“My main concern is that sex could lead to more between us, and then if more was to end badly… that could make co-parenting or living together impossible.”
“Right,” Bo says, again.
“Right,” I echo him curtly.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking himself. “I’m catching up.”
“Well, where were you?” I ask before thinking.
He looks up to the ceiling, his hands rubbing together mindlessly between his parted knees. Once he seems to collect his thoughts, he holds eye contact with me a little too strongly for my comfort. Everywhere his eyes land on my body begins to burn. So soon enough, all of me is warm.
“Honestly,” he says, his eyes hesitant but still locked with mine. “I’m not sure. I hadn’t really thought about having rules, I guess. This is all so new, and well, if I’m being honest—”
“Rules are good, though, right?” I interrupt. If I was a betting woman, I would guess that at the end of that sentence, there’s an I’m not entirely over my ex, which, if I’m being honest, I cannot bear to hear. “It’s good we talked. Boundaries and whatever else… Designed to keep us safe.” I’m unstoppable now, talking a mile a minute, making next to no sense. “This way, our focus remains on being the best team possible for the kid. We can keep things simple in an already complicated situation. That’s the goal, yeah? Successfully co-parenting.”
“That’s the goal,” Bo agrees, pressing his lips together, nodding tightly. “Of course.”
“So it’s settled, then. Platonic friends with foetuses.” I lean back in the chair, sniffling just once. I watch as Bo brings a hand to the side of his face, his mouth leaning into it as he scratches beside his ear, smiling to himself like he’s got a secret.
“What?” I ask. “What’s that look?”
“Nothing,” he says, dropping his hand. “I heard you. Understood,” he says, voice pitching.
“Bo…” I say far too softly. Translating to him, I hope, as don’t lie to me.
He traces his bottom lip with his thumb, then stares up at the ceiling. “If our goal is platonic… could you do me a favour?”
“Sure?” I ask, obvious confusion overtaking my voice.
“Could you keep it down? At night?”
“Huh?” I ask, seconds before my heart drops with realisation—nearly forcing it into my stomach. I immediately feel flushed, my face now burning red for all the usual reasons.
He notices, his lips twitching up just a little. “Old house, thin walls. Beautiful moaning coming from down the hall that makes me want to pull my hair out.”
This is not happening. I forbid this from happening.
He doesn’t look away, his eyes narrowing on me as I stare off over his shoulder, willing myself to teleport into the fucking sun.
This is actually, truly, definitely happening.
I must have been a prolific asshole in a previous life to deserve this. An oil tycoon. A corrupt dictator of a small nation. A mosquito carrying malaria. Whoever first decided to install fluorescent lighting in a changing room.
I nod, my mouth stuck open and my jaw locked into place. “Okay,” I whimper involuntarily. “Of course,” I say, standing on wobbly legs.
I’m leaving. Fleeing.
He can see the kid on their eighteenth birthday, if I somehow manage to survive this level of mortification. I refuse to acknowledge Bo as I pass him by and enter the front hall, slipping on my boots before reaching for my jacket.
“Win,” Bo laughs out my name, coming in after me.
“Nope,” I say sharply, reaching for the door handle.
He places his hand on top of mine, stopping me from my escape.
I do not look up at him. The big nerd with supersonic hearing and a stupidly cute face and giant warm hands. Fuck him. I hate him.
How much did he hear?
“Win…” Bo says, his tone laced with enjoyment that I deeply resent.
“Please let me go out into the cold to die.” I drop my forehead against the door.
“I can’t let you do that, honey.”
“Do not call me that,” I snap.
“Sorry,” Bo recoils, removing his hand from on top of mine and taking a step back.
I lift my forehead and let it fall against the door again, my face turned toward him slightly. “How much did you hear?” Meaning, did you happen to hear the one time I accidentally let your name slip out? Or, perhaps, the second time it did when I realised how close just saying your name got me to the finish line?
Bo braces his forearm across the top of the archway and leans into it, closing the space between us half an inch. But I feel him everywhere. “Enough to know you think about Halloween too.”
Shit, fuck, shit.
“Okay, well…” I try to formulate a defence, despite the need to shrivel up and die. “It was the last time I had sex. What else am I going to think about?”
“Your best time,” he offers, his voice taunting. “Unless…” He drops his arm and bends at the waist, smug in his approach. “That also happens to be that night.”
“You wish,” I spit.
Bo sighs, his eyes falling to the floor as he straightens, standing and wiping a hand down his face. “I think you’re right, though,” he says, his voice far off. “About the rules… moving forward. I think that’s the right thing to do.”
But…
I wait. A thin tight rope under my feet leading to his.
No but follows.
I shouldn’t be disappointed, right? It’s ridiculous to be disappointed. These are my rules. I’ve only just shared them.
“Okay…” I reply, pressing my ear against the front door, giving him a few more inches of my face, though I can’t bring myself to look at him for long.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“And keep hearing me? No…”
Bo looks at me sympathetically, a crooked smile and a long, thoughtful breath that raises his chest. “C’mere.” He reaches out for my arm, tugging me toward him and away from the door. He wraps one arm around my shoulders, holding on to the top of my arm, and rests the other on the back of my head, pressing me to him. I grumble my annoyance, remaining stiff all over with my arms locked at my sides.
But I can’t help but breathe him in. That cinnamon, musky scent. The one that’s so distinctly him. Sweet and warm and inviting. And proving to me, once again, why we need these rules.
“We’re going to figure this out, Win,” he says, dropping his chin to the top of my head. “Rules, plans, boundaries… It’ll sort itself out.” Bo sighs, curling me closer. “I am sorry I teased you, though. I shouldn’t have done that. Whatever you need to be comfortable from here on out, I’ll do.”
“What I need is thicker walls,” I mumble against his chest.
“I’ll call a contractor,” he says, loosening his arms and stepping backward.
I still can’t bring myself to look at him, so I study the floor between us, the grooves of the dark, wooden floors.
“I’m sorry too,” I say meekly. “That you heard me. That’s not… It’s the pregnancy hormones—they’re making me…” My voice wanders off, and I shake myself. “I’m sorry.”