Page 38 of Backslide
He leans toward me and it takes everything in my power not to back away. He smells like men’s deodorant and freshly brewed coffee and… him. And his proximity is doing something unholy to me even through the pain. It has been a beat since I’ve had decent sex. Things with Alfie had been strained for a while—and, if I’m honest, he was never the most thrilling in that department anyway. It was all kind of rote, and he was never very interested in taking direction. Butthis is something else—something age-old and unfinished coming to call. I cross my legs and will my eyes away from Noah’s defined arms, chest, and legs and back to his face.
Below a creased brow, his eyes scan me like I might be feral. Like he isn’t sure how to approach. Can he help me? Will I bite?
Against my will, I feel a pang of affection. And coupled with the other pangs shooting through me, it’s a problem.
We both exhale. The air around us seems to still.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, quietly, gently.
Fuck.
“Why?” I demand, scared for a moment that he has read my mind.
Noah cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “So that I can check out your rotator cuff?”
“Right. Fine. I guess so.” I roll my eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “First, you’re going to have to let go.”
It is only in this instant that I realize I’ve been clutching my shoulder with my opposite hand. I slowly release my death grip and exhale sharply, the searing pain dissipating the tiniest bit.
And that’s when I remember that I’m wearing a threadbare, oversized Whitney Biennial T-shirt, which I cut at the neck and sleeves years ago, and a pair of black underwear. And that’sit. No bra. No pants.
For Christ’s sake. How will I survive any of this?
It’s too late to turn back now.
All business, Noah lays a tentative hand on my shoulder, carefully feeling around the joint and muscles. It’s the first time he has touched me in decades, and I have to hold my breath not to react to the sweep of his fingertips against my skin.
What is wrong with me?Have I suddenly developed a hormonal imbalance? That must be it. The plane travel has somehow thrown my body into a pubescent state of horniness.
But I will not respond. So, my ex-boyfriend who I despise—but who has remained insanely hot—is touching my body.No. Big. Deal.
I will an image of my pediatrician, Dr. Shapiro, into my mind to remind me that this is just a run-of-the-mill medical exam. Noah is just like Dr. Shapiro. Except three decades younger and with less ear and eyebrow hair.
I do not want to bone Dr. Shapiro. So, I will not want to bone Noah either. I am oh so well-adjusted.
He asks me to try to raise my arm. Lifts it carefully himself, and I flinch.
“So,” I say, eager to distract myself, “not a ball boy, huh?”
“Nope. Not a ball boy.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Like a real one?”
Noah smirks, still focused on examining my shoulder and upper arm. “Yes.”
“You went to medical school and everything?”
“Yup.”
“Not a correspondence one? Not for-profit? Somewhere good?”
“Johns Hopkins.”
