Page 64 of Across the Boards

In my mind, there’s no confession, no sudden shock in her eyes. Just the continued exploration of her body with my hands, my mouth. I imagine her here with me, water sluicing over both our bodies, her back pressed against the tile as I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist.

I groan her name out loud, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.

My fantasy is vivid—her hands on my chest, my shoulders, tangling in my hair. The heat of her mouth on my neck, my collarbone. The slick glide of our bodies together, the way she might gasp my name as I push into her.

I brace my free hand against the shower wall, my movements growing more urgent. I’m not going to last long, not with these images flooding my mind. Not with the memory of how she actually felt in my arms just an hour ago.

In my fantasy, Elliot arches against me, her nails digging into my shoulders, urging me on. I imagine the sounds she might make—soft gasps and quiet moans, my name on her lips. I picture the flush spreading across her chest, the way her head might fall back against the tile as pleasure overtakes her.

It’s this image—Elliot coming undone in my arms—that finally pushes me over the edge. Release hits me with unexpected intensity, pleasure crashing through me in waves as I spill into my hand, her name a whispered prayer on my lips.

For a moment, the world narrows to sensation alone—no regrets, no anxiety, no twelve steps separating me from what I want most.

Then reality returns, and I’m just a guy standing alone in his shower, wanting something he might have permanently screwed up his chance to have.

I stay under the spray until the water begins to cool, then finish washing up mechanically. The physical release has taken the edge off, but the underlying anxiety remains. Will she want to talk tomorrow? Or have I pushed her away for good?

Wrapped in a towel, I pad to the bedroom and pull on sweats and a t-shirt. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the gala. The contents of my refrigerator are uninspiring—some eggs, half a bell pepper turning wrinkly at the edges, a container of Greek yogurt, and various condiments.

I’m whisking eggs when my phone buzzes. I nearly drop the bowl in my haste to check it, heart hammering.

I’m not mad that you knew I lived here. I’m unsettled that you kept it from me. There’s a difference.

I stare at the message. This is important—she’s making a distinction that matters to her. Not the knowledge itself, but the concealment of it.

I know. And you’re right. I should have told you. I was afraid you’d think exactly what you’re thinking now—that I was being creepy or manipulative. But keeping it from you was worse. I’m sorry, Elliot. Genuinely sorry.

I hold my breath as I wait for her response.

Can we talk tomorrow?

The relief is so intense I have to sit down. She wants to talk. Tomorrow.

Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.

I hit send, then realize how that might sound.

Except to practice. I have practice at 10. But other than that, I’m around. For talking. Or listening. Or standing there awkwardly while you yell at me. Whatever you need.

Goodnight, Brody.

I can’t help pushing my luck a little.

Goodnight, Elliot. Even if you decide you never want to see me again (please don’t decide that), meeting you—the real you, not just my memory of you—has been worth it.

It’s maybe too honest, too vulnerable. But after tonight’s disaster, I’m done playing it safe.

You’re not helping your case by being sweet right now.

I grin at my phone like an idiot.

Sorry. I’ll try to be more of a jerk tomorrow. Practice scowling in the mirror and everything.

Goodnight, Carter.

I can’t resist one final push.

Goodnight, Waltman. (But I’m still not sorry about the not-coffee part. That was epic.)

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