Maybe life is thinking you have all the answers, then realizing you know nothing at all.
I stare at our entwined fingers and think about how many things had to fall into place exactly the right way at exactly the right moment for us to be sitting here together. Against all odds, this relationship is thriving. We’re like two orphan puzzle pieces that somehow magically, inexplicably fit together.
“So in other words, I don’t have to like the site. I just have to like you.”
The corner of his mouth hitches up. “Tall order, I know.”
“Indeed.” I purse my lips like I’ll have to think about it, then angle my face up to his.
The kiss starts slow, his mouth meeting mine, his lips chasing away my reservations like sunlight chases away fog. But what began as chaste and restrained quickly escalates into something more, something deeper; a needy, urgent intensity neither of us can seem to control. This is more than a kiss. It’s a promise, an unspoken acknowledgment that this relationship is different from any others we’ve had. I can feel his commitment as strongly as I can feel my own. Our connection is a living thing, growing by the day, its roots twisting a winding path through me and wrapping around my heart.
When he finally pulls away there’s a question in his eyes, and it’s the same one I see every time we kiss. I can hear it on his lips; taste it on his tongue. He wants to know when I’ll be ready for more, what’s holding me back . . . but I also know he won’t ask. The man seems to have a bottomless well of patience, matched only by his stubbornness. And as much as my body is screaming to take that next step, I find myself at a similar impasse, albeit for entirely different reasons. How could I possibly justify being intimate with him when there are so many lies still between us? My deception is a splinter that digs a little deeper into my psyche each day, perniciously infecting our relationship, and yet I know extracting it would cause even worse harm. Every time I consider confessing the truth, I picture Jack’s face, lit with joy at some silly, insignificant good deed I’ve done for him, and I can’t go through with it. I can’t be another person in his life who’s let him down; who’s betrayed him. It’s a plot hole I can’t seem to write my way out of.
But there is one thing I can do. “So I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
This is not precisely true; it was more that I couldn’t decide whether to ask him at all, and it’s not until this exact moment that my decision has become clear.
“There’s an event next week. A work event, I mean. It’s Siren’s ‘Women of the Year’ dinner? That we host annually? Maybe you’re familiar with it?” I need to stop speaking in question marks. Jack blinks at me and I shift gears, a torrent of words spilling out in one long, rambling gush. “Anyway, I’m allowed a plus-one. I’ve never actually invited anyone before, but Nat’s bringing Gabriel and I thought maybe you’d want to go, but then I wasn’t sure if it would be awkward for you or if—”
“Of course I’ll go,” he cuts me off, squeezing my hand.
Oh. “You will? Okay.” A heavy breath gusts out of me. “Are you sure?”
“Are you sure?” He’s gently amused.
“Yeah! I mean, yes. I just, you know, I wasn’t sure if you would feel weird coming to a Siren event. Not that you should feel weird, I just . . . argh, you know what I mean.”
Is it a bold choice to pick Siren’s biggest event of the year as a coming-out party for me and Jack? Without a doubt, which is precisely why I’ve been obsessing over this decision for the past couple of weeks. Keeping our relationship under wraps made sense at first; I needed to find my footing, give myself the space and time to confirm this was real. But the longer I’ve waited, the more wrong it’s felt. Jack welcomed me into his life wholly and without reservations—heck, I met his friends and coworkers on our first date—and I haven’t exactly responded in kind. It’s time for me to step up to the plate. Besides, I’m finally dating someone I’m excited about, who makes me happy, and I’m tired of hiding it. I want to show him off. I want to prove to Cynthia and everyone else that Jack was worth the risk.
“Let me make this easy for you: I don’t feel weird if you don’t feel weird. I have a cordial relationship with Cynthia, and I promise to be on my best behavior.” He is all wide-eyed innocence; a class clown trying to sweet-talk his way out of detention. “And I’d be honored to be your arm candy for the night.”
There’s pride in his voice, and it’s hard to believe there was ever a time I thought he would say something demeaning or regressive; he’s never been anything but my biggest cheerleader.
“Come on.” He presses a kiss to my temple and stands, pulling me up. “And for the record, I know you hate the whole Saturdays thing, but how can I be sorry for it? If Tom and I hadn’t come up with that nifty little catchphrase way back when, you’d probably still be wasting time with what’s-his-face instead of here with me.” He rubs my upper arms, eyes shining with mischief. “Remind me to thank that guy, actually. What was his name? Butt?”
I slant him a look, swatting his chest. “His name was Brett.”
He waves a hand as if to say, Same difference. “Am I supposed to be sorry that Butt was an idiot? Butt’s loss is my gain.”
I refuse to laugh; it’ll only encourage him. But speaking of butts . . . You know what? Screw it. I slide my hands into his back pockets and squeeze. Mmm. He’s got a highly squeezable heinie. “I’m so glad my pain and suffering is amusing for you. Maybe next time I can raise the stakes and be publicly humiliated.”
“Next time, huh? Already planning to get rid of me?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before lowering his mouth to mine, claiming it—claiming me—for his own.
Never, I think to myself as I wrap my arms around his neck and lose myself in him. I’m never letting you go.
There’s something about kissing Jack that eclipses everything else. I lose time when it’s happening; I dream about it when we’re apart. He’s passionate yet tender, hungry but still gentle, his touch somehow both inflammatory and healing. It’s like I’m hypnotized, but I’ve also never been more awake. It’s the most intoxicating dichotomy. I can’t get enough of it. I can’t get enough of him.
When we finally break apart I feel woozy, unsteady on my feet. I have to drag my eyes open and come back to myself, so thoroughly have I forgotten where I am （you know, in public, in broad daylight, with small children around）。 It’s getting harder and harder to stave off this feeling, to satisfy this craving I have for him. Attraction is one thing, but this is like an addiction. I’ve never felt such a staggering need.
“Speaking of public humiliation,” I mention casually once I’m able to stand upright without assistance and we’ve resumed walking, “your buddy Eric Jessup’s been in the news this week.”
Jack tips his head back and groans at the sky. “I knew the I told you so was coming on this.”
“Why would I need to say that when I’m always right sounds so much better?” I taunt.