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“No,” I sputter.
She laughs. “Methinks that’s about to change.”
“Don’t tease me when I’m freaking out,” I plead with her. “He’s going to be here in like ten minutes.”
“Beth, why the hell are you freaking out?”
“Because it’s late. And I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re right. I can’t keep my hands off him. And he’ll be here any minute, and I need to figure out how to keep that from happening again.”
“Well, whatever you do, make sure you wash your ass, so when he goes down on you he’ll want to take his time.”
“Oh my God.
“And I want all the details as soon as he leaves in the morning. Cause I know you’re gonna bone.”
“There’s not going to be any boning.”
“Okay…I mean, it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than you’re trying to convince me. You just do whatever feels right. But also, get your freak on. You deserve a little slut action.”
“I’ll leave the slut action to you,” I snip.
She barks out a harsh, dry laugh. ”I wish I was a slut. Wes makes it look like a lot of fun.”
All my amusement fades.“I’m sorry Dina, I didn’t know.”
“Really? Well, now you do. Go get ready. Call me in the morning. Bye.” She hangs up before I can respond to any of that.
Ugh, I’m so clueless sometimes. Here I’ve been moping about my life, and I forget my friend is also going through her shit. She doesn’t like talking about these things, but next time I get her on the phone I’m going to make her.
I hop in the shower and spend three minutes washing the lazy day I spent cleaning, masturbating, and eating ice cream off. I spend another two minutes spreading my mandarin orange lotion everywhere. Then I put on the ugliest pair of underwear I can find, complete with holes and period stains. I rummage until I find one of the tattered bras I should have thrown away ten years go.
I put on the dullest pair of leggings I can find and put on one of Phil’s oversized high school basketball shirts just as my doorbell rings.
I rush downstairs, practicing my ‘happy to see you but not ready to fuck you’ smile.
I take a deep breath and open the door. ”You find it—” the words die in my throat as I take him in.
He looks amazing. His dark hair is slicked back from his high forehead. His jaw is clean shaven. He’s dressed in a T-shirt that hugs his muscular chest and leaves his toned, strong arms on display. The new tattoo on his forearm looks like a musical score wrapped all the way around from his elbow to his wrist.
“Is that a real song?” I ask, my eyes riveted to the intricate ink.
He runs a hand over it, and a nostalgic smile spreads across his face. “It’s Beethoven’s Sonata 17 in D Minor. It was my audition piece for the Music Academy and my father’s favorite composition. I got this right after he died.”
“It’s beautiful. The detail is incredible.” I trail my fingertips over the arrangement of notes and bars. When I get to the end of it right above his wrist, he turns his hand inward and clasps my fingers in his.
I look up in surprise but don’t try to pull my hand away. It feels too good. And no one’s watching.
He steps over the threshold and into the house. I have to step back to put some spa
ce between us.
“Thank you. I’d forgotten how beautiful this house is.” He looks around with genuine appreciation. “Thanks for inviting me over.”
We’re still holding hands, and he links our fingers and sweeps his thumb over the back of my hand. It’s an innocent touch, but my whole body resounds with the aftershocks of it. Thank god for the disgraceful drawers I’m wearing. “I’m glad you’re here,” I admit but don’t give him a chance to respond before I turn and lead us down the long corridor. “Come on, let me show you what you came for.”
“Here she is,” I say with relish and pull my hand away to I turn on the lights in the big room in the back of the house where the piano sits.
“Beautiful,” he says under his breath. He walks over to look inside its open lid and gives an impressed whistle.
