The Ex Talk(57)

It’s too warm in here. I’ll have to see about turning down the thermostat.

“I think we’ve been honest enough for one night,” I say.

A corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile. There’s that dimple. “Aren’t we supposed to be getting to know each other?”

Not like this. Not in a way that makes me imagine Dominic having personal, intimate sex with someone. Probably by candlelight, in a remote cabin on a snowy evening.

“Yes,” I say, getting up from the couch and heading toward the kitchen. “I’m really interested in how you do the dishes.”





20




Dominic stares me down in the mirror as we brush our teeth. The upstairs bathroom is too small, and when we bend down to spit into the sink, we bang elbows.

“I’ll report back to Kent what your toothpaste spit looks like,” I say.

“Fantastic.” He places his toothbrush back in its travel case. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your glasses,” he says to my reflection, and I feel immediately self-conscious.

With a hand holding back my hair, I spit one last time before rinsing my toothbrush. “I’m so used to them that I always worry my face looks asymmetrical without them.”

“I like the glasses.” He splashes some water on his face, then swipes a towel to pat it dry. Bedtime Dominic, in his sweatpants and a worn Northwestern T-shirt, might be my favorite version of him yet. The softest, most dangerous version of him, all his armor stripped away. “But you look fine both ways.”

Fine. See, this is what happens: I spend hours on the couch next to him watching old episodes of Buffy, wondering if our legs are touching on purpose or if he thinks I’m just part of the couch, and then he says something like this. Something that convinces me I’m the only one who feels gravity shift between us. Our earlier conversation swims through my head. Something has changed, I’m sure of it.

Or maybe we really are just getting to know each other.

The bedroom poses an interesting dilemma.

“I can sleep on the couch,” Dominic says, eyeing the bed. His breath is wonderfully minty fresh.

“We’re adults. We can sleep in the same bed without it being weird.” I hope he doesn’t hear the tremor in my voice.

“I’m not sure I can sleep next to someone wearing such a ridiculous T-shirt.”

I glance down at it. I packed quickly, and of course I happened to pick this shirt. i’m into fitness—fitness taco in my mouth, it says, with an illustration of a smiling taco.

“It was five dollars at Target.”

“They paid you five dollars to take it off their hands?”

“I think it’s cute!” I cross my arms over my chest, hiding the taco from Dominic’s judgy eyes. I don’t usually wear a bra to bed, but I didn’t want to prance around braless, so I figured I’d finagle it off once I got under the covers.

“You are cute,” he says. “The shirt is not.”

That is a definite compliment, and I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s the same thing he said to me on the night we don’t talk about. I hope it’s dark enough in here to hide my blush.

We creep toward the bed as though it’s a wild animal and we’re afraid to make any sudden movements. Sleeping next to him sounds at once terrifying and thrilling, his long body inches from mine, dark hair fanning across the pillow.

Slowly, I peel back one side of the blankets.

“Did you bring anything from the fun drawer?” he asks. “Because that might make this awkward.”

I gape at him. A few beats of silence pass before I start laughing, a full-body laugh that makes me bend over and clutch my stomach. Then he does, too, and we’re both completely losing our minds. I have to grip the bedpost to keep from falling over.

And it eases, just a little, some of that tension between us. It makes me feel like maybe we can be okay. Maybe we are okay.

When I steal a look at his face, his expression is a mix of amusement and something else I can’t name. I’ve never seen him like this, without that confidence shield he puts up for everyone else.

I like that he’s allowing himself to be this whole person with me.

We slip into bed without any other major catastrophes, and I manage to safely wriggle out of my bra. I’m thinking I can finally relax when he turns to face me, propping his head on one arm. Maybe it’s the lingering alcohol or the dim lamplight, but he looks even lovelier than usual, as though painted with soft brushstrokes.

“Hey,” he says. “I wanted to say thank you. Again. For being so great about all of that earlier. I haven’t been able talk like that in a while, and it meant a lot to have you listen.”

“Like you said,” I say, turning to match him. “You’ll have to be able to open up if you don’t want to end up a cat man.”

I expect him to laugh. Maybe I imagine it, but he seems to stiffen at my words.

“Or you’re just really easy to talk to.” Beneath the sheets, his foot grazes mine, a friendly little touch that makes me think unfriendly thoughts.

It would be so easy to slide closer to him, to line up our bodies, to press my face into his neck. It’s a good thing we’re under the covers, because otherwise my nipples would be glad to let him know exactly how turned on I am.