Page 47 of Love You, Mean It

“My thoughts exactly.” He pulled away, just a few inches, but the spot where his lips had been still felt sparkly, like he’d awakened something beneath the skin that hadn’t quite settled back down.

“So if I did this…” His hand slipped around my waist, finding the small of my back and pulling me closer yet, the strength in his arm firm but gentle. “…that would be okay?”

“Smart, even.”

“And what about if I did this?”

And then his mouth was on mine, soft and warm and insistent. Without any conscious thought my arms slipped around his shoulders, body pressing along the length of him as my lips parted. His tongue grazed over the soft inner curve of my lips, slowly, deliberately, and my breath hitched in my throat. My hand inched around to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft near-curls I knew nestled there…

…then a car door slammed in the parking lot behind my building.

Startled, I pulled away, breathing heavily, blinking as I stared at Theo. We stood frozen a few inches apart as one of my neighbors made his way past us. By the time the lobby door closed, the snow-globe swirl of glitter seemed to have settled. I swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

“I think that would be alright. To convince…other people.”

“Of course. That’s what all this is for.”

We stood there a few more seconds. Finally, I took another deliberate step back, trying to ignore the collapsing feeling in my lungs that accompanied it.

“Anyway…good job tonight. It was very…convincing.”

“Clearly the role was meant for me.” Theo ducked his head ever so slightly, his eyes somber and locked on mine.

And then he was walking back down the path, and I hurried tothe elevator, refusing to look over my shoulder, and before long I collapsed onto my sagging sofa with my coat still on, the same five words spooling through my head on repeat.

What the fuck just happened, what the fuck just happened, what theeverloving fuckjust happened?

It had to have been the wine.

Sure, I’d only had a couple glasses, and I’d woken up clearheaded, barring the confusion swirling around my head like a cloud of midges, tiny specifics—his hand pressing against the base of my spine, the intoxicating smell of his skin, those lips, somehow even more perfect against my own than they were as a platonic visual ideal—darting in to nip at my brain quicker than I could swat them away. But I’d let Theo order, and he’d picked options that were pricey even for the chichi wine bar. Maybe rich-people wine was just more…effective?

Or maybe it was plain horniness. It had been almost five months since I broke up with Jake Makris, the bedroom-eyed, broody bartender at Mary Mallon’s, the one bar in Milborough that could claim legitimacy as a music venue. With Jake, the sex had been good—really good, even—and there was a thrill in showing up to the occasional house party or show on the arm of one of the most desirable men in “the scene”—not that Milborough could boast much on that front. But within a few weeks it becameapparent Jake wasn’t the strong silent type so much as he had literally nothing tosay. When he’d explained to me that the real reason twins freaked him out wasWhat if they mixed themselves up, how would they know what thoughts were theirs,I hadn’t been able to help myself, I’d laughed aloud. Which had killed the postcoital mood for both of us, and frankly, made it hard for me to feel particularly coital ever afterward.

After Jake, I’d deleted my dating apps. Winter was coming, I couldn’t be bothered with the effort of primping for yet another first date with someone who turned out to be deeply devoted to CrossFit, or tried to tell me, straight-faced, all the reasons I just didn’tgetDavid Foster Wallace, let alone another six to ten weeks of hookups with a variation on Jake, the type of man I somehow kept returning to, long on style but lacking in just about everything that might carry us past the three-month mark.

Jesus, maybe Bella was right. Maybe Ihadbeen dating losers on purpose.

Either way, what happened with Theo had beenchemical. For both of us—head injuries must have all kinds of side effects. It didn’t mean anything. I was not falling forTheo Taylor. Sure, my “type” up until this point might not be themostconducive to long-term relationships, but that didn’t mean the solution was jumping into the deep end of the country club pool. It had been a blip. A momentary out-of-brain experience. Some mix of wine, my underserved genitals sending up a flare, and the fact that, objectively, Theo was extremely good-looking. So were Ken dolls. So what?

The routines of the deli helped slightly, and by midafternoon I’d almost managed to stop worrying our mutual temporary insanity like a sore (throbbing, aching with need,Do not go there, Ellie) tooth. I didn’t even think twice when the phone rang, tucking it against my shoulder as I dumped a generous amount of oregano into the red sauce I was preparing.

“Ellie. It’s Theo.”

And just like that, all the midges swooped back in,dive-bombing me with flashes of last night, heart fluttering at the onslaught.

“Hey…” I said, cautious. Did he want to talk about what happened? DidIwant to? What was this warm, puddly feeling going through my core just at the sound of his voice, this Pavlovian desire I hadnotapproved but which was rapidly overtaking my ability to focus on something as simple asmeasuring oregano?

Dear lord, was this what Stockholm syndrome felt like? I’d never felt such sympathy for Patty Hearst.

“How are you?”

“Okay. Just…making sauce.” Great. Now I sounded stupid to boot.

“Ring still on?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Proud of you.”

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