Page 39 of Crazy Stupid Sex

“Do you?” he asked, taking another long drink.

“I’ve confided my darkest most sordid fantasies in you and allowed you to carry them out. You tied my hands together and did dirty things to me, and I liked it. I’d say we share certain confidence, yes.”

He looked down into his glass. “It’s my sister’s birthday.”

“I…did you need to go and see her tonight? Am I interrupting something? Because I didn’t know—”

“I’ve been to see her already. This morning.”

“Oh. That’s…did you go out to breakfast or…”

“No. I went to see her. I went…she’s at Westwood Memorial Park. That’s…” He cleared his throat. “I had a beer with her. I do that sometimes. She doesn’t know, obviously.”

Evie’s heart crumpled up like a sheet of paper in an iron fist, the air pulled from her lungs. “Oh.”

“I should have maybe said something when you asked about her. But…uh…I don’t like to talk about it.” He cleared his throat. “People don’t know what to say. And usually, they can’t say anything right. Whatever they say just kind of makes me mad, actually. Because they don’t really know.”

“I’m an only child,” she said. “So you’re right, I don’t.”

“She’s thirty-six today,” he said. “She was twenty-six when she died. It’s been such a long time. You’d think…I never even plan to go out there. I spend all year not thinking about her. Not thinking about any of it, and then I end up there. Not the anniversary of her death—her birthday. It’s always her birthday. And I just sit there, and I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Or why I’m there. She doesn’t know I’m there, so what’s the point?”

The look on his face, the pain, the confusion, broke something in her. There was no point pretending she didn’t care about him. No point pretending this was just sex. Not when his pain reached straight into her stomach and pulled out her guts.

Such a terrible moment to realize the strength of her connection to him, but it was unavoidable. Because she was seeing him clearly, and that forced her to see herself clearly, too.

She had no advice for him. Nothing to say to dull the hurt, the grief and whatever else it was he was struggling with.

It was big, and she could feel it. Something that she didn’t feel up to. She didn’t deal in real, grown-up emotion. She dealt in unicorn-themed apps, popsicle-fellatio art and a relationship in which “meh” had been preferable to acting like any kind of adult and improving her situation, because…habit, that was why.

She was a giant, immature ball of flail, and Caleb needed something. But she didn’t know how to give it.

She hated that. She hated that she was failing him right now.

She put her hand on his arm, slid her palms up to his biceps, closing the distance between them. She just wanted to touch him. To let him feel like she was there. Like he wasn’t alone. Because she had no insight, no answers, no moment of clarity to offer.

But she had herself. The whole ball of flail. She had it, and she wanted to give it to him. She’d been with Jason for ten years and never wanted to give herself to him. Sleep with him, live with him, say that she loved him, yeah, she’d done all that. But she’d never wanted him to have a piece of her. A connection that couldn’t be compromised or shaken.

She’d never wanted to open herself up like that. Break off a piece of her soul and hand it to another person for safekeeping. She’d never really seen the appeal. She’d never known it was a thing.

But it was all she had to give. So she wanted to give it.

She leaned in and kissed him, and it felt like the first time her lips had touched his, even though she was sure their kisses numbered in the hundreds by now. But this wasn’t about lust, or a list in an app, this was about him. About her. About how much she wanted to make him feel better. Feel something good.

He raised his hand and cupped her cheek, his touch gentle, tentative. It was a strange and new connection for them. She found it as exciting, as thrilling, as the others. As the intense, erotic encounters they’d had.

She parted her lips slightly, allowing him entry, giving herself to him.

When they parted he was breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes closed. “That’s not the response I expected,” he said, his voice rough.

“Sorry,” she said. “It seemed like the best idea.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“I want to make it better,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

“I don’t either.”

“Can I just be with you? Or should I leave you alone?”

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