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“Wow,” Graham says, sobering. “I didn’t realize musicals got that heavy.”
I shrug. “Sometimes. There were funny parts too, but I think that was the part I needed to hear.”
Graham’s head tilts quizzically. “Really? But you always seem so . . . you. Unapologetically you, and happy about it.”
I grin. “Well, I am usually. But there are times, like when facing down my twenty-sixth birthday without experiencing things I was certain I would have experienced by this point, that I struggle.”
He nods thoughtfully, holding my gaze as a slow smile curves his lips.
“What?” I laugh again. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m smiling because I’m glad you decided to stop waiting for experiences to find you and decided to hunt them down for yourself. And I’m glad I’m the one who gets to show you what you’ve been missing.”
My cheeks flush, and my chest feels warmer than it did before. “Me too.”
His eyes glittering, he adds, “And you are absolutely worthy of love and acceptance. You’re one of my favorite people and, as you know, I have excellent taste.”
My gaze falls to my bread plate as the warm feeling floods through the rest of me, all the way to the tips of my fingertips and toes. And I know what this feeling is. It is familiar to me from bear hugs from my brother, and hour-long girl-talk sessions with Chloe, and long, lazy summers with my grandmother before she passed away, learning how to knit and laughing over old episodes of SNL.
But I’ve never experienced it like this, all tangled up with wanting to press my lips to every inch of the person who’s inspiring the sensation, to thank him for making me feel loved in my body as well as in my soul.
I know Graham doesn’t love me romantically. But his words are the perfect reminder of why this is so right . . . and so dangerous.
Who better to teach me how to make love than someone who loves me already?
But who is it riskier to learn with than someone I know I could fall so hard for, who only loves me as a friend?
“You okay, Butterfly?” he asks, his hand coming to rest on my knee under the table.
I look up, forcing a smile. “Yes, I am.” I take a deep breath and add in a teasing tone, “Though I’m not going to look very sexy in whatever lingerie you have picked out for our lesson later. I can’t resist seconds of the truffle stuff, and I’m not even going to try.”
“You will always be sexy in anything you wear,” he says, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. “But I didn’t pick out any lingerie for tonight. You want to know why?”
I nod.
He runs his hand up my knee. “Because the lesson I want you to learn is that you’re beautiful just as you are. You’re gorgeous in whatever you choose for yourself, be that panties, T-shirts, music, friends, work, or anything else.”
A flush spreads over my chest as my heart beats harder, faster, trying desperately to wiggle closer to him. “Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I can manage.
“Besides, the other lesson for tonight is that sex can be amazing when you do whatever feels right for you. When you’re ready, whenever that is.”
When I’m ready . . .
I nod, nerves and breathless excitement flaring behind my ribs, making it feel like a balloon is inflating in my chest. But before I can give verbal confirmation that yes, I’m ready, all ready, so ready, the server arrives with food and share plates. So much food. Delicious, incredible food.
But I can barely taste it.
I can’t focus on the rich, yet delicate cream sauce or the perfectly firm pillows of smoky mozzarella. I am only partially present for my conversation with Graham about Luna, his best friend from grad school who is preparing to launch a new fleet of food trucks in the financial district, or our discussion of why Birreria’s tiramisu is superior to all others in the city.
All I can think about is that tonight is the night. In an hour, maybe less, I will know things that I’ve never known, and I will never be the same. And Graham will be there, and he will forever be a part of this story, this decision, this transition from one stage of my life to the next.
And yes, it’s a little scary. But it’s also right. Because I’m ready.
18
Graham
Handle with care.
That’s what I keep telling myself during the car ride to my place.
Be gentle.
Take it slow.
But when she kisses me like this, all lips, teeth, and a newly discovered confidence that’s downright addictive, I don’t want to take it slow. I want to slam my lips to hers, tangle my hands in her silky hair, yank her head back, and leave a trail of rough kisses up the gorgeous column of her throat.
