Page 35 of Double Apex

When I was a little kid and traveled with Dad and our NASCAR team, despite spending my days in an earsplitting environment, I was afraid of thunderstorms. Whenever there was a storm at night, I’d fall asleep to him singing that “Yes! We Have No Bananas” song. It made me laugh, and I’d relax. Worked every time.

I want to be little again. I want to be happy.

I want to feel something other than numb or terrified.

I allow myself the luxury of a messy, all-out sobfest, alternating between blubbering and hoarse whimper-singing.

“We have an old-fashioned toh-mah-toe…” I croak through tears. “A Loooooong Island poh-tah-toe…”

The cabin door sweeps open, and I shriek. I grab the first thing handy, throwing it at the intruder before scooting back against the pillows, arms knifed out like I’m doing kung fu.

The banana bounces off Cosmin.

“Why the fuck are you here?” I shout.

“I could ask the same.” He picks up the bruised fruit andhands it to me before sitting on the bed. “I assumed you to be at the picnic.”

“I’m not in a picnic mood,” I mutter, swiping tears and tangled hair from my face. Holding the banana on my palm as if it were a dead pet, I feel my lips tremble. “You ruined it.”

“It was you who wielded this formidable weapon,” he replies with a hint of a smile. “Shall I look in the kitchen for another?”

I throw it at him again. “It doesn’t matter!” I wail. Curling on my side, I turn away and cover my eyes. “Everything’sruined!”

I mewl out small miserable noises and the bed shifts as Cosmin scoots closer. I feel a warm hand on my hip, resting there as if anchoring me. The mattress dips as he lies beside me, fitting his body against mine.

I stiffen. “What are you doing?”

“Comforting you.”

“I don’t want your stupid comfort. You’re not the right person.”

“This is true.” He works an arm under my neck and the other loops around me. “But I am theright nowperson. It will have to suffice.”

He smells really good, damn him.

His hands are large. I’ve looked at them plenty of times, but still, I turn one over, pressing my thumb into the palm, prodding the firm muscle there, following the arc pointing to his wrist. His arms are bare, shirt rolled to the elbows like mine.

He’s wearing tailored linen shorts, so his knees touching the backs of mine are skin-on-skin warm. His hard chest shifts against my back as he breathes, and a flutter of something electric goes through me.

“Cosmin…”

“Hmm?”

I tip my ass subtly against him. “How long is everyone going to be gone?”

“Long enough that you can cry all you need to and sleep.” He holds me closer.

I turn over and crumple a pillow beneath my neck, watching him. He does the same. He’s not wearing the expression I imagined. I’m waiting for a sly grin, a raised eyebrow. But he only combs a bit of hair away from my face.

“I look like shit,” I tell him.

“Nonsense. You’re lovely.”

The threads of black in his blue-gray irises are like road maps. There’s a faint vertical dent in his full lower lip and I remember what it felt like to kiss him. It might’ve been the last time my heart beat hard for any reason other than anxiety.

It’s kicked up now in a rhythm like someone executing a few cautious shimmies on the dance floor, but afraid to let go entirely.

I edge my feet toward him, and he gives my ankles a space to tuck between his. The arrangement is natural, like a thing we’ve done for years. I toy with a button on his shirt, freeing it from the hole.

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