Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
We finish the wine, and when the check comes, I pay without a word. She doesn’t pretend to reach for her purse, and I like that even more.
We rise together, and I help her on with her coat. She stands close, close enough to smell the floral scent of her hair, the faint warmth of her skin.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The elevator is a hundred feet away, but we just stand there, watching the world.
She turns to me, and her eyes are wide, searching.
“Will you kiss me?” she asks, voice barely a whisper.
I don’t hesitate. I cup her face in one hand, thumb grazing her cheek, and kiss her slow, careful. Her lips are soft, but she doesn’t give at all. She kisses back with a hunger that makes me ache.
When we break apart, she’s smiling, and so am I.
We walk to the elevator, hands brushing, and I know that whatever happens next, neither of us is going to forget tonight.
I press the button, the doors slide open, and we step inside together. The world outside falls away, and it’s just her, and me, and the weightless possibility of what comes next.
The elevator ride is smooth, silent, and as we descend, the glass wall gives us a last look at the city spread like circuitry below. I could talk—could say something to break the intimacy, lighten it up—but I don’t. She doesn’t either. There’s a suspension in the air, as if we’re floating down in a glass of water, and neither of us wants to disturb the clarity.
At the ground level, the air is colder, tinged with river damp and the scent of concrete. The streets are half-empty, and the cars parked along the curb all have a quiet humility, as if they know they’re could be buried in snow any day now. I walk ahead, not out of habit, but because I need a second to center myself.
Andie falls into step next to me, her heels clicking a sharp tattoo on the frozen sidewalk, each beat a little faster than mine. She’s got her hands balled into the pockets of her coat, but I can feel her glancing up at me between steps, the way a diver tests the temperature of the water before jumping. I can’t help but imagine she’s waiting for permission—for me to tip this into something real, or to keep it all in the realm of storybook dinner dates.
We pause before the hotel as the valet rushes off to retrieve my car. In a few moments, the Lambo appears, its black silhouette parting the shadows. I hold the door open for her, but she doesn’t move to get in. She lingers at the curb, her hair a pale banner in the wind, her breath rising in thin silver puffs. For the first time all night, she doesn’t look at me—she looks at her own boots, planted carefully on the salt-dusted concrete. I watch the curvature of her cheek, the little furrow between her brows, the way she’s bracing herself for whatever comes next.
I want to ask her what she wants. I want to say: Are you after a story, or do you want to ruin yourself on a night that neither of us will ever be allowed to mention again? But I don’t. I don’t say anything, because I already know what I want, and because some part of me hopes she’ll be the one to tip this over the edge.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, as if she’s weighing the universe. Finally, she looks up. She’s uncertain, but she’s not afraid. That’s the difference.
“Andie?” I growl in a low voice.
She hesitates a moment, and then smiles at me. It’s like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, and my chest warms. Then, the golden girl slides in, smooth and easy, like she’s done it a hundred times. I get in on my side, ignition switching the world from silence to the low hum of climate control and dashboard glow. Inside the cocoon of the car, it feels like we’re at the beginning of something, or the edge of a cliff.
She turns toward me, seatbelt slack in her hands, and the world outside the windshield shrinks to just the two of us. The windows fog with our breath, and the city lights refract off the sidewalk, making the night look infinite. I should drive her back to her dorm. I should keep it simple. But her knee is just an inch from mine, and the space between our hands is a live wire.
I glance at her, and she doesn’t look away. She’s waiting.
It’s up to me to decide how this ends.
10
MY FIRST TIME CLAIMING AN INNOCENT
Thomas
The car ride back to my place is mostly silence and luminous city blur, her knees turned toward the window, my hand loose on the wheel. I let the silence stretch. It’s a test: see how much tension she can hold before she cracks, or I do. We’re both faking calm, but I can tell by the way she slides her eyes my way every minute—quick, clandestine flicks, as if she expects me to change my mind about her in midair. She doesn’t know I made up my mind weeks ago. Maybe the second I saw her at that fundraiser, or maybe even before, when I fucked her by the Faculty Club and thought: she’s so fucking hot, and she’s mine.