did you have plans today?” Foster asks as I stir some cream into my mug.

“Well, yes and no,” I admit. “I was going to tackle the mess that is my bedroom. Remember when I said that was the room I hadn’t cleaned? Well, it’s still the room I haven’t cleaned.”

He shrugs. “We all have one of those.”

I look around and scoff. “Foster, this place is pristine. Like your bedroom as a kid.”

An eyebrow goes up as his mouth is pulled to the right in a cocky grin. “You remember my bedroom as a kid?”

I remember every inch of that room. Including the time I saw him reading on his bed in only his boxers when he was seventeen.

“Barely,” I lie, taking a sip and immediately burning my mouth. Anything to avoid admitting my obsession with him for most of my life.

“I don’t have one of those rooms because I don’t have space for one of those rooms.” He spreads his arms toward the rest of the apartment. “It’s three rooms and a closet.”

“Threecleanrooms and a closet,” I tease.

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