You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(26)

You laugh like you could love me—the sinking living room is rising—and I can’t squeeze your little feet hard enough. I want to put them in my mouth, tights and all. And then your laughter fades. I let go of your feet. I love you. I love you! I love that you’re rubbing your eyes and drinking your wine and showing me your sad side. Your Miss Lonely loneliness. You loved your best friend, and you lost her.

I never had one, Vail. But I get it.

“You know why I love going to the movies, Joe? Because you go into the dark with someone. You leave your lives and you go into this world together, and sometimes, in the dark, you see what you don’t want, and that’s the risk, right? If we’d seen anything besides Coyote Ugly that day, we might still be friends. It’s like you too….”

I pet your feet. Serendipitous little feet. “Yes, Sitcom.”

You pull at your skirt. “Actually, baby, can we not do that anymore? Sitcom…Cusack…I know I don’t look like Kate Beckinsale—”

“You’re prettier.”

You laugh, and it’s good—I am sick of those stupid nicknames—and your petals are wilting, dropping like sweet flies. Your lips come together, and you lick them, and I swear I can feel your tight, scared heart starting to pound. “See,” you say. “When you and I went to the movies…I forgot about how the power can be a good thing. We were so awkward at the start, and by the end of act one, it was like, oh, I like this guy. He’s good.”

This is the reason lovebirds need a nest. A sofa. Quiet. You’re relaxed in a way that you can’t be in a coffee shop or a bookstore. You forgot about how nice it is to just sit around listening to music, and the petals are opening quickly now, one after another, after another. You bite your lips, but there is something going on inside of you. Something scary, something sad. I don’t have a dream. A purpose. A passion. You close your eyes. I squeeze your feet. You open your eyes.

“It’s like this, Vail. Of course you don’t have a dream. You’re working your ass off. You can’t sleep because you’re on call for this douchebag who doesn’t respect you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t sweat dreams, Vail. Most people are lying when they tell you about their dreams, and the thing is, and seriously…You dream when you’re in deep sleep. You’re not dreaming right now but…Since we met I’m, I’m dreaming a little bit more. And maybe telling you that will, you know…You deserve to dream too.”

No more footsies and no more nicknames. You mount me. Legs and arms. Lace and skin. You do have a passion—your hands clinging to my hair, tugging—and you do have purpose—Miss Tongue wants Mr. Tongue—and you do have a dream.

You purr. “Come to Mama, baby. Come.”

You are Mama, and Portnoy comes alive. Your hands are on the move, all ten thousand of your perfect milk bone fingers. Happy Portnoy. Hungry Portnoy.

“So much hair, baby…so thick.”

Me? Is that good? Bad? Fuck it. On we go. Miss Tongue broadsides Mr. Tongue in the deep blue sea, and I’m learning the way of you. Slow and then fast. Fast and then slow. You’re the elder, and it feels good, the way you steer my hands. Oh, baby. Oh, Joe. You grab my biceps and run a hand down my chest—I need a better sweater—and I could live like this, with you, read you all day, all night. That first day in the theater. I’m a visual person. Me too, and my eyes are open. I see you, Vail. I see you.

I pull your shirt over your head, and it’s allowed. I know it because you pull my sweater off and run your hands over my chest, and then you…Wait. Did you just giggle?

The CD doesn’t skip, but it does. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, baby. I just love how you are. Soft and…soft and snuggly.”

SOFT IS THE OPPOSITE OF HARD.

“Oh.”

“Aw, no. See, it’s a good thing, baby. It means you’re not a narcissist gym rat….”

Soft is for girls, and Portnoy isn’t soft. Is he?

You grab onto my hair. Another giggle. Is there laughing in sex? Is there crying in baseball? “Baby,” you say, “just promise me you won’t get a haircut or go crazy at the gym. You’re so pure, the Frampton on repeat and the ‘let’s just listen to music’…it’s all so seventies.”

I ask if that’s a good thing, and you tell me to learn how to take a compliment. I kiss you—no more talking, no more words—and your hand finds my Portnoy, and he wants out of the pants. I reach for your waistband. You whisper in my ear. “Mmm…You first, baby.”

You put a hand on my zipper. Zipper down. Watership Down. Portnoy up. Hard. You say it again. “Come to Mama.”

Gently, Joseph. I can’t rush this. You’re a romantic. The anti-Cynthia. Sex matters to you. Love. We never saw Cusack and Beckinsale do the nasty in Serendipity, and Tom Hanks doesn’t stick it to Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, not even in the end, in the park, and then you go still. Still as a fucking stop sign.

I’m unzipped. I’m in your hands. I look at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just…I’ve just never seen one like this, I mean, not in person….”

WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY DICK?

“Sorry,” you say. “It’s exciting…. I can’t believe this.”