Page 4 of Three Pucking Words
My hand retreats as I let out a breath to collect myself, and Bodhi must sense that I feel the charged atmosphere the same way he does. I should tell him I need to go. But I don’t.
“So, Honor,” he says before I can make up an excuse to leave. “Tell me about yourself.”
What could he possibly want to know?
What Ishouldtell him is that I’m married. That my husband will be home soon and probably wonder where I am. I should be honest with him—with myself.
That this is a bad idea, staying here.
But turns out, I’m a lot more like my mother than I thought. Because I don’t tell him any of those things. I lie to myself and convince my guilty conscious that this is innocent. That the feeling buzzing under my skin has nothing to do with desire or want. It’s…companionship.
At the end of the night, I’ll go home to my husband and pretend like none of this ever happened.
“What do you want to know?”
Once again, his eyes dip to my mouth. It doesn’t last nearly as long as the first time, but he might as well have touched them from how they buzz. “Everything,” he says, his eyes moving upward.
I swallow.Everything.
When was the last time Max asked how my day was? Sorrow, deep and rooted, settles into my stomach and grows like a weed.
For once, someone wants to know me.
So, I tell Bodhi…everything else.
Everything that Max never listens to.
Every dream.
Every aspiration.
Every goal.
And this man who I’ve known for only thirty minutes listens to it all intently. Nodding. Interjecting when necessary but never cutting me off. Never making me feel less than. Not the way Max does.
Bodhi makes me feel important. Like what I say matters; like what Iwantmeans something.
And by hour two, that buzzing under my skin is a full-blown forest fire as we laugh over something insignificant.
Innocent,I tell myself.
Liar,another voice counters.
And by hour three, when a college-aged boy who can’t be much younger than Bodhi and I approaches our table, everything changes.
Bodhi turns sheepishly to me when the boy says, “Dude, I can’t believe you’re here. That game tonight was wild. Can we get a picture? My frat brothers aren’t going to believe I ran into you. They’re going to be so pissed they stayed in when they could have met Bodhi-Fucking-Hoffman.”
I watch as Bodhi clears his throat and offers him a stiff nod, letting the newcomer take a selfie with him before glancing over to see the confusion on my face.
Bodhi Hoffman.Why does that name sound familiar? An itch that I can’t quite scratch nags my consciousness as Bodhi stares at me before turning back to the boy who’s asking for an autograph.
Anautograph.
I slowly put the pieces together.
The game tonight.
Bodhi Hoffman.
