by Riley Jean
“Nah. It’s better this way. Don’t you think?”
I steeled myself. “Can I ask you a question?”
“So many questions tonight. Of course. Ask me everything. I’m always going to be real with you. What you see is what you get.”
It took me a few seconds to get the words out. “Do you ever regret it?”
“No, Rosie. I don’t ever regret my relationship with Evelyn. Or any other crummy thing I’ve done in my life.”
My eyes widened, though he couldn’t see. “No regrets? Like, at all?”
“None whatsoever.”
I shook my head. How could he not have any regrets? My past relationships were riddled with them. “You couldn’t have ever done anything that stupid if there’s nothing you wish to take back.”
One hand came up to play with my hair, sifting it through his fingers. “I don’t see it that way.”
“Of course you don’t. On a scale of Hitler to Mother Teresa, you’re like, Bono,” I said, which earned me a boisterous laugh.
“Even Bono is aware of his own shortcomings,” he said. “Sure, I could wish I hadn’t been so whipped with my first girlfriend. But then I never would’ve figured out what I do and don’t want in a relationship. Or learned how important it was to say enough’s enough. Everyone makes mistakes. It’s part of life. We learn, we move on, and hopefully we do it better next time around. All you can do is try your best.”
I fidgeted against him and spoke softly. “Sometimes your best isn’t good enough.”
“How so?”
“Like when someone else pays for your mistakes.”
His hand stopped moving in my hair. The way he got quiet for a beat too long proved that I’d said too much.
“…Hypothetically.” I added.
“Rosie… are you paying for someone else’s mistakes?” he asked. “Or is someone else paying for yours?”
I deflected. “Do you think they’d like me? Your family?”
With a sigh, his fingers began their ministrations again. “I think they’d love you,” he said quietly. “If you let them.”
* * *
[Journal]
I hope you’re smart enough to know
You can’t just hold me and kiss me so
You can’t just say you really care
You can’t promise to always be there
You can’t whisper sweet things in my ear
You can’t protect me from all my fears
You can’t make my heart smile and sing
You can’t be my everything
I hope you’re smart enough not to do
Things that show me that you’re true
Be careful because I might just believe you
* * *
Weeks passed, and Vance and I settled into our routine.
We still worked the closing shift together at Mooshi three nights each week. While serving customers, we smiled and played off each other like the best friends that we were. That boy had me laughing so often, my dimples became a permanent feature.
The atmosphere at Mooshi was at an all-time high. Our chemistry seemed to rub off on people. Our jobs weren’t just easy, they were fun. And anyone who spent time around us would say the same.
Sometimes, like tonight, our banter turned to flirting.
“Hey!” I said with a hand on my hip. “You stole my scooper!”
That sunshiny smile of his slipped into position. “Now we’re even!” He tossed it in the air and caught it by the handle. “You stole my heart!”
Pursing my lips, I grabbed a new scooper and put it to work. That cheesy goober still made me blush.
All the preteen girls swooned at his corny one-liners, which were only rivaled by the times he lip-synced along to bubblegum pop songs for me. (One has to make do with the shop music during operating hours.) What a charmer.
As soon as the store emptied and we walked into the back, he’d pounce like a starving man. On the kitchen counter. Against the freezer. Inside the candy closet. Once he even took a phone call, and thoroughly and professionally answered all their questions about ordering a custom birthday cake, while simultaneously kissing me from fingertip to neck.
There also might’ve been one very sexy, yet very messy whipped cream fight after hours, which even ended with a hand-fed cherry. By the time I finished chewing the sweet, juicy fruit, he went in for a kiss and passed me something extra with his tongue. I pulled it out of my mouth only to find the cherry stem—tied in a knot.
Closing the store took a little longer than normal as we alternated between stealing kisses and racing to finish our work so we could go back to his place and kiss some more. We hadn’t stipulated limits or parameters for our physical contact in our rules, other than being there for each other when one of us was in need. It seemed both of us were always in need.
He held my hand whenever we were in his truck and kissed me at every red light—as well as at every out-of-state license plate, broken tail light, and Volkswagen bug. No excuse was refused. Not a moment was wasted where we weren’t somehow touching. And I loved every second of it.
Vance took me out almost every week, and found creative ways to keep it simple. We went ice skating and hiking. One evening we returned to the cabin so he could show off the tackle box and memorabilia he inherited from his grandfather, and told me stories of the times they’d fished together when he was small.
Then he loaded up his gear and brought me back to the lake. He let me borrow an extra rod and taught me how to cast out. I wouldn’t go near the bait, so he dealt with the hook and worms. Basically my part was to just stand there holding the pole.
He had a lot more patience than me.
Still, it was beautiful in the mountains. So instead of seeking other kinds of distractions, I immersed myself in the blissful quiet. I saw another side to him on that lake, too, standing there in his floppy fishing hat with a serene, peaceful look in his eyes. This was his oasis.
