I found myself really hoping that all the times Cooper had said “it’s mild,” he’d meant it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sensing my worry.
“Nothing,” I said, making my voice bright and smiley.
“Do you think the door we came in through is open?”
“It has to be open,” I declared. “Legally.” I had no idea.
Next, wishing for even the tiniest sliver of light, I said, “You don’t happen to have your phone, do you?”
“I left it in my banjo case.”
“We’ll just have to echolocate, then,” I said, overly cheery. “Grab the railing.”
I set an example by starting to climb.
I’d made it up exactly five steps when I sensed that Cooper wasn’t following.
“Cooper?” I asked, reversing steps until I was close to him again. “Are you okay?” I turned to feel for him, and my palm landed on his chest.
Some darkness gets brighter as your eyes adjust. But this was not that kind of darkness. He might as well have been invisible.
He was breathing a little fast. “I’m fine,” he said—voice tight.
“Are you having a cleithrophobia attack?” I asked, moving my hand up to his face—to what? Read him like braille?
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Because this wouldn’t be great timing for that.”
“I agree.”
“Could you postpone it,” I suggested, “until after we get out of here?”
“I’m not sure that’s how that works,” Cooper said.
We were basically nose to nose.
And then I had an idea. “Cooper,” I said. “Do you need a distraction?”
“What?”
“You said it helps to have a distraction.”
He wasn’t quite sure where I was headed with this. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Do you want me to distract you?”
“Not if you’re going to slap me across the face or something.”
But that wasn’t what I had in mind.
Instead, I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way. This is medicinal.”
And then I leaned into the darkness, pulled him toward me, found his mouth—and kissed him.
I went all in, too. My mouth led the way, but my body followed.
