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At least, that’s what I’m wondering. I’m not remotely tired and therefore I’m not remotely interested in going down to the basement. I definitely have some more making out in me tonight.
With a tiny tilt of his head, Andrew leads me to the kitchen—where I think we both plan to escape outside and to the Boathouse, but instead we find that there is still a sink full of dishes to do.
“Oh, right.” Dreams of imminently ripping the flannel shirt from his upper body die a sad, quiet death. “I said we’d do these.”
Andrew rolls up his sleeves and gives me a playfully annoyed look. “‘Let’s help out more,’ she said. ‘We need to be grown-ups,’ she said.”
Laughing, I put my mostly full glass of cider near him on the counter and turn to collect stray dishes from the table. “Sorry.”
“You really are a terrible drinker,” he observes, dumping the contents of the glass down the sink and slotting it into the dishwasher.
“I know.” I watch him close the dishwasher and then wash his hands at the sink. “But so are you.”
Andrew grins over his shoulder at me. “I make impulsive decisions when I’m drunk. Like, I’m probably only ever one to two drinks away from getting a bad music quote tattoo.”
This makes me laugh and I clap a hand over my mouth to keep the sound from echoing past where we stand in the quiet kitchen. The last thing I want is Miles or Theo coming back upstairs to join us. “You mean you wouldn’t get a parrot?”
A full-body shiver worms through him, and he plugs one side of the sink to fill it with soapy, warm water. “The thing I can’t get past is why a parrot?”
I shrug, biting my lips. “Why not a parrot?”
“A cool parrot on your arm or back? Maybe.” He points finger guns down at his crotch. “But a parrot—here? Right next to your dick? Why?”
I’d respond, but this has fried the part of my brain that makes words. As soon as Andrew looks up at me, he can see it all over my face. “Did I fluster the lady?”
“A bit.” I reach for a dish towel, intent on drying the dishes I assume he’s going to start washing, but he takes two steps closer, cupping my face.
“You’re making this expression like you’re not sure this is really happening.”
“That is a frighteningly accurate assessment.”
He rests his lips on mine, smiling.
“We have dishes to do,” I mumble against his mouth.
“We’ll do them in the morning,” he mumbles back.
“We aren’t going to want to do them in the morning.”
Nipping at my bottom lip, he growls and turns away. “Fine. Be logical.”
He moves over to Ricky’s old cassette-playing radio on the counter and snaps a tape into place, hitting play with a clunky click. Sam Cooke filters from the small speakers, quiet enough that I’m pretty sure it doesn’t make its way down- or upstairs, and even if it does, it’s Sam Cooke, not Ozzy Osbourne; we’re probably safe to assume we’ll be left alone.
Don’t know much about history . . .
Andrew sings quietly, washing the dishes, and the first couple of times he hands me something to dry he gives me a flirty smile, but then we get into a quiet rhythm after a few minutes; we settle into the best combination of lifelong friends and new lovers.
He rinses his favorite unicorn mug and hands it to me to dry. “You want to hear a story about this?” I ask.
“Hell yes I do.”
“When I painted it, I wrote ‘Mae plus Andrew’ in white and then painted over the whole thing in pink.”
He gapes at me, taking it back and immediately flipping it over. “You did not.”
“I did.”
He holds it to the light, squinting. “Oh my God, there it is!”
We lean together and he points, outlining the letters with his index finger. He’s right. The raised shapes of the letters in thick paint are barely visible.
“I knew it was my favorite mug for a good reason.”
I laugh. “So dorky.”
“Uh, no, Mae, it’s awesome.” He leans over, kissing my cheek. “So I guess you weren’t kidding,” he says, “about your crush.”
“Of course I wasn’t kidding.” When I turn to look at him, he leans in again, brushing his mouth over mine.
And if this one could be with you . . .
We fall back into a rhythm with the dishes, and I don’t realize we’ve shifted so that we’re touching until his arm slides down mine as he reaches into the sink to wash the final platter, but we make eye contact afterward. I’m infatuated with him beyond distraction. This is everything I’ve always wanted: to be here, exactly like this with him—and maybe we aren’t “together” in a defined sense of the word, but we’re already undeniably more.
A second thought sinks into me like a weight dropping in a warm lake: I am happy. I have never been this happy in my entire life. Maybe Benny was right and I’m finally being me.
