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When the restaurant tells us that it’s closing soon, Gilly announces that the party will move to a club, but I’m exhausted and want to go home. Cleo says she’ll come with me, and Lucas says he will too.
“Charlie,” Gilly whines, drunkenly tugging on my shirt. “It’s my birthday. You can’t leave early.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m pretty tired. But hey, don’t let me stop you guys from having fun.”
Gilly pouts, which looks ridiculous on a big guy like him. “Cleo,” he says. “Tell your boyfriend you want to stay. Come on, don’t you want to dance with us? Don’t you want to dance with the birthday boy?” He takes her hands and tries to waltz with her.
She laughs and gently pulls away. “Sorry, Gilbert. I need my beauty sleep.”
He huffs. “No, you don’t! You’re already smokin’. C’mon, it’s my twentieth birthday!”
“Sorry,” she says.
Gilly pouts for another five seconds, but then someone says that the Asian supermarket a few buildings down has a sale on soju, and he’s distracted. We say goodbye, and the three of us walk through the city to go home.
When we arrive at the apartment, Cleo collapses on the couch and drops her purse beside her. “I’m exhausted,” she says.
“Anyone want some water?” Lucas asks, walking to the kitchen.
“That’d be amazing, thanks.”
Lucas brings two glasses, one for Cleo and one for me. I sit down beside Cleo, and she lolls her head onto my shoulder. We drink. Lucas moves around the kitchen, drinking a glass of water himself and unloading the dishwasher.
Eventually, Lucas says goodnight and disappears into his room. Cleo watches him go.
“Hey,” she says, touching my arm. “Let’s go to your room.”
I nod and follow her, stifling a yawn on the way. Once in my room, I grab my pyjamas. “You can have the bathroom first,” I tell her, but when I turn, I find her sitting on the bed, watching me.
Her lips stretch into a slow, sly smile. “We don’t have to go to bed right away, do we?”
I stare at her. Is she...?
“No,” I say, sitting on the bed beside her. “No, I guess not.”
She laughs softly and places a hand on my thigh. Distantly, the warm spread of arousal makes its way through my body. It’s not how I expected to feel, though. When I was younger and imagined touching another person, I thought it would be explosive, exciting, terrifying enough to make my heart beat out of my chest.
Instead, it’s just…meh. Quiet. Subtle. Not bad, exactly, but if I’m honest with myself, disappointing.
I place both of my hands on Cleo’s hips, and we start kissing, which is wet and frankly a little gross, but I focus on the flicker of desire deep in my belly.
She pulls my shirt off, and I place my hands up her dress and try to get her bra off. She laughs after a minute, a touch of exasperation in her voice, and pushes my hands away, doing it herself.
We stretch out on my bed.
“How do you want to do it?” she whispers.
I blink. “As in, tonight?”
She shrugs. “We don’t have to do it tonight. But, okay, in the perfect scenario, how would you want it to happen? Like…” she moves forward, nudging my shoulder with her lips. “What position?”
“What’s your favourite position?”
She hums as she thinks about it. “Missionary. I like looking into each other’s eyes. It’s romantic.”
I nod. When I imagine it, though, the thought of looking into Cleo’s eyes freaks me out. If I’m looking at her, I’ll see every micro expression that flickers across her face. What if her lips thin, the way they do when she gets annoyed with me? What if I do a terrible job and I’ll see that in her reaction?
Surely, it won’t be hard. I mean, I’ve never done it before, but the movements are instinctive. Yet the thought of Cleo watching like an examiner assessing me makes me start to sweat. She’s probably going to compare me with every other guy she’s been with. She’s got high standards in general — in clothes, in restaurants, even in food — and I doubt I’ll be able to live up to her expectations.
