Page 17 of Begin Again Again

Beth stared at Byron. In the moonlight, the bones of his face seemed sharper, more aquiline. “I’m sorry. If it was something bad.”

Byron said nothing. His face was still as stone, but his body was warm and close. Beth could feel his heart pounding in his chest. They had plunged unexpectedly into too-intimate territory, and she had no idea how to get out. She didn’t think he wanted to talk about psychology. She could compliment him, say ‘you’re not who I thought you were.’ But she suspected that wouldn’t charm him the way he was charming her. She watched as he swallowed his whiskey. “What made you become an electrician?”

“It’s the family business.” It might have been her imagination, but he sounded bored. Disappointed.

Beth rubbed the rim of her mug. “Have you ever electrocuted yourself?”

He gave her a wry look.

“Have you ever electrocuted someone else?”

Byron leaned in, a burn in his green eyes. “Here’s a question. Why are we sitting here instead of on my bed?”

“That was your decision,” Beth reminded him. “I was following orders.”

He stood, leaving the right half of her body cold.

“Upstairs?” he asked.

“Sure,” Beth said, sounding a lot less nervous than she felt.

Byron led her to the back of the house and up a floating staircase that made her think of Cinderella. This was either going to be amazing or terrible. She was sure it wouldn’t,couldn’t,be anything else. He steered her down another hallway striped with an infinite number of doors. “We have the floor to ourselves.”

Translation:we can be as loud as we want.

Beth didn’t say anything. If she talked, she was sure she’d squeak. Her blood was rushing, and her skin seemed to have forty times the nerves it should. Byron’s bedroom was lit by a shimmering salt lamp, a strangely feminine touch. Ex-girlfriend? Mother? Or was she being judgmental again? But the rest of the room was entirely cis-het—dark sheets, white desk, a smattering of photos and framed posters on the walls.

Byron gestured to his bed. Beth sat, as nervous as she could ever remember being. She stared at a framed movie poster forThe Killing of a Sacred Deer, stuck next to a postcard for Dalí Prague. Beth wished she could think he was being pretentious, but at this point it was too much to ask for. She could go ahead and check ‘knows things about art’ on her ‘out-of-my-league’ bingo card.

Byron set his whiskey and the portable speaker on the bedside table. He sat on the other side of the bed, and Beth listened as he undid his laces.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Not drunk or tired?”

She almost laughed out loud. “Um, no. Thanks for asking.”

He nodded.

It shouldn’t be strange a guy would ask these kinds of questions when you went home with him, but it was.Hewas. Beth stared at his wide, muscular back. “Are you an Aquarius?”

He paused, then looked skyward. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those.”

“What? Right about you being an Aquarius?”

“Jesus. And I thought you were switched on…”

“I am! You’re an Aquarius, aren’t you?”

His boots came off with two heavy thumps. “Yeah, I’m really gonna tell you, Horoscopes.”

“Fine… so, when’s your birthday?”

He stood, the mattress lifted, then Beth became weightless. She squealed as he hauled her against his chest. “Enough of that.”

“What?” she said, delighted he was touching her.

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