Page 8 of Roleplay at Randy's
His smile falls the slightest bit but doesn’t completely fade, contemplation filling the furrow in his brow. He leans his face down, our foreheads not quite touching, but I can feel the brush of his hair—the little strands escaped from his ponytail—on my face.
“You have been flirting with me, right?”
My throat is dry, and I’m suddenly aware how my hands are awkwardly hanging in the air inches from Matty’s waist, not sure that touching him is the right move.
All I can do is nod, and his smile fills out again like it never faltered.
“Good. Keep doing it.”
A laugh leaves my throat before I can stop it, and finally my hands settle as gently as possible on Matty’s lithe frame.
“I actually—uh—I’ve never been with a guy before,” I say, dropping my eyes and mindlessly rubbing the fabric of Matty’s tank top between my fingers. “Not even a kiss. So I don’t … really know.”
Something about the way Matty’s eyes search mine cracks me open. Makes me want to lay out on the grass with him and pour my entire soul into his imploring gaze.
“Well.” He presses a hand to my chest. Not pushing me away, just … holding it there over my heartbeat. “You’re doing a bang up job of making this queer boy want to help you figure it out.”
Oh.
I really do want to kiss him. Just to see what it feels like.
Whathefeels like.
When was the last time I kissed somebody?
The thought brings me back to the immediate present. The one where I have a sitter likely pulling their hair out because my five year old son refuses to go to bed until I get home.
I drop my hands from Matty’s waist and slowly step back, making sure he’s got his balance on the bench before fully pulling away.
“I should get going.”
The more I stand here, the more I’m going to want things. Things I haven’t let myself have because I’m not in a place to enjoy them—to properly share them with someone else.
The want is already fixing itself a place in my chest like a splinter.
Matty’s lips purse, and his shoulders hunch, but he jerks his head in a brief nod. There might even be a hint of disappointment in his eyes, but I try not to linger on it.
“I liked dancing with you,” I say, hoping I can keep this from ending on a sour note.
Matty lowers himself to a seated position on the bench, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on his fingers.
“Me too.” His voice is soft, quiet beneath the music, but I’m so honed in on him I barely notice. “Goodnight, Elias.”
There’s that sweet, easy smile, and it makes my heart miss a beat.
“Night, Matty.”
I’m on my front porch before I realize that I still didn’task him for his number or give him any indication that I wanted to see him again.
Do I want to see him again?
The way my own smile feels like a permanent fixture tells me that’s a stupid question.
Of course, I want to see him again.
3
MATTY
