We kissed for so long that, eventually, Grandma started calling out for me down the steps, wondering where I was. I made Brandon sneak out the back door, but our lips didn’t break apart until he stepped out of the house. And then he texted me and invited me over, claiming he wanted to watch a movie. We did no such thing. We kissed from the doorway to the couch. His hands and lips were everywhere, all over me, his touch gentle and respectful but still confident and explorative at the same time.
For the first time, I wasn’t shy with him. I surrendered to the experience, and it was . . . wonderful. We ended up doing pretty much everything but the deed itself. It’s not that I didn’t want to have sex. Far from it. But I never have before, and we aren’t in a committed relationship. Not yet, anyway. It’s not like I’m waiting for marriage or anything, but I’d like to know he’s committed to me before giving myself to him in that way. He was considerate of my decision not to have sex, of course. He’s Brandon. Considerate is practically his middle name.
A small part of me knows he must have been disappointed, too.
He’s a man, after all.
But because everything happened so unexpectedly, I wasn’t prepared to explain the scars. When Brandon peeled my sweater off, he paused, stricken by the gashes covering the length of my arms, obviously horrified by what he was seeing.
I wanted to disappear into nothing at that moment.
“What are those?” he gasped, as if he’d never seen anything like it.
“It’s nothing,” I lied, turning my forearms down to conceal the evidence of my self hatred.
He grabbed my wrist and twisted it close to his face to examine the scars—almost like he was trying to determine the age of them, like counting rings on a tree trunk. I winced when the desire for me drained from his expression and morphed into what I could only describe as clinical concern. Those mesmerizing eyes lifted to mine, andI knew he yearned to ask me a million questions. I can see when he’s burning with curiosity about something. He gets this look . . . He’s curious about everything, all the time, but let’s be real: I’m one of his favorite subjects. He’d study me like a textbook if he could—if I was willing to share all my most shameful secrets.
But some things are best kept to oneself . . .
Especially when your new lover is a psychiatrist.
Sensing I wasn’t going to open up, he sighed and kissed the inside of my wrist, resigned. But an ominous warning darkened his light blue eyes. He’s going to try and get me to talk about it eventually.
Hopefully “eventually” never comes.
I still don’t know how to feel about tonight, but I think I’m happy—even if our relationship status remains ambiguous. Things felt normal between us again, which I’m thankful for, even when it could have gotten really awkward, like when he helped me get dressed and walked me to the door afterward.
That walk felt a little . . . uncomfortable, if I’m being honest. Or maybe shameful is the right word? I wished he’d let me stay the night.
But yes, I think I’m happy. This is what I wanted, after all—him.
So why does it feel like he’s given me everything and nothing at the same time?
Chapter 22
Evie
“Adam?”
“Hi,” Adam chirps as Brandon and I scramble to end our embrace. His eyes dance between us as he attempts to make sense of the situation.
Brandon clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck as he looks anywhere but at Adam. I watch him curiously. He’s acting like he’s been caught stealing cookies from a cookie jar.
It’s weird. I’ve never seen him look so uncomfortable.
Or so . . . handsome. There’s something about his appearance that is particularly dreamy today. Brandon always looks great, but it’s the little details that have caught my attention lately. For example, he’s wearing gold cufflinks today. There are crisp lines running down the length of his shirt sleeves, too, indicating he ironed it. And he’s wearing that cologne that I told him I liked in another life—the one that smells like pine trees.
And is his hair shinier?
I can’t tell if he’s been putting more of an effort into his appearance lately or if I’m just ovulating right now.
Probably the latter.
Adam wipes his shoes on the rug. “Is now a bad time?” he wonders. Lamely, he lifts the tasteful, artfully arranged holiday bouquet. “I thought I’d try and surprise you . . .”
My heart sinks.
Memories of my wedding day come flooding back to me—like when I flirted with Brandon in the powder room just minutes before I was due to exchange vows with the very man trying to give me roses right now.
