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This is Dare.
I can trust him here.
I can trust him everywhere.
I return a don't even look and focus on the film. For a few scenes, I follow the story. Then my attention fades, and my thoughts go elsewhere.
To what I want to do for dinner tonight—maybe we'll make something. To our last day in Spain. Our itinerary for Paris (mostly "have a lot of sex" at this point).
The last time I watched a movie with a man I'd touched.
Well, a different man.
Then I feel his hand on my thigh and I'm there. I can smell the mix of cologne and laundry detergent, the one that came out of the vending machines at my dorm, the one I avoided for the rest of the semester.
I can feel the force of his hand on my shoulder. The threat of it.
I can hear his voice. Don't pretend. We both know you want this.
What I can't do is move. Or voice an objection. Or think of anything else.
Dare brings his hand to my shoulder.
I shrink back.
"Val—"
"Excuse me." I melt enough to rise, rush to the bathroom, splash water on my face, trying to wake up from this dream.
I stand there for a long time. Until I notice the too-bright fluorescent lights, the too-cold water, the strange teal color of the stalls.
Until I check the time on my phone and I see a text from Dare.
Dare: I'm in the lobby when you're ready. Or we can meet at home. Whatever you need.
He's doing everything right.
And he's my best friend. He's the person I trust more than anyone.
Why is it I could do everything before? Why could I kiss him, touch him, fuck him?
Is that the only way it will ever work for me?
It's not the end of the world, being the one in control. There's something thrilling about it, really.
But I want this too. I really, really want this.
I do a grounding exercise—three things I can feel: the air-conditioning, the tile beneath my feet, the plastic laminate of the counter. Four things I can hear: the sound of my breath, the running pipes, the low mumble of a movie in the theater next to the bathroom, is using the air-conditioning again cheating? Five things I can see: the faucet, the ceramic of the sink, the white walls, the slightly less startled reflection in the mirror, the tips of my fingernails. Then I take a few deep breaths, and I meet Dare in the lobby.
He nearly jumps to his feet when he sees me. He takes a step toward me and slows, like he's approaching a feral animal, like he's afraid he's going to scare me.
This is hurting him.
This is asking too much of him.
This is fucking impossible.
"Hey." He takes a slow step toward me. "You want to talk?"
"Do you?"
He nods. "But we don't have to."
I move toward him. "Can we get a drink?"
"Is that a good idea?"
No. Probably not. I meet him. I reach for him, get the back of his arm, the side. I take his wrist and find the heart he drew on the inside. The tattoo he promised to get for me. "We can do coffee instead. If you insist."
"Can I confess something terrible?"
I nod.
"I've had enough coffee."
"I'll pretend you didn't say that."
"I know." He reaches for me with that same hesitation.
So I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my head in his chest. "I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"How much I'm asking you to do."
"I volunteered."
"Did you?" I dig my fingers into his skin. "Or did it just kinda happen?"
"I'm volunteering now." He brings his hand to my cheek. "Best job I've ever had."
I meet his softer tone. "What's the position description?"
"Must love beautiful, intelligent woman."
My cheeks flush.
"Must be prepared to let a sexy as fuck woman use you for her pleasure."
"It sounds kinky that way."
"It can be." He releases me. "One drink if we talk."
"Okay." I take his hand and follow him out of the movie theater. And even though he promises this is okay again, I don't know if I believe him.
Who can live with feeling like a predator?
With hurting the person they love?
I can't.
And I don't think he can either.
Chapter Thirty-Six
DARE
After a few days in Spain, I'm convinced fine tonic water is the way to go. Even here, in this dimly lit dive bar, the menu lists four different premium tonic water options and a dozen gins.
Sure, some of the dives in Venice Beach craft a fine cocktail, but they charge fifteen dollars for a classic with infused simple syrup. They try way too hard.
These places don't. They know what they want, and they go after it.
Or maybe I'm putting too much stock in drinks again. Maybe, this is a bar, not a statement on my relationship with Val or the differences between Barcelona and Los Angeles. But, hey, that's a better thought than what if I'm hurting her, so I continue contemplating the perks of Spanish life.
