I look away, finding focus on the tops of his black and grey suede sneakers.
“I…” I start but have no idea how to finish the sentence.
“How you’re a catalyst for change.”
It all seems so silly now. But even so I raise my chin and look at him, immediately absorbed by his presence, by the depth of his eyes.
“I want to be.”
“How so?” And he takes a step toward me.
I inhale sharply, trying to steady myself. Only the door is behind me.
“You saw me today,” he continues. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
I lick my lips, my throat dry, the chardonnay a mistake. “I thought it would be wrong.”
His frown deepens, leaning in closer. “Why?”
“Because,” I tell him. “It felt wrong.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else but his lips come together. He tilts his head, observing me deeper. “Why?” he finally says again.
“Because,” I say slowly, eventually meeting his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m more to you than a research assistant. Because I know you’re more to me than someone who writes me a check.”
His brow pinches together as he lets out a ragged breath. His eyes are this mix of fear and wonder that I wish I could bottle because it’s leaving a scar on me. One I’ll look back on.
He reaches out with his hand and grasps the ends of my fingers.
My breathing deepens, my heart beginning to gallop.
“Tasha,” he says, and I delight in the way he says my name. He squeezes my fingers. “You’re right. You are more to me than a research assistant. There is no pretending otherwise.”
I don’t want to be pathetic, don’t want to be weak.
Still I whisper, “How much more?”
I wish my voice didn’t shake.
He stares at me sadly and shakes his head. “A terrible amount.”
Then he winces sharply and turns away, letting go of my hand. He leans against the door, arms splayed as he tries to breathe.
I don’t want to intrude.
I want to intrude.
“My whole point of the email,” I explain quietly, “was…”
And I trail off because that’s the problem with being drunk.
So instead of finishing my sentence I reach out and place my hand on his back.
He’s hot through the shirt and his muscles tighten under my touch.
I briefly imagine touching his skin underneath, what it would feel like to run my hands over it, maybe my nails.
“You said you didn’t understand why I spend all my time with you,” he says, and I can feel his words against my palm. “Why I’m not with my wife instead.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” I tell him, trying to play it off.
“No, but it’s what I heard,” he says and suddenly turns around.
I don’t have time to back away.
Or maybe it’s that I did and I chose to hold my ground.
To be just a few inches from him.
I can smell him, rosemary and soap, see his pulse tick wildly in his throat.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something so badly before.
“And?” I ask.
“Tell me what I am to you,” he whispers, leaning in closer.
I suck in my breath. Afraid that if I exhale I’ll let all my secrets loose.
He’s so close now, and the air between us is short and sharp. Maybe I don’t even have to say a word. He can just glean it off me, the way an archeologist can pinpoint a year within billions of years because of a grain of ash on a fossil.
“Tell me,” he repeats, and I read the urgency in his voice. I dare to meet his eyes again, and they are feverish, like an iceberg melting at a rapid rate.
Here goes nothing.
I lean in quickly.
And I kiss him.
On the mouth. A straight shot that creates goosebumps down my arms, my lips soft and wet and yielding against his.
The soft moan that comes out of his mouth nearly floors me, reaching so deep down into the darkest corners of my very being. It fuels me, like gasoline to a fire. Dangerous. So very, very dangerous.
And then his mouth opens against mine, his tongue softly brushing against the tip of my tongue, and all my body wants is to throw restraint out the window.
Oh god. This kiss.
This is wildfire.
This could so easily consume us.
Until there is nothing left.
We’re going to fucking burn this world to the ground.
And there’s no better way to go than in the flames with him.
“Wait. I can’t,” he mumbles, pulling his mouth away, breathing hard. His eyes are laced with anguish. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“And you do?” I ask, my lips burning.
Creak.
The door down the hall opens, and we both break apart, no, crumble apart, like sand, and my roommate shuffles across the hall and into the bathroom, without even shooting a glance our way.
Now we’re left with the heavy blanket of regret as we both eye each other, our chests rising, hearts drumming, utterly aware of how wrong that was, aware that it should never, ever happen again
I want it to happen again.
Immediately.
And yet, the way Brigs is looking at me says he’s sad beyond anything, a potent mix of frustration and sorrow.
“I should go,” he says, eyes darting to the bathroom.
I know what I want to say, and I know I shouldn’t say it.