Page 39 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

“Carina,” I say weakly. I’m not sure what more I have to say other than her name.

“I’m fine,” she says, the mask she wore for her friends gone. She buckles her seat belt and then looks at me, clearly wondering why I’m standing with the door open. “If you’re going to stand there, can you at least turn the a/c on?”

I want to reach for her, to touch her, to kiss her. To convince her to finish what we almost started in the water. I stand there, frozen.

“Orion.”

The firm way she says my name jolts me back to the moment. Right, it’s hot and she’s melting into my seats. I close the door and make my way to the driver’s side.

At my house, I pull into my garage and turn the car off. We sit in the silence for a moment, knowing it’ll be hot as fuck in no time. But I’m not ready for this to be over.

“So,” I start. “Today was interesting.”

“In what way?”

I turn to face her as she keeps her eyes forward. I look at the wall of the garage to see if there is something for her to complain about, but it’s just a wall. “I learned three things.”

“Really?” It kills me that there is no fight in her voice.

“First, we can get along.”

“We already knew that,” she says.

“Nope, we have been fighting since you left that night. And please don’t argue with me about that. Second, we definitely want to fuck each other again.”

“That doesn’t mean it will happen.”

“Right. You have lots of reasons why it’s a bad idea.”

“You agree with those reasons.”

Our lives are intertwined. Neither one of us is looking for a relationship. For me, at least not before I feel settled. I remember this was important to me. Having her in my armsagain makes me want to reconsider. Not everything is as catastrophic as she thinks.

“Third, you like fighting with me,” I state.

“Excuse me?” She finally turns her head to face me.

“You like fighting me. You like that I fight back. You like that I don’t expect you to be the perfect ideal you’ll never live up to.”

“I’m not perfect,” she whispers. I can’t tell if she’s speaking to herself or to me.

“I know.”

“I’m supposed to be. They think I am.”

“Perfect is boring. You’re not. You like that I’ve seen you. That you don’t have to hide from me.”

“I like fighting with you,” she finally admits with a long exhale.

“Well, I’m right next door whenever you need some verbal sparring.”

“You mean that?”

“Why not? You clearly have tension to work through, and you don’t want to fuck it out.”

She suppresses a laugh. She probably does want to fuck it out. “So, we’re what, frenemies?”

“That’s a dumb word, but sure.” I unbuckle. “It’s better this way. No chance of misunderstanding each other.”

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