Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
And we stood there.
Hugging.
And it was as if this were a new skill. And I remembered how everything with him felt new. My body felt new. My own thoughts were new.
“What happened?” I asked, because I was sure that something had happened to bring him dripping wet and…sad to my door.
“Nothing,” he said.
“No lying.”
“Nothing happened. Today has been like every Sunday of my life for the last six years.”
His wet hair flopped over his forehead and I pushed it back, letting the cold, damp strands slide between my fingers. I did it again. And then again and he…just barely tipped his head so I could touch more of his hair.
He wanted me to touch him like this.
“Who takes care of you?” I asked.
And just like that, he stiffened. Pushed me away. “I should go. You’re probably busy.”
I surprised us both by saying, “No!”
He blinked at me; his face again went still and distant.
“I-I’m not,” I stammered. “I’m alone in this big house and, I mean, it’s cats and dogs out there. You probably shouldn’t be driving…”
Slowly his lips curved and the air heated up around us.
“Probably not,” he said.
“Just to be safe.”
“Safety first, I always say.” He leaned back in to kiss the skin at the very bottom of my shirt’s V-neck. His lips lingered and when I took a breath my breasts all but punched him.
He kissed his way up the neckline.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“No. Are you?”
I’d eaten a box of Triscuits for dinner.
“No.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “What shall we do, Veronica King, to pass the time?”
“I’m not having sex with you.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m not having sex with you, either.”
“How about…” He stepped us back and back again until we were in the sitting room off the main foyer. Jennifer’s white couches filled the space and with one nudge from Clayton I was lying down on one.
Five years ago, I’d spent evenings on his couch. Napping. Eating Chinese food. Watching TV. Sometimes he sat with me, my feet in his lap. But usually he sat in another chair or worked at the table.
Once I’d asked him to cuddle.
It was as if I’d asked him to walk naked through the streets of Dallas.
“I don’t…cuddle,” he’d said, and I’d thought, Of course not. Grown men didn’t do that kind of thing and I never asked again.
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” I asked.
“It might be like trying to cuddle a cactus, but I’m willing to try it if you are,” he said.
“Are you the cactus? Or am I?”
“Me,” he said with a chuckle.
And so I did something that felt…kind of brave. I lifted my arms to him.
“Come here,” I said.
He toed off his shoes and then he was in my arms. The weight of him pressed me into the couch. And for a second it was…bliss. Everything I’d thought it would be. A Clayton blanket. Warm and heavy and excellent smelling.
This Clayton blanket was a little damp, but I didn’t mind.
But then he got so heavy it was hard to breathe and his knee pressed down on my calf.
“Ouch,” I said when his elbow pulled my hair.
“Sorry.”
“Just…careful.” I tried to shift out, but then so did he.
“Are you going in or out?”
“You’re on the inside,” I told him.
“They make this look easy in movies.”
“Well, in movies no one is a cactus.”
He paused, his face somewhere above mine so I couldn’t see him. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know how to be different.”
He pushed himself up to get off me and I couldn’t let him go like this. Vulnerable and hurt.
“Hold on,” I said, and I shifted to the edge of the couch, and he turned to his side, sliding right into the spot I’d left him, his back to the pillows. But I was staring at his neck, so I moved up so we were eye to eye and he mashed a pillow in half so he could be comfortable.
“We’re doing it!” I said.
“What do they call this again?” he asked, pretending to be confused.
“Cuddling.”
“Right. It’s not half bad.”
And it wasn’t. It was exactly what I’d wanted it to be five years ago.
“I’m sorry I didn’t do this five years ago,” he said, his fingers toying with the hem of my yellow shirt. I laughed and put my hand on his, because I was serious about not having sex. But instead of stopping he switched his energy to my fingers, turning my hand over and over in his.
“Are you lying?”
“That would be against the rules.”
“Did you miss me?” I was breathless asking this question. I knew he didn’t love me but for months we’d been practically in each other’s pockets. I’d hated him, but I’d missed him like the devil, too.
“Very much,” he said quietly.
“What did you miss?”
“The phone calls,” he said.
“Shut up. No way.”
“I missed them. But not as much as I missed your body.” His kissed my neck again, just under my ear and his hand has dropped mine and was reaching up under my shirt. “Any more questions?”