November 9(46)

To my bedroom.

Where we’ll spend the night.

Together.

In my bed.

It’s tricky knowing I won’t see her for another year, so I have no idea how far she’s willing to take it. I think that would all depend on how far she’s taken it with guys in the past.

Of course I don’t want to think about her with anyone else, but that’s the whole point of meeting her every year. I want to make sure she’s experiencing life like every girl her age should, and that means experiencing different people. But every night I close my eyes, I selfishly pray that she’s sleeping in her bed alone.

I want to ask her about it, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.

I open my bedroom door and follow her inside. It’s different walking into my room with her this time. It almost feels like there are expectations that have to be met before we exit this room in the morning. Conversations that need to be had. Bodies that need touching. Minds that need sleep. And not enough time to cram it all in before she’ll leave me again for another year.

I close and lock the door behind me. She’s facing the bed as she reaches up and pulls her hair into a knot, securing it with a rubber band she’s had around her wrist all day. I take a moment to admire the perfection of the curve between her neck and shoulder. I step forward and slip my arms around her waist so that I can press my lips against that very spot. I shower her in soft kisses from her shoulder to her ear and back down again. I kiss away the chills I’m responsible for. She makes a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

“I’ll let you shower,” I tell her without releasing her. “Towels are under the sink.”

She squeezes my hands that are wrapped around her waist and then breaks away from me. Rather than head toward the bathroom, she walks toward my closet. “Can I sleep in one of your shirts?” she asks.

I glance at the closet and then at her. My manuscript is in my closet, sitting on the shelf. What I’ve written of it, anyway. At this point, the last thing I want her to do is read a single word of it. I grip the back of the shirt I’m wearing and pull it over my head.

“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Wear this one.”

She grabs the shirt from my hands, but as soon as she looks up, she stops mid-step. She swallows, staring straight at my stomach. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

She points at my stomach. “You have abs?”

I laugh and look down at my abdomen. She said it like it was a question, so I give her the obvious answer. “Um . . . yeah? I guess.”

She covers her mouth with my shirt, hiding her grin. “Wow,” she says, her words muffled by my shirt. “I like them.”

And then she rushes toward the bathroom and closes the door.

Fallon

I made sure to lock the door before getting into the shower. Not that I wouldn’t want to take a shower with him, but I’m just not at that point yet. To me, showering with someone registers higher on my scale for potential humiliation than most things, including sex. At least with sex I’ll be hiding under the covers in the dark.

Sex.

I think about that word. I even roll it around on my tongue as I rinse the conditioner out of my hair. “Sex,” I say quietly. It’s such a weird word.

The older I get, the more apprehensive I become at the thought of losing my virginity. On the one hand, I’m ready to experience what all the fuss is about. It has to be great or it wouldn’t be such a huge factor in the lives of all mankind. But that also scares me, because if I end up not liking sex, I’ll be a little bit disappointed in mankind as a whole. Because it seems to be the root of a lot of evil, so if it’s mediocre and I don’t instantly want more of it, I’ll feel a little misled by the entire world.

Perhaps I’m being a bit melodramatic, but whatever. I’m too nervous to get out of the shower, even though I rinsed the conditioner out of my hair several minutes ago. I have no idea what Ben’s expectations are for tonight. If he wants to sleep, I would totally understand. He’s been through hell and back this week. But if he wants to do something besides sleep, I will absolutely, without a doubt, be a willing participant.

After I dry off, I pull his shirt over my head. I look in the mirror and admire the way it hangs off my shoulders. I’ve never worn another guy’s t-shirt before, and I’ve always wondered if it felt as good as I imagined it would feel.

It does.

I pull the towel off my head and run my fingers through my hair a few times. I take Ben’s toothpaste and squeeze some onto my finger and then rub it in my mouth for a minute. When I’m done, I take a deep, calming breath, and then I turn out the lights and open the door.

His lamp is on and he’s lying on the bed, facing the center of it, with his hands tucked beneath his head. He’s kicked his covers onto the floor and is wearing nothing but his socks and a pair of boxers. I stand here and admire him for a moment, since his eyes are closed. He might actually be sleeping, but it doesn’t disappoint me at all. Tonight’s for him and him only, because I know he’s hurting. I just want to help him while I’m here, so if he needs sleep, I’ll do what I can to ensure he gets the best night of sleep he’s ever had.

I walk to the lamp and switch it off and then pick his covers up off the floor. I gently sit on the bed and cover us both as I lie down next to him with my back to his chest. I try not to wake him as I adjust my pillow.