But I should slow down, so I zip my lips as he talks.
“If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Football, yoga, parenting,” he says, listing the things that matter to, well, to us. “Friendships, musical taste, baking—pies in particular—and yes, sex.”
I swear, this man wants the same things I do. Feels the same things. Is this what a real connection is like? Maybe.
We wander past the frozen goods. “Honestly, there’s no reason to have bad sex,” I say. “If you’re having bad sex, that means you’re not trying. Good sex isn’t magic. You don’t wave a wand and have it. You’ve got to listen to your partner, pay attention, and, most of all, to want it.”
His eyes lock with mine in the relative seclusion of the freezer aisle, and in his brown irises I see as much want as I feel.
This conversation is dangerous, but I don’t want to let go of it yet. I like talking about sex with Harlan. I like talking about why the sex is so damn good with him. Because something is happening, and something has always been happening with us. It’s not magic—it’s effort. Good, hard effort that pays off. We vibe in bed because we vibe out of bed.
We’ve vibed every time we’ve been together.
That’s why we can’t seem to resist stealing every little moment.
I’m not sure I want to resist much longer.
Maybe he doesn’t want to either. “I loved reading your cues, Katie,” he says. “Figuring out your needs, and then delivering. That’s what made it so damn good.”
In the span of a few seconds, this conversation has shot from our childhood memories to why our intimacy rocks.
Our intimacy that we’re not having.
But tell that to my body. The shiver that runs down my chest and settles between my legs feels wildly intimate.
“You think so?” I ask, a little breathless as I stand next to the butter.
“Don’t you?” He sounds breathless too.
“Sometimes, but I also think we read each other’s cues out of bed too. Like the way we interact—that’s part of it. Part of why it’s so good,” I say.
This is hardly the place for this talk. But we’ve never been in the right place at the right time. Why should today be any different? Maybe I’m learning to embrace the moments with Harlan, to take them as they come.
When they come.
Even if I try to halt them with a pump of the business-minded brakes here or there, the moments don’t stop.
They keep happening, from seizing the night at the wedding seven years ago, to making the most of my anti-wedding night this past summer, to our yoga sessions, to lunch . . . to today.
He inches closer, latching onto my words. “I do think the way we are together is why the sex has been so damn good,” he says, and I am buzzing. “But everything with us is so good.”
My entire body hums with arousal and longing.
With need.
With hope that I can somehow rewrite the future. That I can discover an opening to what I want where I’m not hurting the people I work with. Where I’m not behaving like my mother in business.
I need to find that way.
And I need to find it soon.
I’m not even technically involved with this man, but it sure seems like I am.
Here goes the next thing—putting my feelings out there, taking the steps to let him know. I should be cautious about those things, but I can’t be bothered right now. “I can’t believe I’m saying this by the nine-dollar eggs, but I was really looking forward to seeing you again. To all of it. To everything.”
If I’m going to look for a way forward with him, it should start with speaking from the heart. So, I do. “I was looking forward to dinner and ice cream and foosball and sex, and also just . . . getting to know you more. I still am. I look forward to getting to know you more each day because I like everything I’ve already gotten to know,” I say, reaching for the side of the cold case like I need to hold on or I’ll stumble.
But I’m pretty sure I’ve already fallen.
21
Harlan
My head is spinning.
I feel woozy too, almost like I’ve been knocked hard out of bounds.
But I like this feeling. It’s new and different, but it’s all good. And I want more of it. “I was looking forward to spending more time with you,” I say softly. “I wanted all of it. The sex and the dates and just . . . you. I still do. I like you so much.”
My heart slams against my rib cage. I’m dangerously close to dropping this red basket on the floor, shoving her against the yogurt and eggs, and kissing the breath out of her, no matter what it brings.