This man has a mustache. Rich didn’t have a mustache. How will sex with a man with a mustache feel different from sex with Rich?
Rich left me, and yet he haunted me. The strangers I’d considered after him were, well,strangersand thus could only exist in opposition with him. I couldn’t bring myself to share new moments of intimacy with the man who left me at the direction of a virtual rowing instructor, even if he’d never know about it.
“Charley.” My eyes flutter open at the sound of Ethan calling me by my actual name. It’s not often he uses it, and I like the way it sounds. “You’re just giving up? Because of Rich?” He ejects my ex’s name from his mouth like spoiled meat.
“I’m not giving up. I’m just recognizing the inherent flaws in relationships. You should be proud. I’m finally on your level.”
Back when I believed in weddings and commitment and joint bank accounts, I’d thought some people simply couldn’t be tethered. I’d seen enough men leave to be sure of that. But Rich was a cement block of a man and in less than a year, he’d floated away from me like a helium balloon. Because in a world of leavers and stayers, anyone is capable of becoming a leaver.
Ethan—who is here, for now—reaches for my hand. “Youcan’t let that guy…” He swallows hard. “Rich doesn’t deserve to be the last person who’s touched you.”
My mouth goes bone-dry. I know Ethan’s not suggesting that he should be thenextperson to touch me, but the way he’s so adamant thatsomeoneshould has my mind bursting with images I have worked very hard to suppress over the years. Our friendship is built upon the premise that Ethan and I, in that way, are impossible.
It could never be me.
I don’t do one-off sexcapades, and that’s all Ethan has to offer. If there are “stayers” and “leavers,” Mr. I Have Nowhere to Be All Week is the leaving-est leaver who’s ever left. No matter what happens next, he’ll always drive off into the sunset, and I’ll always live to regret it.
Still, I can’t help but picture it: Ethan coming home in an Oxford shirt with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder after a day at the office to my big empty house. We’d work side by side on our laptops at the dining room table—a new one we bought from Room & Board with AmEx points. We’d order Hola Arepa for dinner before watching two episodes ofThe White Lotusand going to bed. Then wake up to do it all again.
Whenever I try to imagine Ethan in my life, I can’t help but think of my dad and the way he looked whenever he’d come back, like he was wearing a stranger’s shoes he’d stolen from the front mat. Like he didn’t belong and was waiting for someone to call him out. Ethan would surely be just as miserable.
Ethan narrows his eyes, and I’m certain they could chisel through my skull if he put his mind to it. “Do you—”
My phone beep interrupts his question, and I watch this moment pass us by in real time like a cloud breezing past the sun.
I lift the offending device. The work fears creeping up my throat settle when I read the notification. “It’s my alarm to put on my light therapy mask. The Iron Man mask.”
“You didn’t bring that camping, did you?” He doesn’t move.
I don’t either.
He snorts, and whatever was just happening between us deflates into something less intimidating.
“Beekman, you packed no shirts but remembered to bring a gold-plated—”
“I’m on a twelve-week streak. I’ve come too far to risk fine lines on my forehead.”
“You’re twenty-eight. You don’t have fine lines on your forehead.” He climbs into the van, tosses me my bag, and then flops back into his folding chair.
“Duh.” I unzip the bag. “Thanks to my hypervigilance.”
He puts his hand up. “Fine. Whatever you’re doing is clearly working for you.”
“I use it every night before bed. The ritual relaxes me.”
It’s at that moment that it hits me. Ethan and I will be sharing a bed. His bed.
I strap on my face mask and press the button on my forehead until a red glow appears at the edges of my vision.
“You look like a mannequin that’s been possessed by Satan,” he tells me flatly.
To whichever demon spirit I’ve angered enough to deliver me to this moment, in this van, stuck in a literal quagmire with one Ethan Powell, I wish to repent.
Chapter 11
The Anticipation Is the Best Part
Saturday, Now
