by Julia Kent
Until I realize I'm not alone.
“What are you doing awake?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. A completely naked Will stands before me as I eat brownies directly from the box, caught red-handed and chocolate-mouthed. I don't even have a robe on. No draped sheet around me. Mallory Monahan is one hundred percent unclothed, bent over a white pastry box, smelling like sex and gorging on brownies while her hot high school crush is standing in her kitchen with questions.
Naked.
And… hard.
“Uhhhh.” I can't say anything else because my tongue is currently occupied by cacao-inspired bliss and crushing embarrassment at being found shoveling sugar into my face like a desperate addict fighting withdrawal symptoms.
His eyes dart to the box. “Ooh. Great idea. I'm starving.” Palm flat on his belly, he moves it, a gesture of hunger.
It makes his erection a focal point. Evolutionarily speaking, we're drawn to look at movement, right? Survival instincts are hardwired. The memory of staring at him for years in high school is a deep groove in my brain matter.
So it's not my fault that I stare.
My amygdala is my favorite scapegoat.
“Like the view?” Will says as he bends over my shoulder, breaks a brownie in half, and lifts it to his mouth. His chest brushes against my shoulder before he pulls back, but then he purposely leans against me, heat pouring off him.
“Hmmm?” I ask, playing dumb. A big glass of milk in front of me becomes my haven. I drink until my mouth is clear.
Will saunters over to the fridge, opens it, and the refrigerator light should also play the “Hallelujah Chorus,” because my God, what an ass he has. It's the kind of muscle structure that deserves gallery showings.
Though I would prefer to be a private collector.
With the glass bottle of milk from Hesserman's Dairy in one hand, he moves over to my cabinets, opening one. I lick my upper lip, finding a rich crumb of brownie on it. A tingling sensation starts in my inner thighs and travels up the midline of my body, spreading out as our nakedness begins to seem normal. Will emerges from the shadow of the cabinet door with a tall glass, setting it on the counter and pouring.
He gestures to mine. “Want a refill?”
“Seconds are always good,” I murmur.
“Oh? You want seconds of everything? That can be arranged.” To my surprise, he's not being porny.
He's in the fridge again, beautiful backside on display, grabbing the plate of herbs and a small wheel of ripe Brie.
Agog, I stare for too long, until he gives me major side eye, one eyebrow shooting up, eyes clear and amused. “What?”
“You took a pass on my perfectly good pass?”
“We can have sex any time. Fresh herbs, though... they wither.” Plucking a stem of basil from the plate, he combines it with a torn-off piece of brie. “Mmmmm.”
I look at his midsection. No withering going on there.
“You're choosing cheese over this?” I gesture to my body, licking the corner of my mouth to catch another taste of chocolate.
“I'm choosing cheese and you. It's not a competition,” he says, though his words are muffled. “Mmmm, though. This is delicious.”
Befuddled, I mirror him, trying mint and cheese.
It's good. The chocolate lingers on my tongue, the cheese rich and creamy. Mint gives it a burst of energy.
He comes up behind me, hands on my shoulders, and twists to kiss me.
“You taste like basil.”
“You taste like mint.”
“The combo is really interesting.”
“We need to test this more.”
“But no peanut butter, Will.”
His laugh is potent. Strong. Like the flavors in my mouth, it combines disparate elements and turns them into an alloy that is better than the individual parts. Sexy and real, Will is in my kitchen, hip against the island, noshing on leftovers after we took our bodies to an ultimate level of intimacy, higher than skin and bones alone can achieve.
And this is the next level.
Milk tastes pure when it washes down chocolate. Everyone knows that, the cool baptism of the liquid passing over my teeth, down my tongue, swallowed into the belly. Will finishes his glass and leans forward, palms flat on the counter, chest rising and falling as he watches me with an intensity that belies the hour. People shouldn't be so awake after giving each other so much of their biology.
He had my blood, my bones, my tendons and arteries, my nerve clusters and nipples, my tongue–my whole being entwined in his. He played me to pleasure until every cell sang, a rhythm and frequency Will invented on the spot, sexual improv at its finest.
We should be loose and sleepy in bed, breathing into the new space we made.
Our eyes lock, and before shyness can stop me, I say, “This is so much better than any of the thousands of daydreams I had about you.”
His shoulders drop. “Whew.” Hand pressed against his heart, he licks his lips. “I wouldn't want the real Will to disappoint after so many years of being Fantasy Will.” One fingertip draws a line from my collarbone down to my shoulder. “What did you imagine?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? You daydreamed about having sex with me?”
“When I was younger, I thought of it as making love. Not sex.”
Mischievous delight fills his eyes. “When I was eighteen, there was no distinction.”
“What about now? What was that?” I nod toward the bedroom, heart booming in my chest.
A long, slow breath, brought in and out by emotion, threads its way through time. “That was making love. The first time, at least. Sex the second. The third time, it was – ” He squints one eye, as if deliberating.
Playfully, I smack him. He grabs my wrist with a light, happy touch.
“How about you tell me every dream you ever had, and I make them all come true right now?” he whispers in my ear.
