“Thanks.”
“You know, I’ve thought about you a lot.”
Oh god. Please don’t start.
I make a small grunt, the only response I can muster.
He goes on. “I often thought about getting in touch with you, but I didn’t know how.”
“You became Facebook friends with Everly,” I point out.
“And honestly, it was just to get closer to you.”
Oh fuck. Why is he telling me this?
My throat feels thick and I have trouble swallowing. “Well, you’re pretty close to me right now.”
“And I’d like to get closer.”
I stop walking and give him an incredulous look. “Are you hitting on me?”
He stops too. Stands tall, eyeing me with a faint smirk. If it weren’t for his beard, I would see his dimples. “You’d know it if I was hitting on you, Shay. I’m just being honest, that’s all.” He nods at something over my shoulder. “That’s your hotel right there.”
I turn around and see a red boathouse done up like a B&B. He’s right.
“So,” he says, holding out his hand. “I guess this is goodbye. We never got to do it right the first time.”
Damn. Part of me wishes he’d keep on fighting.
I stare down at his hand. It’s a peace offering. It’s closure.
It’s wishful thinking.
“All right,” I tell him. I put my hand in his and he grasps it, hard.
It’s just a handshake. Just a way to say goodbye.
Just skin on skin.
But it’s so much more than skin on skin.
It’s the way my hand fits into his, like it always did.
It’s memories, both bitter and sweet.
Suddenly, the last thing I want to do is let go of his warm, strong grip. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so grounded and untethered at the same time.
“Goodnight,” I whisper. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Shay,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “It was very nice to see you again.”
Then he lets go and it’s like I’m missing a limb.
He turns and walks down the shiny, cobblestone street.
I want to yell after him.
But I don’t know what I’d say.
There’s still too much to say.
Instead, I turn around and head to the hotel to check in.
That night, I lie in bed, unable to sleep, feelings ripping through me, leaving me hollow.
They are hungry feelings.
I feel reckless and wanting. Like I want to give in.
I’m reminded of a poem I read once.
She wants so much, too much
for things that don’t want her
for things that aren’t things
for hearts that aren’t hearts.
She wants so much,
that I give her all of me
and she barely notices
that it’s what she wanted all along.
6
Shay
Then
Sex.
It’s all I think about.
All the fucking time.
And to be honest, I’m not even sure if this is normal. Everly and I talk about sexy very loosely. I know that she’s had sex with her ex, Jeff, but other than a few basic details, she never brings it up. Though she talks about dick all the time, it’s usually in a humorous way.
Then there’s my other friend, Jen Brown, who proudly sleeps around. She’d understand my crazy sex thoughts, but she has this way of making you feel particularly uncool if you ask her anything, as if you’re much younger and she knows everything. I’m not going down that road.
And anyway, I’m not going to talk to my sister about sex either. Hannah may be older, but I guarantee she’s a virgin too. I’ve never seen a boy around her, even now with her going to university. Sex, boys, makeup, alcohol—anything remotely cool and Hannah doesn’t even bat an eye. She’ll probably grow up to be the scientist who discovers the cure for cancer, but she won’t be able to find her own G-spot.
Not that I have. But I’ve tried. Cosmo magazines are a wealth of knowledge.
Then there’s my mother, whom I probably wouldn’t even speak to even if she were here with us and not acting like a fool over our father in Mumbai. Ever since she took him back (fuck, she didn’t even take him back, she begged him back after all he did to her. Who does that?), I’ve resolved to never take a word of advice from her again. Choosing dad over us—again—when she should be running for the hills and asking for a divorce.
I don’t get it, and the more I think about it, the angrier I become.
So maybe it’s a good thing I’ve got sex on the brain.
I mean, how can I not when I have Anders to distract me.
I’ve been seeing Anders for one month now.
We’ve only kissed.
Okay, I shouldn’t say we’ve only kissed.
His kisses are more than any kisses I’ve had before. They are soul-searing.
Imprinting.
And highly addictive.
Of course, he’s also felt me up more than a few times, and by a few times, I mean last night, and I wasn’t about to bat his hands away because he knows exactly what he’s doing with them. He doesn’t paw at me the way that Phil Hadzocos did when we were dating, as if my boobs were to be treated like a stress ball.