Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  “She loves us,” he whispers to me.

  “She loves you,” I whisper back.

  Clara takes the class through the paces for the two-step, offering us pointers as we practice with our partners. After a few minutes, she announces it’s time to try it with music. She glides to the stereo and a moment later I hear the opening strains of Tim McGraw’s “Just to See You Smile.”

  I gasp and clutch Ben’s arm. “Can you believe they’re playing this so—”

  The words aren’t even out when I catch the look on his face: mouth open and eyes wide in a phony display of surprise. Understanding slams into me.

  “You planned this?”

  “Guilty.”

  I gape at him in disbelief as he laughs, clearly delighted by my reaction.

  “You look like you’re having an aneurism.”

  He loops my left arm around his neck and grasps my right hand in his, pulling me close so we’re in position and ready to start.

  “You’re very pleased with yourself,” I manage.

  “Guilty again.”

  “So is this what dating you will be like?” I ask, shy all of a sudden.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, you know. Full of romantic crap like this.”

  He barks a laugh as we start shuffling our feet. “I have a theory,” he says, dropping his mouth to my ear so I can hear him over the music. “You say you’re not a romantic, but I think that’s just because no one’s ever done it right.”

  I’m overcome by a foreign emotion at his words, happiness and fear colliding in my chest. It’s like the final piece of myself I’ve been holding back breaks loose, dropping into the sea like a melting iceberg. I burrow into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the wild spectrum of emotions parading across my face. He seems to recognize that I’m having a moment, and to his credit he doesn’t tease me about it, just holds me tighter as we whirl around the room.

  After the two-step, Clara teaches us the Cotton-Eye Joe line dance, a traditional square dance, and finally a promenade to end the class. Ben proves to be a great dancer, prompting me to wonder if there’s anything he isn’t good at. He spins and dips me, even when the dances don’t call for it; steals kisses whenever Clara’s back is turned; twirls me all over the dance floor, placing proprietary hands on my back, sides, and neck. It can’t be a coincidence that both dates we’ve been on have required him to put his hands all over me. We don’t stop laughing for the full hour, and by the end my cheeks hurt from smiling. I like to think our good humor rubs off on the other participants; at any rate, we only get a couple of warning looks from Clara when we get a little rambunctious with our boot slaps.

  When the class is over, we stumble into the night air, sweaty and crowing about our stellar moves. We’re both starving so we duck into the first restaurant we see, a fifties-style diner a few doors down. It’s the kind of place with an eighteen-page menu, but we still order burgers, fries, and ridiculously large milkshakes and eat like teenagers during a growth spurt. There isn’t a lull in the conversation for two hours. It’s just a guy and a girl on a first date—the best first date in the history of first dates.

  It’s nearly ten when the waitstaff starts giving us the evil eye and we drag ourselves out of the diner. Ben carries our nested hats at his side and claims my hand, as he’s been doing all night. I can’t believe how normal it feels. I start to wonder what will happen next—am I going to end up back at his place again? Is he coming to mine? How far am I willing to go? My heartbeat ratchets up at the uncertainty.

  “So, where are we headed?” Subtle, I am not.

  Ben tightens his grip on my hand. There’s a long pause.

  “Home,” he finally answers.

  “Whose home?”

  He eyes me sideways. “Yours.”

  “Okay—”

  “To drop you off.”

  I stop walking abruptly, forcing him to a stop. “What do you mean? You’re not coming up?”

  “I don’t put out on the first date.”

  If he’s looking for a cheap laugh, he’s not getting it from me. “You weren’t this bashful on Saturday night.”

  He blows out a breath. “I just didn’t want to bring this up tonight, especially since we did such a good job avoiding sensitive topics.” He grimaces slightly and looks away, and I know whatever he’s about to say, I’m not going to like it. “You said you didn’t want anyone at work to find out about this. I take it that’s still the case?”

  Why does this feel like a trick question? My Spidey senses are tingling.

  “Yeees . . .” I answer slowly. What does that have to do with him coming up? Does he think Senator Warner’s hiding in my apartment?

  He looks me straight in the eye. “Well, I don’t want to date you in secret.”

  I drop his hand. “Excuse me?”

  “The sneaking around, the hiding. It’s not how I want to do this.”

  My heart’s beating so loud, I swear I can hear it. “You know I’m not ready to put this out there.”

  “I do know, which is why I’m trying to come up with a solution we can both live with.”

  “So your big solution is to stop touching me?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Kate, how would you feel if I said I wanted to date you, but only under the cover of darkness or behind closed doors?”

  “That is a total misrepresentation of my reasons for wanting to keep this private.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

  I stare at him. “I’m not ashamed to be dating you.”

  “Okay,” he says, after a pause.

  He doesn’t believe me.

  “Ben. I’m not.”

  “I said, okay.” He’s getting testy.

  “But you still don’t want to come up.”

  “Of course I want to come up.”

  “But you’re not going to.” I cross my arms over my chest. They’re a shield, an attempt to shore up my heart, which is cracking clean in half. “So sometime between yesterday’s bathroom rendezvous and now you had a crisis of conscience?”

