Funny Story(41)

Whenever we reach a new scenic view (which is almost constantly), he insists we stop to take a picture together, and I have to disconnect my brain to keep the feeling of his arms roped around me, chin tucked into my shoulder, from plunging me wholesale back into the memory of making out against his truck.

The next Sunday is a little better. We kick things off by driving three towns over to Miles’s favorite farmers’ market. We wander for hours and leave with what we need to make pizzas.

At home that night, we build a simple margherita (my contribution) as well as a goat-cheese, artichoke, pesto concoction (Miles’s). Then he keeps an eye on them in the oven while I seize the opportunity to take a much-needed shower.

When I get back, clad in my favorite silky pajamas, he’s setting the pizzas on the table.

“Perfect timing.” He glances up, then double-takes.

I track his gaze downward and, to my horror, realize I didn’t dry off thoroughly enough before getting dressed. My top is damp, nearly translucent in several places, and—speaking of perfect timing—my nipples choose that instant to stand at attention, like eager little meerkats.

I cross my arms over my chest.

Miles’s eyes snap back to my face.

“I’ll grab plates!” I volunteer.

“I’ll get drinks,” he coughs out.

In the kitchen, I pull two mismatched floral plates down, then turn, immediately colliding with him, the plates flattened upright between our stomachs, and his hands—in their attempt to catch my forearms and prevent said collision—pressed to the outside edges of my collarbones.

“Sorry,” we both say.

Or he says it. I yelp it.

We awkwardly sidestep in the same direction. Then he steps back, holding a hand out like, After you, and I scuttle to the table, leaving him to rummage in the kitchen. When he emerges, he’s got two glasses of wine.

“Thank god,” I accidentally say when he hands me one, a comment he mercifully ignores.

He dishes up a piece of each pizza for both of us and we pad into the living room, where we sit on opposite ends of the couch. I take a bite of the artichoke pizza first.

“There it is,” Miles says.

I open my eyes. Because, as it turns out, I had closed them and also moaned a little. He’s fighting a grin as he bites into his own artichoke slice.

“The signature Daphne moan,” he says.

I flush. “It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten pizza.”

Miles smiles wryly. “Right, you were on the wheatgrass diet.” His head tilts, eyes glimmering. “So what else should we do, now that you’re single?”

I nearly choke even as a knot of heat slides down into my stomach.

I feel the phantom sensation of rough hands at the base of my spine, a stomach pressing into mine, cool lips that taste like lemon and lavender.

After a hearty cough, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Miles says, “things your ex didn’t like. That you can do now.”

Somehow, that sounds even dirtier.

“Like eating pizza,” I stammer, determined to prove I’m not reading into this.

“Right,” he says. “Or like . . . sunrise kayaking. I’ve always wanted to do that, and I haven’t.”

“Petra wasn’t into kayaking?” I say, disbelieving.

“She wasn’t into morning,” he says. “But we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about us.”

Just the word us triggers another blush. All the blood in my body might as well hang out in my upper third, because as soon as it leaves, it’s getting called right back. “Well, I’ve never been sunrise kayaking, but I’d try it. For one of our Sundays, if you want.”

“Really?” he says.

“I won’t be good at it,” I warn, “but I’ll try.”

“What else?” Miles murmurs, lightly squeezing my knee.

I ignore the bolt of lightning singing down my center. “I always wanted to learn to bake, but . . .”

“You were living with a serial killer,” he finishes.

I crack a smile, which makes him do the same. His hand is still resting on my knee and it feels like a parade of fire ants is crawling out from it in every direction. His gaze flickers toward my top button, then back to my face.

“What about you?” I blurt.

He looks away, teeth skimming his bottom lip as he thinks. “Action movies,” he says. “It’s probably been three years since I’ve seen an action movie.”

Peter didn’t like those either. “Me too.”

“So maybe we should,” he says.

“Maybe right now,” I say, because I need somewhere else to look, something else to think about.

He flashes a smile. “Maybe right now.”



* * *





?“I’m so happy for you, honey,” Mom says between gasps for oxygen. She called me on her walk home from CrossFit, and either she’s still out of breath from the workout or—more likely—she’s keeping her walking speed at five miles per hour.

I, meanwhile, am starfished on my cushy ivory rug, staring at the ceiling with a mug of chai at my hip. This is as close as I get to life on the edge: a milky tea and a near-white rug.