Page 70 of Better Hate than Never

Christopher makes a small, dismissive noise in the back of histhroat. “What use would I have for store-bought pasta? I said, ‘make pasta’ and I meant ‘make pasta.’ ”

I pull away, peering up at him. A dense five-o’clock shadow darkens his jaw and makes him look a little different, which feels fitting. I know it’s Christopher I’m looking at, Christopher who’s holding me. But this isn’t the man I’ve known for so long, not exactly.

I have the stomach-dropping feeling of the first time I zip-lined, knowing rationally I could rely on the harness, the line, a straightforward path, and a clear final destination, but so keenly aware of how foreign the idea was, flying through the forest, wild and unpredictable, not knowing what would come my way.

It took courage to step off that ledge, and it takes courage now. Finding it, I meet Christopher’s warm amber eyes, counting their tiny goldleaf flecks. He looks at me like maybe I’ve given him that first-zip-line feeling, too.

“You’ll make pasta from scratch, for me?” I ask.

His mouth tips up at the corner, something I’ve never seen before, small and soft, none of that grinning Casanova charm, nothing like his familiar antagonistic smirk. Just Christopher fussing with my hair, tucking a lock behind my ear that feels like a strand pulled, slowly unraveling me.

“Well,” he says, “you bet your ass I’m making pasta for me, too. But yes.”

I poke his hip, where he’s freakishly ticklish. He catches my hand and laces our fingers together. His thumb gently circles my palm.

It’s the tiniest thing, his thumb circling my palm, his fingers tangled with mine, but it feels like it contains a whole world inside it. He and I stand, silent, touching. The intensity of his eyes holding mine, the steady sweep of his thumb against my skin, it’s like he’s seeing everything I’m too exhausted to fight or hide anymore.

I spend so much time keeping myself busy, distracting myself from slowing down long enough to feel everything I carry inside me, until I collapse into a rare episode of chest-aching cries and lying in the fetal position. I know that my empathy, the depth with which I experience emotions, makes me impassioned, makes me care and fight and speak out, that my capacity to feel is a strength, but it doesn’t alwaysfeellike a strength.

My capacity to feel is... overwhelming. But here, in his arms, I wonder if maybe it’s so overwhelming because I never tried to unburden myself, to give it to someone else for a while.

The way I am, even in just this small way right now, with Christopher.

For so long I have prided myself on not needing others, loving people from a safe distance, through brief visits and playful care packages and entertaining emails. But beneath that pride, that fierce determination to be independent, is the desperate need for someone to grab me by the elbow and haul me into their arms and let me fall apart until I can put myself back together.

Just like Christopher has.

“Katydid,” he says softly, pulling me from my thoughts, back to his arms, to his palm steadily circling my back. “Let me make you pasta. All I need is flour and eggs. And those KitchenAid pasta-maker attachments I gifted Jules a couple Christmases back.”

“I don’t know if we even have that,” I tell him. “The flour or eggs, I mean.”

Slowly, he steps back, but his hand stays with mine, lacing our fingers together. “Let’s find out. We’ll run to the store if not.”

I let him tug me toward the kitchen and try not to feel deprived when he untangles our hands, using his to shut my laptop, power off my headphones, then slide them down the island, out of sight.He wraps up the bag of chips, sweeps away the crumbs, and wipes the island clean.

“Sit,” he says, tipping his head toward the chairs on the other side of the now-tidied island.

I don’t want an island between us. I want to be close to this new Christopher, so I can examine him and indulge my needy fascination. Instead, I hop up on the counter beside him, legs swinging. “Seated.”

He gives me a wry smile, then turns toward the kitchen cabinets, more at home and familiar with their contents than I am, even after weeks living here. I watch him find flour, then open the fridge and locate a carton of eggs.

And then I watch him do something I’ve never watched someone do so closely. His fingers deftly unbutton his cuffs and make quick work of rolling the fabric of his shirtsleeves up his arms, until it’s nestled right above his elbows, like they were when we tangoed. He turns on the water over the sink and starts a soapy lather in his palms.

I stare at his hands and forearms, these practical parts of his body that I’ve seen countless times. They don’t makemefeel very practical right now.

They make me feel warm and unsteady as I look at them—long fingers and the rough joints of his knuckles, the muscles in his arms visible beneath a dusting of dark hair.

My breath feels tight. I think about touching those hands, sliding my fingertips across his skin, feeling fine, soft hair and hard, thick muscle. I think about taking those hands and pulling them toward my body so they can ease the ache between my thighs, which I squeeze together.

“Want to make it with me?” Christopher asks, eyes on his task as he sets out a wide nonstick mat and measures out flour onto it.

I set a hand against my hot cheek, trying to cool myself down. “I’m not sure.”

“I think you should.”

“Why?” I watch as he settles the flour into a circle, then hollows out a crater in the center of it.

“It’s cathartic.” He cracks an egg seamlessly, dropping it into the flour crater. “C’mon. Roll up those sleeves and wash your hands, Katydid. You’ll see.”

---