  He slants me a look. “You’re proving my point. I hardly think a bathroom stall should be what we’re striving for.”

  “So you don’t want me in a bathroom stall, or your car, or my apartment. You do not want me here or there. You do not want me anywhere.”

  It’s the wrong reaction—flippant and petty when I know he’s just as frustrated as I am—but he’s keeping himself from me and it’s not fair. It’s like he’s spent the whole night making me fall in love with him only to rip the rug out from under me. I’m so tired of him being just beyond my reach, I could cry.

  “You know I want you,” he says quietly. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want you so much that I’m willing to put what I want aside to give you time to wrap your mind around this.”

  “So that’s it, then? You’ve made this decision and I don’t even get a say.”

  “I suppose you’re the only one who’s allowed to pump the breaks?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Maybe I need more time with you to wrap my mind around this, ever think of that?”

  “All right, let’s play that out. I come up, right now. You and I both know what will happen. And then what, you ignore me tomorrow? I’m supposed to ignore you? Pretend it never happened?” He shakes his head. “No. I’m not built that way. You’re asking for something I can’t give.”

  I turn away, needing to block out his wounded expression and the reality of our situation. The worst part is, I know he’s right. I’ve been so consumed by my feelings for him that I haven’t considered how we’ll navigate all the complicated situations we’re bound to find ourselves in. My shoulders sag with the realization. Another obstacle.

  He’s watching me as I process this. “The more time we spend together, t
he more I’m feeling. More invested, more protective, more . . . everything. I can’t just turn it off depending on where we are and who’s in the room. I’d do just about anything you ask, but I can’t do that.”

  I take a tentative step toward him, propelled forward by the honesty and vulnerability in his words. He wastes no time pulling me in, crushing me in a hug. I clutch the back of his shirt like a lifeline.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper into his chest. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know you’re just trying to do the right thing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You should probably run the other direction.”

  “Nah, I’ve got too much time invested.”

  “You must have the patience of a saint.”

  His chuckle rumbles beneath my cheek. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’ve waited this long for you to see what was right in front of you. I can wait longer.”

  His words knock the wind out of me.

  “Sometimes you say things . . .” I shake my head, overcome.

  He smiles and tilts my face up, just looking at me, drinking me in. I’m doing the same. I’m lost in his eyes. I’m as pathetic as an eighties song.

  “If you’re about to tell me that kissing is on your forbidden list, I will murder you in your sleep.”

  “Now you’re just talking crazy.” He kisses me in proof.

  When he pulls away, I want to weep. “Remind me again why you’re saying no to this?”

  “I just think if we take certain things off the table—”

  “Off the table?”

  “—for the time being, we’ll be able to focus on addressing your concerns more quickly. And the sooner that happens, the sooner you can admit I was right all along, and we can pick up where we left off.” He presses a hand to my back, nudging me forward.

  “Where did I go wrong? It was all that like gold talk, wasn’t it? I put the fear in you.”

  “It did make me think.”

  “Ugh, no more thinking. You’re entirely too sensible and evolved. Where can I find the Ben from Saturday night? The devil-may-care, rip-my-clothes-off-and-damn-the-consequences Ben?”

  “He’s under firm orders to stand down until further notice.” He tucks me tight against his side as we cross the street.

  “You must be into torture.”

  “You want to talk about torture? Let’s talk about this naughty cowgirl getup you’ve been prancing around in all night.”

  “Prancing?” I start giggling.

  “For a guy from Texas, it may as well be a French maid’s costume.”

  I’m dragging my feet as he leads me into my building by the hand.

  “Come on now, I’m walking you to your door. And spoiler alert, you’re getting a goodnight kiss.”

  I can’t let it go. “So what exactly is it you need me to do at work? Put out a press release announcing we’re dating? Let you throw me up against the window and have your way with me?”

  He grimaces and adjusts his pants. “We need to not be hiding in bathrooms, to start.” He prods me into the elevator and pushes the button for my floor.

  “So I just need to be comfortable enough to tell people. That’s it?”

  “That’s it. See? Easy.” He brushes his thumb across my knuckles and just that minor amount of friction leaves me quivering with want.

  “Stephen knows!” I shout triumphantly.

  “And I’m sure you swore him to secrecy.” Drat, he’s got me again.

  I can’t believe he’s denying me—denying himself—especially when I can see how much he wants this. The evidence is visible from across the elevator. Apparently, I’ve found the only incorruptible man in DC. Lucky me.

  The elevator dings and he tugs me out. I follow at a snail’s pace, the condemned headed to the gallows. When we reach my door, he grabs me by the jacket lapels and pulls me close. The way he’s looking at me reduces me to a consistency similar to the milkshakes we just consumed.

  “What time do you leave for work in the morning?” It’s his husky voice, the one that makes me forget my own name. I want to close my eyes and let it wash over me. I want him to tell me a bedtime story.

  “Eight forty-five. Why?”

  His eyes shine down at me like two brilliant stars. “Because I’m going to walk you, silly.”

