Page 53 of The Pairing

I’m not listening. The door is closed.The way is shut,I think, so delirious that one of Kit’s Tolkienisms bobs to the surface.

And itisdelirium. The soft-focus overfullness of decadence. I’m not the only one losing my mind—the atmosphere inside our last stop, a century-old restaurant called El Sortidor, is palpably erotic. Dusk filters through the stained glass windows, bringing out everyone’s finest features. Have the Calums always been so ruggedly handsome? Did I never notice how well Montana wears a sundress? Fabrizio could be Apollo as he demonstrates the technique for pan con tomate, rubbing garlic and a freshly split tomato over oily bread. I watch Kit’s fingers move, always so good at following instructions, applying pressure until the tomato is nothing but juice and pulp.

As I’m staring at a chunk of potato to get ahold of myself, Kit tucks his face into the side of my neck.

“Do you think,” he says in a low voice, “the Calums have ever explored each other’s bodies?”

This too is unbearably horny, even as a joke. Down the table, the Calums are absorbed in a conversation so intense they’re speaking almost directly into each other’s mouths.

I laugh and gulp down humid air, turning to Kit. He’s wearing the shirt with the embroidered flowers from our second night in Paris, and it makes me think of him braced over me on the bed in the back of that bar. I can still feel his breath cooling the sweat on my nape.

I keep my voice steady as I say, “All the best friendships get there sooner or later.”

I don’t have it in me to find a hookup for tonight. I’m too full, and the day was too long. I’m overdosing on Barcelona. It’s like being too tired to sleep. Too horny to fuck.

Instead, I return to my room and unlock my phone to fourteen emails and six missed calls from Schnauzer Bride. Her custom schnauzer tiki mugs have fallen off a shipping barge.

I scroll as I wash my hair, one arm out of the shower to keep my phone dry. My single room is so tight that I’m dripping on the nightstand from the en suite bathroom. I feel around my soup pot of a brain for something coherent to say.

A text from Kit pops up.

is the air conditioning in your room working?

I frown.

yeah why

hm. second question: how good is your spanish?

“What’s going on?” I ask when Kit picks up.

“My aircon doesn’t work,” Kit says. I hear him climbing onto his bed, whuffs of breath and rustling linens.

“Oh, shit.”

“Can’t say I’m shocked,” he says. “I was honestly more surprised they have air conditioning at all.”

“How bad is it?”

“Well, the room is about sixty square feet and was facing the sun for the last eight hours; I’d say it’s. . .not ideal.” More sounds, like he’s poking at the air conditioner. “I opened a window but it isn’t doing much.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I might see if they have any other rooms? That’s why I asked about your Spanish.”

My Spanish is significantly better than my French thanks to four years in high school and a lifetime in Southern California, but even I can’t help. Earlier, I overheard the front desk guy telling a couple of backpackers they’re full for the night.

The only other option is such a bad idea that I shouldn’t even consider it. Before Kit texted, I was planning to slide my freshly clean body under the crisp top sheet and get myself off until the fog of horniness dissipated. I don’t know how I’ll survive without some sort of release. But I feel bad for him.

“Do you wanna crash in my room?” I offer before I can talk myself out of it.

“Your— Oh.”The rustling on his end stops. “Really? Are you sure?”

No. “Yeah, fuck it.”

“That’s— Thank you, Theo,” he says. “I’ll be down in five.”

He hangs up, and I stand there in my matchbox of a room, staring at the black glass of my phone screen.

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