Page 42 of The Pucker and the Princess
He studies me for a moment, his eyes dark and serious, like somehow my simple offer of an open bottle of beer is more significant than it seems on the surface. After holding my gaze for a moment that seems to stretch between us, drawing out like taffy, he dips his chin in a slight nod and accepts the bottle. I grab the last one, open it, and settle in with the beer to finish the movie.
I drink it slowly, but the alcohol combined with the late nights I’ve been working lately have me feeling sleepy, and after I finish my beer, I slowly end up lounging more and more. But because I tucked my feet on my right side, the only place to go is toward Dozer. Moving the popcorn bowl, which has been down to unpopped kernels for at least the last hour, I prop myself on my elbow. Then I end up lying all the way on my side, my head propped on my hand.
After a bit, Dozer shifts next to me, leaning back against the tall arm of the couch, his legs coming up alongside me. “Here,” he says gruffly, patting his chest. “C’mere.”
My hesitation lasts only a second before I do what he says, shifting over a few more inches so I can use his chest as my own personal pillow. His hand lands on my shoulder, resting there for a moment, then his thumb starts making slow sweeps back and forth in a tiny gesture full of affection.
The movie continues playing, but I’m hardly paying attention now, my focus all on the way my body fits against Dozer’s, the way his thumb moves back and forth in a hypnotic arc.
“You know,” I say after a moment in a quiet voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever cuddled like this with any of my friends.”
His thumb pauses on its return path, the only indicator that he heard me for a moment. Then he lets out a low, rumbly sound that I feel as much as hear. “Me either,” he finally says, then lets out a soft chuckle, and I can’t help smiling as well. “I think my teammates would shove me away if I tried.”
That makes me giggle, and we lapse into silence again. I do my best to focus on the movie now, and it’s an interesting enough story to mostly command my attention, but part of me is still hyperaware of the fact that I’m cuddling with Dozer on his couch.
What does this mean? Does it mean anything? Do I want it to mean anything?
Sure, I’ve thought before that he’d make a great boyfriend, but the reality is that he doesn’t want a relationship right now, and even if he’s a great candidate, I’m not so sure I want one either.
Sometimes it sounds nice, but realistically, relationships only complicate life in my experience.
I read something once that said a relationship should be a net benefit. And that sounds nice and all, but I have yet to experience that. I’m not even sure it’s really possible.
Maybe for other people. Both my siblings seem to have found people they feel make their lives better.
But Peter only dragged me down in the long run. Sure, at first he seemed to make things better—he let me work on cars with him, after all. But that’s such a low bar—not interfering with my interests.
Eventually, especially after we started dating, it seemed like that was more of a way to keep me close to him and prevent me from going out with my other friends. Sometimes, when I was still in college, he even made me feel guilty about working on homework—especially if it was a group project where I had to work with others—rather than spending the evening in the shop helping him get done with cars faster.
Breaking up with him—finally—was the best decision I’ve ever made, even though it took a lot of agonizing to get to that point.
The other guys I’ve dated have all seemed to follow a similar pattern where they put in a lot of effort on the front end—frequent communication, planning dates, taking me out—but after a few months, that slowly tapers off, and thenI’mthe one putting in all the effort and they get mad at me when I realize things are imbalanced and pull back as well. Which inevitably leads to the end—once or twice it seemed more or less mutual where we both realized it wasn’t working. More often than not, though, I was the one saying, “This isn’t working for me.”
I don’t want that to happen with Dozer.
I like him. A lot. I like spending time with him. I like going to his games. I like watching the sports channel and drinking beer when he has a day off, catching up on hockey and football together. He’s kind, and he’s sweet, and he’s funny, and he doesn’texpectthings.
And it’s not that I can’t handle expectations. I mean, obviously he expects me to be nice and respectful and all that, but he doesn’t expect me to give up myself, my life, my interests. When he calls or texts and I’m at my garage, he doesn’t act put out or punish me by withdrawing for a while. No, he tells me to have fun and when I text him pics of new things I’ve purchased or progress I’ve made, he acts excited for me.
My current relationship with Dozer already makes my life better. I’m worried that changing our dynamic will ruin it. That if hedoeswant more than friendship, the expectations will start. I won’t be able to say no to a game or a date without consequences.
And that sounds like the beginning of the end of the idyll we’ve managed to create over the last few months.
Pushing aside those thoughts, I refocus on the movie. It’s getting to the climax. The US hockey team is about to face off with the Soviet team in the semifinals.
I love a good sports movie, andMiracledoesn’t disappoint, the perfect combination of inspiration and grit as the team overcomes what seem like impossible odds to win in the end.
But once the credits start rolling, neither Dozer nor I move. We watch to the very end, his mouth resting against the top of my head. When the final credit flashes on the screen, he sucks in adeep breath, and I wait for him to do something, say something—anything.
He doesn’t, though. And eventually, I look up at him.
Lifting his head, he looks into my eyes, studying me for a moment, then he lowers his head slowly, giving me ample time to move away. I don’t, though. I wait, transfixed, until his lips touch mine.
He lets out a soft breath at the contact, and I press into the kiss.
It’s chaste, just his warm, soft lips against mine. His fingers tighten where they rest on my shoulder, holding me in place.
And then it’s over. It’s just … done. We kissed, and then he pulls back, clears his throat, shifts a little as he reaches for the remote.
