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I fling my arms around his neck and crush him close. His hair smells of river, his nape is warm and slightly sweaty against my crooked arm. My other hand balls the back of his t-shirt, knuckles nudging him closer.
His breath oofs at my temple, and my skin zings at his puttering laugh. He squeezes me, splayed fingers branding my lower back.
Birds twitter in the distance, and breezes make the sheets we hung out earlier flap loudly. It’s a reminder Cress and Ford will be here tomorrow.
“Are you unhappy about the idea of them living with us?” Ethan had asked later that Sunday, when we were alone.
He’d looked disappointed, but ready to do whatever I wanted.
I wanted him happy. “Nau mai ratou ki konei.”
They are welcome here.
Reluctantly, I draw out of our hold. We only have one evening just us. I need to make the most of it. “Gimme the key to . . . the green one, then.”
Ethan laughs and tosses it to me.
“Jump in, Eth. We’re going for a ride.”
We arrive home laughing, sated from greasy fish ‘n chips and a salty drive around the coast. I insisted we have the windows down and my hair has stiffened into a wild nest. Ethan doesn’t have that problem. His is a few inches shorter than mine, and he kept his cap on.
He finds it hilarious and wants to touch it. I duck and dive out of his reach and laugh as he chases me up two flights of darkened stairs. We better turn on a light before we fall over and kill ourselves.
I fumble for the switch and it’s all the wasted time Ethan needs to catch me. His body jams up against mine and we’re giggling and giggling. The press of him at my back is warm, solid, shifting. The laughter pooling into the knots of my hair feels dewy against my scalp.
He clasps my wrists, presses them against the wall so I can’t break free, and he uses his nose to feel the catastrophe of my hair.
Suddenly, we’re not laughing anymore. His lips skim the shell of my ear, his breath crackling—
He pulls away sharply, and I shiver.
The light switch is right there, but I can’t turn it on.
“I should . . .” Ethan is all dark outlines as he hitches a thumb toward his room. “You want the bathroom first?”
I want it together. “Nah, I’m good. You go.”
He goes and I bang my flushed forehead against the wall, groaning.
When we’re in our separate rooms, in our separate beds, I touch myself. Slow, languid strokes, until I’m hard and dribbling pre-come into the shell of my hand—
Tap. Tap. “Fin?”
I snap my boxer-briefs back into place and curl on my side. “Come in.”
He’s in loose satin boxers and a baggy t-shirt. He pads over to my bed and hesitates.
“The dark?” I know he still hates it.
The light in the living room is always on when he’s home. It’s on now, I can see it in the gaps around the door.
Ethan shakes his head.
My chest heaves and my stomach flutters as I shuffle over and open the blankets for him.
His slides in, puffs up his pillow, and twists toward me. It’s like time travel. Like the last three years haven’t happened.
Our roughened breathing is loud in the stillness. He shifts again, getting comfortable. Closes another inch between us.
I drag a knee up and the length of my shin rests against his hot thigh.
“Can we . . . talk?” Ethan whispers.
“What do you want to talk about?” I whisper back.
“Everything. Anything. I feel like we never really share, anymore.”
“Share what, Eth?”
“Personal things. I don’t know. You probably did all that with Daniel.”
“Did you with Abigail?”
He’s quiet. “It was just physical between us.”
Relief feels like a big wave crashing through me, swirling at my toes. “Same with me and Daniel. Just sex.”
“Was it . . .” he stops himself.
I help him finish the thought. “Good?”
His next exhale is deep, like he regrets how much he wants to know. His voice breaks. “I hope he was careful with you.”
“He . . .” He wasn’t really there. You were.
I want him to look into my eyes and read the truth there. He’s not looking at me. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he hopes I thought of him. Maybe he doesn’t want me to take his hope away.
I won’t. “He was careful.”
“Tell me.”
I want him to know. “I want to hear what it was like for you, too.”
His swallow is audible. Much louder than his next word. “Yes.”
“Close your eyes—No. Keep them open.” I let out a nervous breath. “We’ve been down to the river, an evening swim. We’re still damp, alone in the bed now, in the dark. I’ve taken my greenstone off, but I’m thinking about the time I shared what it meant to me.
