Page 60 of Someone to Have
I think back to Sadie and Ian, and how she told us he reacted when he found out it was her first time. I don’t know if that would make a difference with Eric–and it could be TMI—but the words are out already.
He pauses for a moment, unlocks his truck, and opens the passenger side door for me.
“I don’t...it isn’t...I never thought...” He shakes his head and doesn’t meet my gaze. “I’m not kidding, Taylor. I need to think about it. Can you respect that?”
I don’t want to, but I’m afraid if I push too hard, he’ll say no. So I hold back.
“Are you thinking hours or days? There’s kind of a clock ticking, if you know what I mean.”
He slams the passenger door shut, and I can see his mouth moving as he walks around the front of the vehicle. Whatever he’s saying to himself, it doesn’t look like a happy conversation.
“Time,” he repeats as he climbs in. “Just time.”
“Okay,” I agree, because what else am I supposed to do at this point?
We don’t speak on the way home, which feels odd and empty given how easily the conversation flowed between us before Bryan’s arrival. Walking up the stairs to the second floor, I say, “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” he answers at the end of the hallway. “I’ll see you later, Tinkerbell.”
I want to push for more but don’t. His back is to me, so I walk past him toward my door. Before I even unlock it, I hear his slam shut. Closing the door behind me, I try not to think about the fact that the idea of having sex with me is so outlandish to a man with a past reputation for bagging legions of women that he needs to think it over.
My humiliation is too fresh to call a friend and lament, like a new wound that needs time to scab over. The possibility that I’m going to be outright rejected, too real. I could just tell him to forget it, but despite wanting to crawl in a cave for the foreseeable future, I also still want this. I want him.
Spending the rest of the evening rehearsing lines or cleaning out my closet—something productive–would be the smart thing to do. Smart doesn’t seem to be in my current playbook so I grab my emergency box of Pop-Tarts from the cabinet, drop two in the toaster, pour a glass of milk, and flip on the TV to a true crime documentary. A bit of vicarious fear and escapism is just what I need.
But that fear turns real when the knock comes a few minutes later—sharp and certain. My life might not be in danger with Eric, but my heart definitely is. And it pounds against my ribcage with equal parts anticipation and anxiety as I open the door, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
17
TAYLOR
“Your apartment smells like Pop-Tarts.”The words sound like an accusation, or maybe growly is Eric’s new default. His arms are folded across his chest, drawing my eyes to his biceps and the bottom edge of the tattoo peeking out at me from his charcoal-colored T-shirt. I didn’t know it was there, but now I can’t seem to look away.
“Are you going to report me to the food police?” I ask when I’m finally able to meet his gaze.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
I want to tell him I don’t want him here, but that’s a lie and we both know it.
“No making fun of my Pop-Tarts.”
“Then you need to share, and they better be strawberry frosted.”
I laugh despite being admittedly butt hurt by his “give me time” attitude. “Of course they’re strawberry frosted. Nothing but the best.”
I pour another glass of milk, then grab a corner of each toasted pastry and place them on a plate. Eric appears next to me like somekind of oversized ninja. He grabs one of the glasses and the plate from my hand.
“I thought about your proposition.”
“I prefer to think of it as acoaching strategy.” I offer air quotes, and he grins.
Have I mentioned that his smile should come with a warning label? I’m grateful I haven’t taken off my bra yet, because my nipples would for sure be waving right now. I follow, expecting him to head to the kitchen table, but instead he veers toward the living room sofa.
“Yes,” he says simply.
“Yes, I overstepped my bounds, or yes to the coaching strategy?”
He glances toward the TV, which is currently showing an extremely graphic image of a mutilated torso. Talk about a mood killer. “What the fuck are you watching?”