One time he helped me reel in a pretty good sized trout and even I had to admit that was exciting. I told him about the photo of five-year-old me holding up my first catch, so we imitated the photo with manic grins, then tossed it back. CPR fishing he called it: Catch, Photograph, Release.
Every so often, Summer would invite the gang over to her house or The Alley to hang out. I finally figured out her penchant for The Alley had to do with Vance’s love of playing pool. He was good alright. He was good at everything. I caught her checking him out once while he effortlessly sunk two balls at once.
In all honesty, I couldn’t blame her. It was quite a sight.
Around the others, Vance and I behaved as casual as possible, though it took noticeable effort with everyone’s curious eyes on us. We learned pretty quickly he couldn’t look at me without smiling, and I couldn’t look at his smile without blushing. Their suspicion wasn’t anything new, but other than a few close calls, we hadn’t given them any solid proof.
Then at the end of the night, I went home with him.
I spent most nights at Vance’s condo. He usually picked me up and dropped me off so my car in his driveway didn’t give us away. We’d kiss and cuddle on his couch until sleep pulled us under. And I discovered that falling asleep cocooned inside a warm pair of arms was my new favorite feeling in the world.
I also learned that I was embarrassingly delirious when on the brink of slumber.
“Hey?” I asked, laying on his chest and nuzzling into him. “How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?” His fingertips lightly caressed my scalp. Both of our voices were hushed as we lay entangled on his couch. I was already halfway asleep.
“You’re so snuggly. I don’t think I’ve ever been this snuggly. Not even with your panda bear.”
“Nope. Try again.”
“Papa doodle do?”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Papas fritas?”
He laughed softly. “French fries, Rosie? Really?”
I gave up. “Do y
ou think everyone is this snuggly?”
“Hmm… I don’t know about everyone. But I know you’re freaking adorable when you’re this tired.”
“I think we should survey all the people and ask them how snuggly they are. Because I bet you a million dollars no one has ever been this snuggly.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“If you were a super hero, you’d be Super Snuggles! And I’d be your trusty sidekick, Captain Cuddles!”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a little drunk.”
“Drunk on snuggliness.”
“That’s it. You’re officially never allowed to fall asleep anywhere but right here with me.”
The nightmares never came when I slept next to Vance. Whether we spooned or I laid on his chest, we fit perfectly together, like he was built with a nook designed specially for me. I just wanted to curl up and tuck myself inside him, encircled in big, warm arms. It was so relaxing, all I had to do was just close my eyes as he grazed his fingertips through my curls, and I was out.
What insomnia?
It was worth it every single time, even though he never actually invited me into his bed. That, and we had to set an alarm so he could get me back home before my parents awoke. But trying to get me home proved to be no easy feat.
“Time to wake up,” he nudged me gently.
“Nuh-uh, you wake down.”
He chuckled. “Come on Rosie. Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes! It’s snuggle o’ clock!”
“It’s five-thirty, you adorable girl, you.”
“No. Snuggle. O’ clock.” I held up a lazily closed fist. “Or you’ll have to deal with this.”
Needless to say, he learned to factor in a thirty-minute snooze window after that.
Kissing Vance was like retreating to Ricky’s bedroom on steroids. With Ricky, I coexisted in the same room with someone just as broken as I was, but we didn’t necessarily interact together. He was different in that way.
With Vance, we were always talking, always laughing, always touching. I was using it to feel good. It was a very fulfilling distraction, from which I never wanted to come up for air.
Some might argue it was dangerously close to the coping mechanisms I learned that first summer in college. But I reasoned that this wasn’t quite as unhealthy as if I were jumping from guy to guy to meet my needs. It was just one guy whom I liked and trusted. Almost like a real relationship. People did that every day, so it was pretty darn close to normal. Right?
And Vance? It’s not like he wasn’t getting anything out of this.
Sometimes I would catch him staring at me in awe, like my little moments of happiness were the greatest things that ever happened to him. As if being the one to put the dimples back on my face was his life’s greatest accomplishment.
By day, he was my best friend. By night, he was my lover. (Well, lovers who never went further than kissing.) I felt the disconnect between the two, and maybe that’s why it was so easy for me to switch back and forth. We never talked about our feelings or future plans. I sensed him holding back for my sake. Even though I had the wherewithal to know that deep down, Vance wanted us to be more, for me, there was still something missing.
That something had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.
There was a little broken piece inside me that we both knew might never fully heal. It craved affection, but still feared getting too emotionally attached.
And losing it.
Again.
* * *
One drizzly night in November, I tried to get out of coming over because I’d caught a mild cold. It wasn’t too bad, but I was kind of congested and that didn’t bode well with making out.
To my surprise, Vance persuaded me to come over anyway.
“I’m gross and germy, Vance,” I bemoaned over the phone. “You don’t want a piece of this. Trust me.”
“I always want a piece of that,” he chuckled. “But if you’re worried about it, I promise not to kiss you.”
“Then what’s the point?” I said, flippant.
“The point is I still want to see you. I’m on my way.” Click.
