I was against the idea of seeing a therapist for the longest time. My grandparents had forced me into when I was a kid, even before custody got turned over to them, and I had refused to participate. I would sit there and stare at the clock for an hour, ignoring the poor therapist’s attempts to crack the hard shell I’d formed around myself. A necessity to survive when living with a single parent in active addiction for so many years.
I finally let my grandfather talk me into seeing someone – for real this time – after I got into a bar fight and broke the fucker’s nose. He was just a drunk idiot who was pissed off over me hitting on the girl he was interested in, and he made some lameyour momtype joke. I saw red and punched his lights out before I even knew what was happening.
Lucky for me, he’d been out attempting to cheat on his wife at the time and didn’t want to bring more attention to the situation by pressing charges against me. I’d been well into my twenties at that point, so my grandfather couldn’t exactly punish me, but he did sit me down and give me a good talking to. The tears were the nail in the coffin. I hated to see my grandfather cry, and with a child who was battling addiction for the better part of two decades, it was something I’d unfortunately seen him do often as I was growing up. Ipromised him I’d find a therapist to talk to, and a few weeks later, Deja and I had our first session.
It wasn’t like when I was a kid. I didn’t open right up and spill my guts on the first meeting, or anything like that, but I found that she was easy to talk to. It never felt like she was prying and trying to pull my trauma out of me with pliers, a messy and painful process. We just talked. About some heavy shit, as time went on, but by that point I found that Iwantedto tell her things, to get to the bottom of the shit that had been eating me alive for most of my life.
I was worried about finding a new therapist when I left Boston the first time, so I was relieved when she offered to switch to virtual appointments and keep up with our twice monthly schedule. When I moved back a few years later we started meeting in person again, and now we’re back to virtual meetings. Every other Friday I take a late lunch, head up to my apartment and sit on my couch while we chat.
I went into today’s appointment already out of sorts because it’s a Tuesday. Deja has the rest of the week off, but she didn’t want to make me wait four weeks between appointments, so she fit me into her schedule where she could.
It had been one of those sessions, one of the wrung dry kinds, and I’m blaming that for why I’m not firing on all cylinders when I hear a knock on my door. I don’t even stop to consider who it might be. I set the plate of sausage, eggs and toast I’d just finished cooking on my tiny kitchen table and make my way over to the door. Breakfast for dinner has always been my favorite comfort food.
When I open the door, it takes me a few seconds to process what I’m seeing: Elsie, her hair wavy and loose around her shoulders, wearing yoga pants and a gray UC Irvine crewneck. She looks comfortable and soft in a way I’ve never seen her before, and I’mimmediately overcome with the urge to sink my hands into her hair and pull her close.
Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorjamb. “Elsie. What a nice surprise.” Though it comes out teasing, maybe even a little sarcastic, I actually mean it.
“I’m so sorry to bother you at home,” she rushes out. She holds out an envelope and I look down at it, then back up at her. God, she’s beautiful. Her high cheek bones, the slope of her nose, the scattered freckles beneath her eyes. I want to trace them with my fingertips. And her body, even covered up in comfortable, casual clothing – the way her yoga pants hug her hips, the collarbones peeking out of the neckline of her oversized sweatshirt. I ache to touch her, to map out her topography with my hands and my lips and my teeth.
“What’s this?” I ask, still not taking the envelope from her.
“Mail for you,” she explains. “It got delivered to my shop, but it only has your name on it, not the shop or Sean’s. I thought it might be important, so I wanted to make sure you got it.”
“Doesn’t explain why you’re delivering it after 8 p.m. in your PJs,” I point out.
She immediately flushes, like I knew she would. “These aren’t my PJs,” she insists. “And I’m here because I stuck it in my purse earlier to drop off to you at the shop when I was leaving for the day, but then I got talking to Jane from the pharmacy as I was heading out and I forgot all about it. I was looking for something in my purse at home when I found it.”
“I see,” I say, nodding. Still not grabbing the envelope. Her hand hovers in the space between us, waiting for me to take it. “You could have brought it by tomorrow,” I point out. I can’t help myself. I want her to admit that her first instinct was to come see me, even if she’s disguising it as doing a good deed. Because we both know it could have waited until tomorrow.
She finally lets her hand fall back to her side, the envelope still clutched between her fingers, and when I see the look on her face I immediately want to take it all back. “I’m sorry for bothering you,” she says again, this time taking a step back. She looks embarrassed, andfuck, that’s the last thing I want.
“Elsie, wait.” I don’t think; I just reach out and settle a hand on her hip, becausemyfirst instinct is to keep her close to me. I flex my fingers, testing out the feel of her, and she looks up at me, wide-eyed. “I was just messing with you. Thank you for bringing it to me.”
She doesn’t say anything, just looks into my eyes like she’ll find the answer to a problem she’s been trying to piece together. I tug on her, just slightly, just enough that she has to take a half-step closer to steady herself.
That’s better. No matter where Elsie is, I always want her closer.
She takes another step so our bodies are nearly flush and rises on her tiptoes. I don’t know what I expect her to do – brush something off my face? Maybe I have an eyelash on my cheek?
What Idon’texpect is the way her fingers sink into my hair at the back of my head, the delicious scratch of her nails against my scalp as she tugs me down closer to her. When I lean down she crashes her lips against mine and something detonates deep inside my chest.
Her lips are soft and hungry against mine, and I want to bottle up the little gasp that slips out of her so I can replay it again and again. I pull her closer with the hand that’s already on her hip and slide my other one up her back, settling it at the base of her neck while my mouth devours hers. Both of her hands clutch at my hair, holding me tightly in place, as if there’s anywhere else I’d want to be.
In my thirty-one years of life, I’ve never experienced anything as transcendent as kissing Elsie Carmichael. The hungry clash of lips. The way she gasps again as my tongue slides against hers. The curve of her hip beneath my hand, and the soft tugs on my hair. The wayour breath mixes together, like the very oxygen she needs to live is somehow tied to me. It’s a sensory overload in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Andfuck, the taste of her. She’s sweet, so sweet, just like I knew she’d be. She tastes like honey and lavender, like she’d been drinking tea before she came over.
I move my lips against hers, nipping and teasing and tasting, wondering why we haven’t been doing this all along.
When she tries to pull back, every molecule in my body protests.
“No,” I whisper against her lips. Instead of breaking the kiss like she’d been trying to do, she sucks at my bottom lip and slips her tongue into my mouth. Our tongues meet and I groan, wondering what the fuck I did in this life or the last one, or even the one before that, to deserve anything as sweet as this. As sweet asher.
When I slide my hand from her hip to her lower back, pulling her tighter against me, it must snap some awareness back into Elsie because she jolts. As quickly as she started the kiss, she ends it, gasping as her lips break free from mine. I loosen my hold on her immediately, though every part of my body is screaming at me to do exactly the opposite.
Elsie seizes the opportunity and steps back, her hand flying up to touch her lips. When she looks up at me, wide-eyed, her gaze contains multitudes: lust, confusion, wonder, uncertainty. She’s alone in that last one – if there’s one thing I’ve come to be certain about, it’sher.
“I have to go,” she blurts out.
