Page 69 of Lovely War
Light on in the living room, off in the bedroom, on in the green room. Or on in the bedroom too? No, off. This place could use a dimmer switch. I curse myself for leaving my nice table lamp at Kat’s apartment.
Ben drove to his place to drop some things off or pick some things up—I honestly didn’t pay much attention to what he said—giving me time to get home and get ready, or at least freak out.
My Ardwyn T-shirt is making me itch, so I whip it off, butI don’t know what to wear instead. I play musical chairs with my wardrobe, changing into and out of things until the buzzer rings, and I’m left with the thin tank top I wore underneath my clothes all day and a pair of cotton sleep shorts. There’s not enough time to think about what this outfit says. He’s here.
I buzz him in and hover by the door. A minute later he knocks, two quick raps. I fling the door open.
“Hey,” he says, in a voice that’s just for me. His smile is easy, but his eyes are like firewood, glowing hot and nearly crackling. He’s changed too, into a soft black hoodie. Unlike me, however, he has the advantage of wearing pants. I tug my shorts down an inch to cover more of my thighs, which exposes a strip of my stomach, and then pull them back up.
“Want a tour?” I ask in a chirpy voice that doesn’t sound like mine, setting off briskly down the hallway without checking to make sure he’s following. “It’ll only take five minutes.”
“I’d love one,” he says with breezy enthusiasm, as if it’s the main reason he came over.
I walk him around the living room and the kitchen and point to the bathroom. It’s the most unremarkable apartment ever to exist, so there’s not much to say, but I show off my pictureless white walls and generic furniture with the enraptured focus of a tour guide at the Uffizi. Anything to avoid looking at him.
The bedroom is next. Why did I leave the light off again? He’s right behind me as we enter the room, colliding with my back when I stop abruptly to step around the suitcase on the floor. I speed past the bed like the bogeyman is underneath.
“Wow,” he says, awed, in the green room.
“This is the best part, obviously.” My voice almost sounds normal, the ridiculous floor and goofy purple beanbag helping to slow my heart rate. “I always wonder if this used to be somebody’s sex cave. Also, I’d like to introduce you to Mona Lisa Vito. We spend a lot of quality time together.”
His laugh is relaxed. Contented. I wring my hands. “I guess it’s only a three-minute tour,” I say.
He’s watching me carefully. “You seem nervous.”
“Me? No.”
He ambles over to the window, where the candles are shoved together in a jumble. “We can watch TV. Or go to sleep, if you want.” He picks one up and sniffs it. “Or I can go, if you’ve changed your mind.” Okay, his nonchalance is starting to grate.
“I’m not nervous. Maybe you’re nervous,” I say in a tone that belongs on the playground, snatching the candle from his hand and setting it back on the windowsill.
“I am a little nervous,” he admits. And that’s my absolute limit. This is supposed to befun.It doesn’t have some grand significance. Nobody should be nervous.
I pounce on him, throwing my arms around his neck. I kiss him hard, like I did the first time outside his apartment, moving my lips against his urgently, with quick passes of my tongue. And for a little while he matches me in a perfect rhythm, and it’s so good, even though it doesn’t settle me.
He pulls away and presses his forehead against mine. “Hey,” he says, reaching up to take my shaking hands. “It’s just me.” And he takes my chaos and meets it with his own intent focus and transforms it into something better.I’ve got you,he says without words. When my teeth click against his,he soothes me with soft lips. When I retreat, searching his face, he murmurs, “Come here,” in a hoarse voice and reassures me with a dizzying bite of my bottom lip. He holds the side of my face with his hand, his thumb brushing my cheek, and I press closer, our lips barely grazing each other.
No. These are all snapshots from the wrong mood board. Tonight is supposed to be celebratory. We’re supposed to be flooded with the elixir of athletic triumph, on a breakneck, hasty sexual victory lap. My legs should be around his waist and he should be pinning me against the wall. Something should be knocked off a table, smashing on the floor. There should be noisemakers, and sparklers crackling. It’s not supposed to be deliberate and tender, with shuddering and whispers and protracted gazes.
I throw myself onto the beanbag and thread my hands together behind my head. It’s so worn out and shapeless that when I lie back I’m almost flat on the floor. “Take off your shirt,” I command.
He raises his eyebrows and his mouth does that slow, lazy curl up at the corners.
I flick my hand upward, urging him on. “Come on. I’m a visual person.”
He slides his T-shirt over his head and my heart almost gives out. I saw this very torso less than a week ago, but the effect is more powerful now that I’m about to touch it.
“Good, me too,” I say breathlessly, peeling off my tank top and chucking it across the room. His eyes skate over my plain black bra, and his Adam’s apple bobs like it’s genuflecting.
He’s watching me with a perceptive look like he’s about to say something, and he sees my bravado and what’sunderneath, so I reach for him. Then I remember: This chair is burdened with history. Shane Kowalski, junior prom, a lot of fumbling and poking in not quite the right places. “No!” I say sharply, stopping in my tracks. “Wait.”
“Okay,” he says, bewildered.
I grab a throw blanket, spread it across the chair like a bedsheet, and tug him down on top of me. It’s an awkward position, lying together on this old lump of beans, but he gives in to my chosen vibe. My bra comes off and his hands and lips are there. My mouth goes slack, and he presses up against my thigh and it’s getting harder to think straight, and I love Mona Lisa but I don’t want to be making eye contact with her right now, so I look away from the wall and shift positions. The floor is hard underneath me, my ass and his weight compressing the chair. “It keeps deflating,” I say.
He drags himself upward, his hair tickling my throat, and meets my eyes. “Not the words I imagined you saying when I fantasized about this.”
I yank him down to press his mouth against mine again, but he’s smiling so my lips connect with his teeth.
