Page 52 of Whiskey Throttle
“Do you want to lie down? Are you sleepy?”
I offer his bed to him. The irony. However, I don’t know what I’d do if he takes me up on my offer. I’d have nothing to do. He shakes his head. Looking at the spot next to me, I scoot over, making room for him. I pull the towel from my head. My hair is still damp, knowing it will become very curly in the heavy salt air.
“I draw when I think too much.” His gaze flicks to mine. The offer of joining me on the bed hangs in the air between us. “Helps me untangle things.”
“And what are you overthinking?”
“Like maybe I read this wrong.”
It’s out of his mouth in a second, and my breath hitches.
“This?”
“You. Me. Whatever the hell this thing is that makes me want to stare at you more than I want to touch you. And that’s saying something.”
I swallow, my throat dry.
“You read this wrong?”
My voice comes quieter than I mean for it to, since the beat of my heart is flooding my ears.
“Didn’t I?” His voice cracks, just a little. His expression is weary and a bit sad. “You said good sex is hard to come by, Babs. And maybe that’s true. But that’s not what I’m chasing here. It’s not even close.”
The guilt hits.
A slow, curling squeeze in my ribs.
I did say that. I deflected. Feeling so much already for him and because of him, I didn’t want to unpack all the heavy thoughts and emotions on day one. Maybe not this weekend even. Could I work through everything he’s dumped out of me even when I’m on steady ground back home, in the sanity of my well-orchestrated life?
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
It sounds flimsy. I push my hair away from my face, needing a distraction as he stares at me. Wanting and expecting more, which I should give but don’t.
He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair.
“I’ve had sex, Barbara. Plenty of it. You know my reputation.”
I nod.
“And I know the difference between physical chemistry and whatever this is that’s turning me inside out.”
“I know you know.”
“You don’t. Not really. Sure, maybe this started out as fleeting or temporary for you. Maybe for me. And maybe I’m rushing things or just letting my own shit get to me. Maybe this has nothing to do with you. But I don’t want to rush you out of here on the next flight because I got what I wanted.”
The vulgarity of his action speaks volumes about how he has handled things in the past with others. My hand reaches for my necklace, only to find his instead. His eyes track every move. A slight frown appears.
“Were you going to rush me out of here?”
Asking questions to elicit more information from him is a tactic I learned from my ex a long time ago. He’s the master of deflecting and dodging questions. It’s almost unfair to Hollister to use it. Yet, he seems to need to get this off his chest before I muddy it up with my thoughts and impressions of the situation.
The real question he’s getting at, and that I don’t know how to answer, is what exactly I want from him. A one-night stand, weekend fling, or more. I’ve vacillated between all three throughout our talk.
He drops onto the edge of the bed, finally, the mattress dipping with his weight, his fingers grazing my knee.
“No. But look, I know you’re guarded. I get it. I’ve seen everything that’s happened. Hell, Dom still battles with that shit. But you rarely talk, and when you do, I’m hanging on every word.”
I sigh, knowing this is true. Having heard it in marriage counseling and having experienced it with my son.
