Page 66 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Like the lady I am, I lick my fingers for emphasis. The shift in his features is visceral. His half smile has gone slightly serious. His eyes have gone hungry and hazy. I wonder if he registers the way his lips part slightly, how his beer hangs somewhere between holding and drinking. The entire effect is one that makes my heart speed up.

He punctuates our silence with a slow, belated swig. I can tell this gesture is meant to bring him back to baseline. He moves towards the living room, as if putting space between us might help, and he taps the icy cold of his bottle against the side of my neck on his way past. The sound I make falls somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. He fights a grin, entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m going to expect a little more enthusiasm from your Yelp review,” he says.

There is no limit to his ridiculousness, and some rogue part of me loves it. I’m not interested in investigating which part, exactly. It’s easier to roll my eyes for the hundredth time this afternoon.

“Don’t press your luck, Maxwell,” I say.

While I eat, he sinks onto the couch with his laptop. I feel my mood lift as my plate clears, and I’m left wondering if hangry is an actual medical condition. I feel brand new as I rinse the dish and leave it in the sink. I have also regained enough of my senses to know that I should get out while I’m ahead.

I circle into the living room and perch awkwardly on the plush armrest of his couch.

“Thanks for lunch. And for the, um…”

Rescue workout?

Contraband hug?

This electric feeling thrumming beneath my skin?

“Beer,” I say. “But I should probably…”

Go, my brain supplies. It’s the logical thing to do. Even still, I can feel another word thrumming in my bones, see it like a flicker of light dancing behind his gaze.

Stay.

I almost think he’s going to say it, but instead, his mouth curves in amusement.

“If you say ‘go back to work’, I’m going to be forced to hold you hostage,” he says. His gaze goes gentle as I laugh. “You good?”

“You have sufficiently revived me,” I confirm. “I think I just need a shower and a million hours of old school Gossip Girl, and I’ll be good as new.”

“Gossip Girl,” he observes, smushing his mouth into an appraising line.

“Do not judge,” I defend. “We all have our guilty pleasures.”

He raises his hands in mock innocence. “No judgment here. I’m actually fascinated by this. Tell me, Heidi, what other guilty pleasures keep you up at night?”

I give him an amused roll of my eyes before gathering my things.

His smirk simmers, but to his credit, he still doesn’t ask me to stay. “Text me when you make it home?”

“It’s three floors.”

“It’s a common courtesy.”

I laugh as I let myself out, but when I make it back downstairs to my apartment, I toy with the weight of the phone in my hand for a few moments. I type the short message with a lump in my throat.

H: Home.

I’m sliding my laptop out of my purse when his message dings.

Q:Glad you made it. Now close your computer and get some rest.

I blush with a self-conscious laugh, even though I know he can’t see me. I type a quick response.

H: Hey asshole, are you spying on me?

---