  He kisses me slowly, his hands migrating up my jacket to cradle my face. It’s soft and light, lovely and unhurried, like he’s tasting me and committing me to memory. He’s going slow, making it last, leaving an impression. If he’s not going to stay, he’s going to make damn sure I know what I’m missing.

  When he pulls away, I’m gasping and overcome. I wonder if you can die from unfulfilled lust.

  “If you come in, we don’t have to do anything. We can just talk!” I plead, clutching his shirt in a death grip.

  “Oh sure. We’re very good at ‘just talking’ when we’re alone together.” He replaces my hat on my head and smiles.

  “Your moral uprightness is getting annoying,” I grumble.

  “Nah, you love it. You want me even more now.”

  “I knew it! This is all just a ploy. You’re into long, drawn-out foreplay.”

  “Maybe you’ll find out someday.”

  “I bet I could break you.”

  “I bet you could too. Please don’t try. I’m a good guy, not a priest.”

  I feel it so strongly then, standing there and grinning up at him, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. I’m in love with you. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s tripping out of my mouth. I want to breathe it into him. Tattoo it on my forehead. Shout it through a megaphone so loud his hair blows back.

  But how can I say I love you in one breath and deny him the acknowledgment of our relationship in the next? It would be wrong and unfair to him. I say something else instead.

  “It’s weird. I already miss you, even though you’re standing right here.”

  He looks at me so sharply, I wonder if I’ve said something wrong.

  “If you only knew how many times I’ve had the exact same thought.”

  He kisses me again and this time there’s a fierceness to it, a violent longing in his touch that wasn’t there before. He turns me so I’m pressed up against the door, and there’s no doubt we’re playing with fire here—but if he thinks I’m going to stop him, he’s got another think coming.

  When he finally does break it off, I whimper my displeasure. A small smile teases his lips as he plays with my jacket collar.

  “So what do you think? Was this a good enough first date?”

  I don’t answer him. I just wrap my arms around his neck and lose myself in him for as long as he’ll let me.

  Chapter 26

  Over the next couple of weeks, Ben and I establish a routine of sorts. He picks me up in the morning (often with wet hair from a predawn workout and shower, which sends my mind down all sorts of filthy rabbit holes), and we walk to work together. Occasionally our schedules align enough for us to grab lunch, but as the tax vote draws nearer, Ben is so busy that his spontaneous drop-ins mostly become a thing of the past. More often than not, I don’t see him again—beyond some hungry looks through the window—until the end of the day, when we meet in the lobby for our walk home.

  As agreed, we play things down at work, and though Ben doesn’t seem to care in the least who finds out about us, I sure do—not that anyone seems to notice or care what we’re up to. Part of me wonders if it’s because my colleagues don’t believe I’d ever date the opposition. For the first time, I wonder what that says about me.

  Our nights are spent at home, low-key and coupley and extraordinary in their ordinariness. Ben repealed his own mandate and reinstated apartment privileges once he realized its fatal flaw: no home-cooked meals. Instead, we came up with a list of ground rules:

  1. Bedrooms are off-limits.
/>   2. Clothes must stay on.

  3. Alcoholic beverages: limited to one.

  This last rule was self-imposed—any more than one glass of wine combined with his intense sexual force field and I seem to magically forget rule number two.

  Our rules don’t stop me from messing with him every chance I get. I trade my comfy, oversize loungewear for something skimpier and tighter. I leave my birth control out where he can see it. I ask him for a backrub one night, then channel my inner Meg Ryan and moan suggestively until he catches on and nearly tickles me to death in retaliation.

  Post-dinnertime—otherwise known as Make Out on the Couch Time—is far and away my favorite part of the day. Despite our fleshly restrictions, we manage to push our PG-13 hookups as far as physically possible without actually crossing the line. While our clothes technically stay on, it’s a murky distinction at best.

  “Kate,” he says between kisses one night, and I can tell by his ragged groan-sigh that he’s breaking. “You’re killing me. I want you so much. Please tell me you’re getting closer. Please.”

  I’m a little stunned; he never acknowledges the toll the waiting is taking on him. He brushes me off whenever I bring it up, reiterating that there’s no rush, he’d never pressure me, that we have all the time in the world. The desperate longing in his voice tells a different story.

  The thing is, I am getting closer. Not that I’m necessarily ready for him to sweep everything off a committee room table and kiss me senseless (his preferred method of taking things public—he’s kidding . . . I think), but I am growing more comfortable with the idea of Ben and Kate: The Real Deal. Out and proud—if only to move us out of this sexless limbo that will surely lead to some sort of premature death from carnal combustion.

  But it isn’t all roses. The personal-professional tension I predicted rears its ugly head daily in the form of avoided topics, awkward silences, and the unspoken agreement not to press each other for details of our workday. It’s as though we both know that to dig too deep is to shake the delicate foundation of our relationship in ways we’re not yet strong enough to withstand. To wit: When our bosses fall on opposite sides of a big vote, we tiptoe around the topic like we’re dodging land mines. When a controversial Supreme Court justice confirmation is all anyone can talk about, we stick to lighter subjects like our weekend plans, even as the issue looms larger than an elephant in the room.