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Disgrace was nowhere to be found, so I must have been dreaming.
“You’re relaxed now,” he noted, nuzzling his stubble into my hair.
“You make it easy.”
“I make it up as I go.”
“I hope this isn’t made up,” I said, feeling the black fishhooks of doubt wind around my heart.
“I’m made up. You’re made up. We think, therefore we’re made up. We’re human—we make things up for fun.”
I faltered. Did that mean he was toying with me? Or was he waxing philosophical? I didn’t know him well enough to tell.
“I don’t feel like making anything up,” I said. “I want something real.”
“Sorry to break it to you Gracelet, but making it up is as real as it gets.”
I fell quiet as I leaned into his words, pondering their meaning. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew the deep sadness had returned.
Sam must have felt the shift in the air as we tread dangerously close to the edges of our happy shape. “How about instead of making things up, we make out?”
I laughed, welcoming the diversion. Things were warmer, easier at the center of our convergence. With anyone else, the center would feel like a bland median. But Sam was an outlier, and I desperately wanted him to lift my average to a new normal.
Sam touched his fingertips to mine, forming a teepee with our hands. The setting sun peered through the gap, watching us with its hot pink eye. “Is that an x then? Because of our run-in with your capital ex?”
I giggled, shook my head and raised my lips to his ear. “Oh.”
9
Grace
Everything about Sam felt good.
It felt good when his lips brushed against mine.
It felt good when he deepened our kiss, shaping his mouth around mine with words he didn’t say out loud.
It felt good to part my lips and yield to his tongue—was that a tongue ring?
A shiver raced down my spine as a smooth sphere slid past my lips.
Up until now, I’d held the opinion that all piercings (besides ears) were a sign of degeneracy. A plea for attention. A cry for help.
But as the smooth, hard ball delicately caressed the sensitive spots in my mouth, I let a soft moan escape.
It wasn’t a cry for help.
His soft, curly hair brushed my forehead and his sandpapery stubble scraped against my chin. On every inhale, I breathed in his fresh, forbidden fragrance: pine needles burning in a bonfire of whisky in the middle of a moonlit clearing.
It was the scent of secrets; the aroma of magic.
It felt good to wander into the dark forest and leave my fear at the edge.
And it felt good to let my body flex against his; to press my chest to his pecs and let my hips grind on him slowly; hypnotically.
I was letting loose; letting go. Letting this happen.
Best of all, I was letting.
