He laughs. “It’s a plan. Check out the menu. I’m gonna see what’s on TV. But hey—” He scoots to the edge of the bed and catches one of my hands before I get far. I meet his serious gaze. “You can tell me if you’re not okay, or if you want to talk more. You know that, right?”
I smile at him. Bless his emotionally stable heart. “Yes I do. Thank you.”
His face relaxes into that one-sided smile I love so much and he rests back against the pillows again, reaching for the remote to flick on the flat-screen TV.
A few minutes later, I’ve fixed my hair into something other than the blanket-burrito-caused rat’s nest that it was and made my food decision. I feel like Eloise at the Plaza—or rather her less famous cousin, Reese at the Moderately Nice Chain Hotel—as I place my order and wait for it to arrive. When there’s a knock on the door, I jump up and run for it before Benny can, returning with a big tray that I set between us on the bed.
We make a toast with our cans of Coke and then recline against the pillows as I tuck into my cheeseburger and generously share some fries—not the classiest of meals, but I had a hankering.
And while it’s good, being comfy with one of my favorite people and demolishing a greasy mess of food, it doesn’t quite erase the day. The crappy social interactions and similarly crappy internet lurking have left me with an unsettled churning in my stomach, this ominous feeling that I should’ve handled everything better and that worse things lie ahead. I still feel strangers’ hands on me when I wish I could only feel Benny’s. I’m rethinking every word I said and that was said to me, when I want to be enjoying this mindless early-2000s rom-com on the TV.
I want to ignore all the outside noise, to be present in this moment with this handsome boy in my bed. Instead, I’m all out of sorts. And expressing none of it aloud, of course. No, I opt for making snarky comments about the movie and how predictable it is, telling Benny how it’s all going to play out even though we missed the first hour.
My predictions are spot-on, for what little it’s worth.
“You could not have known he was going to leave Spicy Brunette at the altar for Cute Blondie unless you’d seen this before. I think I’ve been played,” Benny huffs as he finishes off the last fry.
“Think about what you’re saying, Ben Kenobi. Spicy versus cute. We’re never supposed to like thespicywoman in movies, not for the romantic hero to end up with. He’s supposed to gowith the aw-shucks, girl-next-door type who was right in front of his face all along. Spicy gal never had a chance, bless her heart.”
He scrunches his nose, mulling this over. “Then I have a dilemma, see,” he says, and his feigned thoughtfulness makes me smirk.
“Oh, do you?”
“Yeah, because what if I’m into this girl who’s cute but also spicy? Is she too good to be true? Can I really only have one or the other?”
I narrow my eyes at him, stretching one leg to nudge the room service tray with the now-empty plates out of the way and shift slowly in his direction.
“I don’t know. A girl with multiple facets to her personality? Sounds fake.”
Benny grins, his dimples projecting extra adorableness as he leans over to move the tray off the bed and onto the floor. When he leans back again, I scoot right up alongside him and push his cap off his head, running my hand through his curls.
“Oh, she’s real,” he says with a soft laugh, our faces so close I feel his breath tickling my skin. “I think, anyway. But just to be sure…”
Then his lips press into mine, and it feels like relinquishing so much of my tightly held control and letting my nagging worries fade as I sink into him. It’s a blur of kisses and touches and affectionate whispered words even though we’re the only ones around to hear them. My fingers twirling locks of his hair, hishand running up the outside of my thigh. My legs fitting around his hips as I climb into his lap. His lips on my neck, along my jawline. My palms dipping beneath his soft T-shirt, feeling the hard planes of those hard-earned abs.
I like the feeling a bit too much: not thinking, just acting, I run my hands up higher and the sound he makes as we kiss urges me on. It just feels sogoodand I like him somuchand goodness, he’s sogorgeous,and if I’m not gonna appreciate it, who will, right? My hands have roamed to his chest when he pulls his head back and raises his eyebrows, reaching for the neckline of his shirt. I nod, nearly as overeager as I was for room service, and he pulls his T-shirt up and over his head.
Lordhavemercy.
My eyes and my stomach and all things hormone-driven were not ready for this. It’s like his torso is carved out of marble, for goodness’ sake. I bring my lips back to his, in part to keep myself from sitting here gaping like a fool. But I also enjoy running my hands over this newly available territory, and all indications say Benny is having a pretty good time, too.
I let myself tip forward onto his chest and my legs stretch back so that I’m lying mostly on top of him. His hands have been making lazy rotations up and down my sides and when I move to this new position, I don’t register that my own shirt has ridden up until his fingers reach the bare skin at my hips.
Goose bumps pop up immediately at his touch. His palms flatten along my exposed lower back and it feels so good,soothing even as it’s putting me further on alert. But when his hands move up under the back of my T-shirt, thumbs hooking the hem to lift it ever so slightly higher, something changes.
It feels like all my muscles seize up, and I hear the angry, aggressive voices in my head—voices from my past, judging me for things I didn’t even do. Online commenters who disapprove of everything I say and do, supposed “fans” whose leers make my skin crawl. It all puts so much pressure on me now, everything riding on my next move. If I go any further, let Benny in any more, am I easy? If I don’t, will he think I don’t like him? What about if—or more likely, when—we break up? I could have regrets. He could be angry, vengeful, tell people all the intimate details. Can I face that kind of fallout again?
Am I going to think about all this stuff for the rest of my life? I mean, damn, should I cut my losses and join a convent now?
Somewhere in the midst of my mental shitstorm, I’ve pulled my face back from Benny’s. His hands have moved from my back to rest lightly on my forearms, which I’m using to prop myself up against his chest.
“Hey, where’d you go?” he says softly, searching my eyes.
I blink twice, shake my head. “Sorry, I…” I swallow heavily, not the least bit sure what to say. “I don’t think I can do anything else tonight. I’m sorry, I—I thought I was good, but…”
I shake my head again, averting my eyes and pressing my lips tightly together. Benny doesn’t move, or scoff, or start throwing things. Because he’sBenny,not one of the monsters in myhead. He’s Benny, and he’s different, and he’s good. His fingers continue to brush my wrists, one of which still bears the outline of a phone number written on it by a total stranger without my permission. I feel his eyes on my face.
“It’s all good,” he says, and the breath I let out feels like a balloon of tension deflating inside me. “Anything you want is fine with me. I’m sorry if I—I mean, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I never want to do that, Reese, so just tell me to stop and—”
