Page 140 of The Home Grown
We stare at each other for an extended time, and I try to remember if she’s mad at me, upset at waking her up, but then I remember her running me a bath and making me a brew.
I’m about to speak, wish her a good morning, when she beats me to it.
“I should have reached out to you,” she says.
Okay, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
“What?” I say.
“When you got back from Germany. Instead of waiting around for you … I should have reached out,” she says.
Am I dreaming? I can’t be sure because this is all weird. Really fucking weird.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you before, because I’ve been thinking about it, and it wasn’t all down to you.” She pauses,biting her lip for a second before continuing. “I know you started seeing Julie but?—”
“I don’t even remember her,” I say.
“Julie?”
“Yeah. I don’t even remember what she looks like. In fact, I only remembered her when you mentioned her, but—you know, I never forgot you, Kitch.”
“Oh.”
I reach out and touch her face, just to check that she’s real, reassured when my fingers meet skin, soft and warm and all I can think of doing is pulling her into my arms.
“Do you want a cuddle?” I say.
She stares at me, unmoving, probably deciding the best way to turn me down.
It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, the rejection, that is. I’m built ready for it. A thick skin and a sense of humour equipped to make it into a joke if necessary.
To get myself a step ahead, I mentally sift through my options, wondering if there’s a cuddly toy nearby I can present in jest, but she surprises me a moment later by shuffling in, nuzzling into my chest like she’s done it a million times before. She makes it feel so natural and effortless, but my body, primed to face rejection, takes a beat longer than it should to respond by embracing her, wrapping my arms around her.
She smells fresh, a hint of flowers or something that has me fully reassured that I’m not wearing any boxers; I can feel my dick between us, and if I can feel it—she can definitely feel it.
I wait for her to roll away, loosening my arms in anticipation, but she doesn’t. She snuggles in closer.
Our breathing evens out so we’re in-sync, a by-product of us being in the same space. And when I think of how many women I’ve shared my space with, I’ve never felt some. Like I’m not trying to think of the right thing to say to impress, or if she’s in bed with me for me or for the image that comes with bedding a hockey player. Something I hardly cared about before, butsuddenly, it feels like the most important thing in the world—to be me.
I feel her breath against my skin, then she speaks again, barely audible against my chest.
“I’ve been having these dreams,” she says.
“Dreams? What sort of dreams?” I say.
“Just … dreams.”
She shifts and suddenly she’s looking up at me, and what the hell possesses me, I don’t know, but I’m pulling her chin up and dipping my head to meet her, capturing her lips with mine.
For fuck’s sake, why did I wait so long to kiss her? We could have been ten minutes in by now. But I don’t let myself get too excited. I keep it slow, steady, familiarising myself with her lips—soft and full, delicate, and sweet. But the best thing? I don’t have to think about it. I wait for the noise to start, for my brain to scream at me, tell me I’m doing it wrong, tell me she’s not really into it. But it doesn’t come. It’s like it knows this is different. I’m not second-guessing if I’m doing it right or if she’s enjoying it—because she’s kissing me back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
But then she pulls away.
“This scar,” she says, tracing her fingers over my lower lip and down my chin. “How did you get this scar?”
“High stick to the face. It’s when I lost this tooth…” I point towards the gap. But something occurs to me, something that I’ve never thought about until now. “How come you’ve never asked me about my teeth? I mean, usually it’s?—”
A smile tugs at her lips. “I guess it’s just part of you, Mike. Like … it’s justMike. And everything about you is…”
