Page 33 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
Claire, my overly helpful, boundaryless friend, apparently thought packing sexy pajamas would be hilarious.
A Christmas teddy.Red plaid.Reindeer on the chest.Almost see-through.
Or a tiny short, top one that basically shows my ass.
Or the candy-cane flannel pajamas that say, “lick me.”Of course.
The other options?A hoodie I already soaked, or a shirt I shouldn’t still have.His shirt.I touch the hem.I also have my scrubs.And a few other shirts I need.
I grab the flannel pajama instead.
Then the bathroom door opens, and“fine”evaporates like steam.
Adam stands in the doorway, hair damp and curling at the edges, droplets still clinging to his neck.Barefoot.In a clean blue shirt that hugs his shoulders in ways that make my mouth go dry.Grey sweats hanging low on his hips - and doing absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath.Unlike the sad, festive dick pic from earlier, there’s nothing artificial or compensating about what I’m seeing now.His collarbones catch shadows I suddenly want to trace with my fingertips.
His eyes flick to me, then away, then back again.I watch his throat work as he swallows.His fingers flex at his sides, opening and closing like he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t there.
“Hi.Yes, you’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough as he looks directly at me before dropping his gaze to Dorothy.“You’re being so good.Yes, you are.”
He’s talking to the dog.Not to me.Of course.
And yet… the practiced distance I’ve been building all evening cracks like thin ice.
I’m going to need a cold shower.
And for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer to guide me the hell back to seven years ago so I can tell myself that “getting over Adam” was going to be a spectacular failure that would eventually lead to me contemplating licking his neck in a honeymoon suite while Blanche judges me from across the room.
Chapter eleven
ADAM
OfcourseInoticedher flushing when I told Dorothy she was a good girl.If “good girl” is what she wants to be called, I’ll say it.I’ll say whatever she wants.
She left my shirt on the chair.The one I ruined with a Sharpie, turning the UPenn logo into a zombie brain during finals.Back then, I sent it with a granola bar and a dumb inside joke.Her laugh had felt like victory.
It’s still here.Outlived me.
She told me—in that one message after she disappeared, when I was starting to think I should stop hoping—that she didn’t ghost me to hurt me.She didn’t come to Pittsburgh because she wasn’t ready.Didn’t tell me about the cancer.The stem cell transplant.The nights she couldn’t breathe.The pain.The rage.The fucking fear.
Because she wanted that part of her life to stay hers.She wanted that part to not become her entire self.
She said hiding was a kind of lie.Said she was protecting me.But really, she was protecting herself.
Because letting me see her like that felt worse than being alone.
I take the pillow from the bed, dropping it onto the hardwood floor.Another trip for the spare blanket folded in the closet.It’s not ideal, but I’ve slept on clinic floors during blizzards.This is luxury by comparison.
The bathroom door creaks open behind me.
Eve.Towel-damp hair.Flushed cheeks.Candy-cane pajamas that say, “lick me.”
Fuck me.
She frowns.“You’re not sleeping on the goddamn floor.”
“The dogs picked the bed.I picked the floor.”
“Well un-pick it.”She crosses the room, reaching for the pillow I’ve positioned.“This is ridiculous.”
