Page 26 of All Our Almosts

“Yes,” I laugh, “but it’s way crazier when you do it.”

“Why?”

“You’re so… you!”

“I have a feeling that’s not a compliment.” He runs his fingers through his hair again and looks away from me.

“No, no, Andy, please.” I grab his hands and make him look at me, so he knows I’m serious when I say, “It’s the biggest compliment. I just meant you don’t love meeting new people, and you always need to plan everything out so completely. I’m surprised one night stands are your thing, is all.”

The next second seems to swell into ten, as I realize I’m talking about sex with Andy while holding both of his hands. I’m acutely aware of the press of my fingers into his palms, the temperature of his warm skin against mine. I pull my hands back, then wish I hadn’t because surely the abrupt movement made things weirder.

Andy shifts away slightly—okay yes, I definitely made that weird—and mumbles, “Well, we don’t really talk about sex, so…”

“No.” I swallow. “We don’t.” I spot the remote on the coffee table, and am about to reach for it to break the awkwardness when he speaks up again.

“Do—” He clears his throat. “I mean, are they your thing?”

“One night stands?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve had a couple, but that’s part of why I thought the dating app thing would be good for me. I haven’t had much experience being single in general. I usually…”

I trail off, stopping myself before I can say I usually jump into a relationship with the first person who shows interest so I don’t sound pathetic.

But he doesn’t make me finish the sentence. He meets my gaze and says, “Yeah. I know.”

There’s a subtle pressure change in the air between us—a warning pulse. His dark brown eyes flicker across my face, taking in every accidental tell in the twist of my lips and flush of my cheeks. He always seems to see too much of me. More than anyone else. More than I’m ready to show.

“So, um…” He hesitates, then asks, “How many dates?”

“Huh?”

“How many dates do you have to go on with someone before…”

I realize what he’s asking, feeling my mouth fall open but hearing no sound come out.

“Sorry. That was weird. Pretend I didn’t ask.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just worried you’ll judge me.”

“When have I ever judged you?”

He asks it so sincerely, and the worried furrow of his brow reminds me that he never would.

“At least three,” I admit. “Sometimes more. Does that make me a prude? I’ll kiss on the first date, but doing much more than that right away has just always felt too vulnerable.”

“That doesn’t make you a prude.”

I give him a sideways glance. “Are you just saying that because I’m the first person to use the word prude since the 1950’s?”

He laughs, and it takes some air out of the ballooning tension. “No, though that’s a bonus.”

I open my mouth again, then stop myself.

“What?”

“What what?”