I sighed and glanced down at my sweatpants and hoodie. I didn’t feel like changing so this would have to do. I never had to try too hard to impress Vance. Quite the opposite, actually. If there was an official list of ways to turn a guy off, surely I’d nailed it time and again. So why in the world did he keep coming back for more?
My cell buzzed in my pocket. I thought for a second that Vance might have changed his mind until I opened it up.
Ricky: Door
I stared at the screen in confusion. This was not protocol. I doubled-checked my sent messages to see if I had accidently butt-texted him. Nothing. So why had Ricky sent me this? He never requested my presence this way; I was always the first one to ask.
So I chalked it up to a mistake, deleted the text and tucked away my phone.
Besides, I was sick tonight. It’s not like I could have come over anyway.
Soon as I saw headlights pull into the cul-de-sac, I crept down the lattice and met him at the curb. He stood in the light rain, waiting with the passenger door open. My smirk was ridiculously smug when I walked up and gave him a good look—sweats, glasses, and my curls pulled up in a messy bun as if I’d just rolled out of bed. Take that, you persistent goober, you.
He knew exactly what I was up to. His response as he took in my appearance: that soft, dreamy smile crawled across his face. “Still gorgeous.”
I shook my head at his lies and climbed into his truck, but felt the warmth settle in my cheeks. The next time he took me out, I promised myself to put in a little more effort to look nice.
When he came back around to his side, he pulled me across the bench by the hips until I was seated right next to him. Gently he took my glasses and used his sweater to clean off the water droplets before replacing them back on my nose. He inhaled sharply through his teeth when he took my hand. “Your hands are like ice. Even more than normal.”
I shrugged. “For some reason I was made with very cold hands.”
With a wink, he started rubbing his heat into my fingers. “Well that works out, because I was made with warm ones.”
Once we got to his condo, he led me to the living room with an arm around my waist. I had a cold—not a broken leg—but I didn’t protest because it was kind of sweet to be coddled and as always his proximity felt nice. He kept the lights dim and turned the fireplace on low. The flames flickered and crackled inside the brickwork while rain started to fall harder outside. Even though I felt sick, the whole scene was very soft and romantic.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” I joked. My voice was raspy thanks to all the lovely phlegm.
He chuckled. “Not tonight, Rosie. Tonight, we just relax.”
He set his papillion—er, papasan (so close that time)—right next to the fireplace and had me take a seat. I would never get over how comfortable his big round chair was. It was the second best seat in the whole world.
“I could have sworn that your fireplace used to be white tile,” I said, raising my palms to steal some heat.
“Ah, you noticed! Yeah, it was pretty tired looking. Glad I finished it in time for you to enjoy tonight.”
My eyes shot back to the distressed brick. “You did this? By yourself?”
“Maybe. What do you think?”
“Vance, it’s amazing!” I exclaimed. And it was. From the perfectly laid bricks, to the columns, to the crown molding mantle across the top. The dark colors were masculine yet elegant. It looked like it had been done by a professional. “I love it. You’re very handy.”
He cracked an adorably shy smile. “Just a little side project.”
He disappeared into the kitchen while I settled in and came back a few minutes later carrying a bowl on a tray. When he placed it in my lap, I felt my face compress with emotion. Even congested, I could almost taste it… spices and warmth, just li
ke him.
“You made me chicken soup?”
He didn’t respond at first, just took extra care to straighten my blankets and tuck me in until I was perfectly comfortable. The gesture touched something deep down in my bones. I had never, ever been looked after like this.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he said quietly, looking into my eyes. “You know that, right?”
And then we just gazed at each other without saying anything at all. Something in his eyes resonated with me. The longer I met his stare, the more I allowed it to take hold.
What was it that I felt inside me? Was there even a word for it? The sweetest ache, longing, and warmth all at once. A magnetic pull between his body and mine. A slow burn brewing in the cold chambers where a healthy heart once resided. Water levels rising, flooding, overtaking my proverbial walls…
Sweet symphony, those eyes…
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. Slow and sweet. My eyes fell shut as a burst of tranquility expanded within me and goosebumps raced up my arms. All I wanted was for him to stay by my side. Despite the fog of my sickness, I felt the feverish stirrings of adoration for my best friend. He truly had a heart of gold.
* * *
A few days later, when I was feeling better, I could not get enough of him.
“Rosie,” he breathed between one kiss and another. “We need to stop.”
Too much talking, not enough kissing.
“I don’t want to stop,” I smiled against his mouth. Parched, I attached myself to his perfect lips again.
We were on his couch, and I straddled his lap, with my fingers creeping under his shirt. The more I drank of his lips, the more insatiable my thirst. Every minty taste of his tongue had me reaching for more. Curbing my curiosity was a lost cause at this point. We were like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining speed, size and power with every rotation.
No, scratch that. That couldn’t be right. Maybe a snowball built of burning heat and molten desire. Better.
Due to my cold, there had been too many days without his kisses and I was ready to make up for lost time. I just wanted to be wholly wrapped up in him. Swept away in the heart-hammering desire that only Vance could evoke in me. In other words, the exact opposite of stopping.
