Dreams of 18(22)

In fact, I came to the bar to find him. But I don’t say that.

Words are falling out of my brain with every step he takes toward me. Slow and fraught with some underlying meaning.

I can figure it out though, the underlying meaning. His clenched jaw and furious eyes are super clear about that.

He’s angry.

As soon as he reaches me, I blurt out the only words I seem to remember in the moment.

“I’m sorry.”





“You are?”

His voice is the same, low and rumbly.

It makes me jump the same way it did that night. In fact, it makes me jump and it makes me arch up against the wall. Like the gravel in his voice controls the curvature of my spine.

“Yes.”

He cocks his head to the side, studying me. “For what?”

The eye-sweep he gives me is completely different than what he gave her, the queen-like woman. With her, he was slow, and he was deliberate.

With me, he’s dismissive. He takes one look up and down my body, my t-shirt and shorts, and that’s it.

I bet he’s already forgotten what I look like even though he’s staring at me directly.

Fisting my hands at my sides, I lick my lips. “For running and, uh, for ruining…” Your life. “Your evening.”

That’s the least of my crimes but it’s the only thing I can think of to say right now, especially after his careless look.

Not to mention, that’s the only thing I’ve got the courage to say.

“Ruining my evening,” he murmurs, scratching his jaw, and I swear I hear the rustle of his thumb and his beard and it steals away my breath. “Yeah, you did that. You ruined my evening.”

“Maybe you can still save it,” I whisper, feeling foolish and breathless at the same time.

“What do you suggest?”

I swallow, wanting to look away from him.

I mean, I should. I really, really should. I’m staring at him a little too much.

Even though he’s doing the same to me, I highly doubt he’s harboring the same thoughts as me.

Thoughts like how tall he is and how his shoulders are massive. Massive enough to block out the street beyond him and all the people and buildings. How the open collar of his plaid shirt gives me a peek of the triangle of his throat along with a smidge of his chest hair.

“You should…” Looking down, I fight the urge to stick my tongue out and gag at the words I’m about to speak. “You should go back to her and uh, finish what you started.”

“What was it? That I started.”

I whip my eyes up at his question. I do it so fast, I nearly bump my head against the wall.

Is he really asking me that?

Looks like he is. His jaw is dipped, and his eyes are on me, intense and watchful, like he’s waiting for my answer.

“I… Well, you know, you were kissing her, so,” I say lamely, childishly. Like I can’t understand the concept of kissing and things that happen because of it.

He squints his eyes a little as if he really can’t figure it out. “So?”

I swallow.

I wait for a few seconds, debating what to say, and then go for it.

“So, I’m sure you wanted to do more.” And just because I can’t help myself, “She definitely wanted you to do more.”

It’s a muttered add-on. I completely had no right to say that and no right to let my teeny-tiny bit of bitterness show.

I mean, why am I even bitter? What am I bitter about?

Why wouldn’t he kiss that woman? Why wouldn’t he make out with her and do other things with her?

Mr. Edwards’s lips pull up again like they did back at the bar, in one direction and only slightly. Again, it’s nothing like the smile he gave her. This one’s cold and mean, but still, I respond to it.

I respond to it by going breathless again. By putting my left foot over my right and clenching my thighs.

“What do you think she wanted me to do to her?” he asks.

With every question that he asks me, the answers become more and more difficult. I should really put a stop to it.

Mostly because it’s none of my business. But also because I don’t wanna talk about her. I don’t wanna talk about what that woman wanted from him and what he wanted from her.

And yet, I can’t help it when my lips part and my answer slips out. “Keep kissing her and never stop.”

His eyes flick back and forth over my face and I think this is it. He’ll stop now. He has to. I don’t even know what I’m saying.

But he doesn’t.

His face dips even more, like he’s trying to gouge the answers out of me. “What else?”

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to gouge anything out. I’ll give him the answer anyway. I’ll keep talking and talking like an idiot.

“Touch her, maybe.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere. All the places you could reach.”

Stop. Stop. Stop.

What am I saying? Why does he keep asking these questions?

Why am I gauging the distance between us? Why am I trying to see the places he can reach on my body?

“Her hair, maybe?” he asks curiously, as if I’m telling him something he never could’ve figured out for himself.

I become hyper-aware of my own loose hair, brushing against my arm, my shoulders, going down to the small of my back. “Yeah.”