“Now?”
“And tomorrow. And the day after that.”
“Every dream?”
“Yes.” His eyebrows go up. “You have a specific one you're thinking about?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead.”
I stand on tiptoe, my lower lip brushing against his earlobe, the scruff of his chin scratching my neck as I say the words, “I love you, Will.”
Instead of tensing, instead of pulling away, instead of making all of the heartbreaking choices he could possibly enact, Will moves slowly, tenderly, until our eyes meet.
Fingers settle under my chin, his eyes studying me. The words are out there now. Too early?
Or too late?
“It's crazy, Mallory, but I feel it, too. I love you. It seems like I've loved you forever and am only now discovering it. But I do. My heart fell for you long before my stupid mind caught up.”
I love you. The three simplest words.
The three hardest words, too.
As he gathers me in his arms, the press of his erection against my hip a startlingly fine sensation, his lips more intense as they kiss me, I realize that the space we make together will work like this every single time.
We invent it anew.
Again.
And again.
And oh, yes–again.
20
One year later
* * *
It’s the Dance and Dairy festival, the one I missed last year for the high school reunion. And the best part of this annual ritual, something I adore and will exploit for every single one of the eight concerts on the town common, involves deep-fried-Twinkie-and-pickle sundaes.
That’s right.
No, I’m not pregnant. I just love the cart that comes to the common and parks next to the seasonal stage for bands and sells fried-Twinkie-and-pickle sundaes.
I served my two-hour shift at the Habitat for Humanity table, recruiting two new volunteers for a house being built in Stoneleigh. Duty done, it’s now time for pigging out.
“Mallory! Will!” Philippe is on
the stage between dance performances, waving madly at us. Dressed in his master of ceremonies outfit, he looks oddly elegant for the setting, complete with a top hat and red cummerbund.
I wave.
Will cuts him a look I don't understand.
I take another delightful spoonful, making sure it has a little hot fudge, a little vanilla bean olive oil ice cream, plenty of Twinkie cake, and just enough pickle to complete the mouthfeel of perfection.
“Mmmmm.”
Will looks a little green.
And then.
And then he begins cracking his knuckles. He pops the index finger and starts on his middle one but stops himself, furiously stuffing his hands in his front pockets.
I pause.
“Wa sum?” I ask through my currently occupied mouth, spooning up the perfect ratio and holding it out to him.
He winces, then laughs. “Uh, no, thank you. I'll be gallant and let you enjoy it.”
Perky appears to the left, holding an enormous fried thing, about a foot long and the diameter of a soda can, on a giant marshmallow stick like you use for roasting over a campfire.
“Preparing for pregnancy?” she says to me, making a sour face at the pickles. “No. You're just being Mallory. You've eaten that crap every year since fifth grade.”
“No,” I correct her. “I missed last year.” I study the thing on a stick she's holding. “Either that is the biggest fried Twinkie ever, or you've cut the head, tail, and legs off a dachshund and deep fried it.”
“It's my new dildo,” she informs me with an outrageous sniff.
Will doesn't laugh.
Peering at Will suspiciously, I can't help but wonder what's up. The weirdness he's displaying is so out of character.
“Mallory! You and Will need to come up here!” Philippe shouts. For fun, Will and I have been taking tango lessons at Bailargo. Philippe uses the story of how we “met” at his studio in online advertising.
Bonus: it's quickly edging out the porno-set shot of me with Will and Beastman as the number one online photo of me. Between Fiona's brother and his reputation-management work and Bailargo's ads, Mallory the Porn Queen is finally on page three of search results for my full name.
Which means it's in the internet Doldrums.
Will takes my hand, his palm slick. I don't mean to, but I flinch and pull back.
“C'mon!” he says with a smile that makes me even more wary.
Will Lotham never has sweaty hands. Ever. If his palms are wet, it's because he's showering, we're in the middle of sex (TMI, but whatever), or he's helping to shove a beached baby whale back into the ocean on Cape Cod.
I'm not making that last one up. He's that perfect.
So why is he so nervous?
“May I have your attention, please!” Philippe says, his expression like an impish nine-year-old with a few shots of coffee in him, at a big chocolate-egg hunt on Easter. “We have a special tango demonstration for you!”
I look at the people assembled on stage.
Not one is under seventy.
“Gladys and Lou are doing tango now?” I ask Will, knowing they're in the contra-dancing group, puzzled by the sudden change.
“Not them,” he says, gently taking my hand, his skin dry and smooth now. “Us.”
The first few notes of “Por una Cabeza” float into the air, making me smile reflexively.
Philippe catches my eye and winks.
Will takes my hand and pulls me close, belly to belly, his belt scratching my navel, his hand on my back tight. Firm. Unyielding.
Claiming.
As he spins me, thighs crashing into each other then holding steady, I look for the other dancers. This is the point in the song where everyone joins in, the empty dance floor filling, like ants to a pinch of sugar.
But no one does.
It's just me and Will.
Have you ever had a man who knows how to dance carry you across a dance floor on your own feet? I don't mean lift you up–I mean make you glide. His hands are in synchrony with the music, with his feet, with mine. The miracle of a choreographed dance is that you are taking two bodies and creating art with them in one motion.
