The You I've Never Known(45)

“Get comfy,” I tell Monica, “while I call my dad and tell him about the car.

Otherwise, he’d probably freak out if he saw

it in the driveway.”

Okay. But do we really have to eat pizza rolls?

Is there anything fresh in the ’frigerator?

I can cook, you know.

“Not sure. But my fridge is your fridge. If you find something to whip up, I’ll eat it. I trust you know how.”

Bueno, pero primero . . .

Yes, but first she positions herself so close to me there are barely molecules between us. She lifts up on her toes to match my height, and . . .





I’ve Dreamed About This Kiss


For days.

For weeks.

For months.

And, just maybe, for the entire part of my life that had any clear notion of what a kiss could—or

should—be.

Oh.

My.

Serious.

God.

Our mouths fuse.

Tongues converge.

But there’s more.

So much more.

And, yes, there’s longing, upwelling from places we’ve yet to explore, but that’s not the genesis.

Because the bond between us begins heart to heart.





This, My Third Kiss


Takes my literal breath

away. I so want to tell her I love her, but I know if I do I’ll jinx us, and this duality we’ve merged into.

But Monica doesn’t hesitate to declare, Te amo más que la vida misma. Tú eres mi amiga y mi corazón.

She loves me more than

life itself. I am her friend and her heart. That draws

my smile. “A chef and poet, too. How lucky am I?”

Luck isn’t random.

It’s something you create.

You call your dad and I’ll go see what I can create in the kitchen. I’m starving.

I watch her go, try not

to think too much about

where the rest of this night might lead us. Temptation

is a powerful force. Succumbing to it scares the hell out of me.





It Also Excites Me


Because, as scared as I am that Dad will find out, and try to beat that sex demon out of me, or disown me for it, or both,

the need to embrace this part of myself is escalating.

Lately, my dreams are inhabited by lust-infused images.

Feminine.

Masculine.

Both.

Right. Left.

Up. Down.

Over.

Beneath.

Sometimes I wake to find myself touching the most intimate parts of my body, satiating a hunger so deep, so vital, feeding it is integral to my well-being.

The sensation is incredible, but I could never find the courage

to do it consciously.

My programming insists it’s wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

So why

does it feel

so right?

Right?

Right?

Now I need

to know what it’s like with someone else.

Someone I trust.

Someone I care about, and believe they care about me.

I think it could be tonight.

I’m terrified.

Thrilled.

Determined.





But First Things First


I locate my phone, dial Zelda’s number and, still caught up in the tempest of carnal confusion, when Gabe answers, a serious outbreak of guilt erupts.

It feels almost as if he’s been peeking in the windows. “Oh, hey. Is Dad there?”

No. He and Aunt Zelda ran into town to pick up some groceries. They should be back soon, though. Should I take a message or do you want to try his cell?

“I should probably talk to him.

You won’t believe this, but—”

Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.

Hillary Grantham gave you her car.

I just found out myself less than

an hour ago. “How do you know?”

Her father told me. I didn’t get a car, by the way, but he did offer to pay for bodywork, paint, and an all-new interior for the GTO. Pretty cool, huh?

I agree that it’s totally cool, then ask, “So, Dad knows about the car?”

Actually, yeah, he does. He answered the door when Mr. Grantham came by.

Oh, I got to meet Hillary’s aunt, too.

Believe it or not, she’s kind of attractive.

Why does the remark sting a little?

“Is that so? Well, maybe on the outside.

Anyway, what did Dad say about

the car? Was he pissed?” Bet he was.

Not that I could tell. He was nice enough to the Granthams, and after they left, all I heard him say was, “Huh. Can you imagine that?”

That doesn’t sound too bad, but

I’ll have to wait until he gets home to know for sure. Dad’s squirrelly.

“So, are you going to fix up the GTO?”

Does a duck quack? Hell yeah!

It’s like an early Christmas present.





I Tell Him


A gently used car is like making up for every Christmas present, plus

every birthday present, I never got.

There

were

lots

of