It's like sex.
Only more complicated, and with an audience.
He dips me, the crowd cheering, my eyes catching my mom and dad near the stage, holding hands. Half the town is here–maybe even most of it. Even Will's parents, Helen and Larry, stand over by the garden club tent, watching us. They're in town for a week, visiting Will and some old friends. Larry is behind her, the same strange smile on his dad's mouth that Will just had.
Perky is ignoring her fried dildo, staring up at us with a silly grin. I've spent the afternoon running into everyone I know.
And loving it.
When Will pulls me back up, I giggle, his laughter infectious, the heat of his body against mine reigniting me. Every time his shoulder bumps mine, it becomes more real. Each time his foot nudges mine with a strong beat in the score, it echoes in my bones. We become the music, and it becomes us, until–oh, until.
Until he lets my hand go as I whirl, coming to a standstill, the dance routine ruined.
Questions pour out of me like fireworks, but I don't say a word, because he drops.
He drops.
I know what it takes to be so graceful, his thigh muscles in perfect alignment, the strong knee bending with calibrated perfection that makes proposing look like a part of the dance. The music rolls on, sustaining the show while we break choreography. Light shines off the waves of his hair just so, as if Mother Nature decided to be a costume designer for this moment.
This unbelievable magic.
Our eyes meet.
He's nervous.
Why is he nervous? Does he seriously think I would ever say no?
“Mallory Monahan,” he says, strong and loud, dark hair blown to the side of his cheek by a sudden wind.
People start to turn toward us, eyes narrowing, ears sharp. A few women have expressions like their hearts are melting.
Me, too, sisters. Me, too.
Sighs accrue, growing as they ripple through the townspeople at the craft tables. Vendors start to stand, looking at the dance floor we're on.
“Mallory Monahan,” he repeats, so loud that it's like a bullhorn, a public address system, a roar of joy. “Fifteen years ago we met for the first time in the hallway of Harmony Hills High. You had the locker next to mine. Eleven years ago we graduated and I left. One year ago I ran into you again – ”
Half the crowd snickers. Clearly, the half on social media who saw the infamous Beastman picture.
“And I reversed my stupidity.”
Snickers turn to laughs.
“You are a delightful, brilliant, extraordinary force, Mallory. You know who you are and what you like and you use that as a divining rod through life. Every part of you is so true, so real. I want to be real with you, and true to you.”
Now sighs and sniffles fill the air. Including mine. His eyes are worlds, spinning and spinning, eternity inviting me to come in, find a comfy chair, have a cup of hot chai and stay a while.
In his arms.
“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Mallory, will you marry me?” The jeweler's box appears as if conjured, the glint of sunlight on the diamond so blinding. All I see is Will and the bright light.
Our bright future.
“Oh!” A woman's gasp of joy makes me look to the right.
It's Mom.
My parents are standing there, Mom's hands over her mouth, Dad's eyes shining.
Oh, my God.
This is real. Will Lotham is proposing to me at the Dance and Dairy festival on our town common.
In front of the whole community. My town.
Our town.
Love pours out of those handsome eyes, so pure, so true. He's looking up at me, on one knee like a gentleman, a champion, a knight kneeling before his queen. For the last year, I've lived a fairy tale, but one rooted firmly in re
ality. He's become my new best friend, my hot lover, my smart business colleague, and now–
–my husband?
The word yes sticks in my mouth, like honey, like too much taffy, a jar of Fluff, like all the peanut butter in the world and none of the water. Yes, I want to say, elongating the word until it stretches back fifteen years to the first day of ninth grade, when I met Will Lotham in homeroom and realized my life would never be the same.
And I was right.
It wouldn't. It would never, ever be the same.
It would be so, so much better.
Green and blue speckled eyes meet mine, staring up at me with sweet love that glistens, Will's chest rising and falling as if the very air he breathes is produced by my answer. As if I alone make his reality.
Never in my life have I actually held fate in my hands. My mind reaches out to the speech center of my brain for an offering, waits for my mouth to take those signals and form a response.
Wind blows as the music, intense and dramatic now, punctuates my state.
“Yes,” I whisper, bending down to accept the ring, Will standing up to take my face in his hands and kiss me until he breathes in my air, as if the answer can only be truly understood by infusion.
“Yes.” The ring is cold as he slips it on my finger, its heaviness contrasting with the helium that fills my heart, his arms around me, his boisterous laugh bordering on incredulous.
“MALLORY!” Mom screams, jumping up and down, Dad's hands on her shoulders, his expression pure joy. Helen and Larry are hugging, her face buried in her husband's chest, Larry giving us a thumb's up.
The audience bursts into spontaneous applause as Will kisses me blind, the sound deafening, pushing out every other noise in the world, until all I hear is his heartbeat, all I feel are Will's hands and mouth.
“You said yes,” he murmurs, throat clicking as he swallows, my eyes closed. I just want to breathe once more, twice–no, three times, with my eyes closed, sensing who Will is in the space I create.
