Open Road Summer(67)

I run my hands across the hair he has left. “Feels like a caterpillar.”

“Feels good,” he murmurs. “Lighter.”

“I like it.”

He steals a glance in the mirror hanging on the wall. “Me too.”

When he turns back toward me, I start to gather the towel from around his shoulders. Though I try to be careful, there are still some loose hairs against his shirt. I set the towel on the newspapered part of the floor and begin to brush off his shirt. He glances down, tugs his shirt over his head and pitches it on the floor.

“You still have . . .” I trail off, pointing toward his bare neck. “Right here.”

I lean forward, gently blowing against the side of his neck, where the remnants of the haircut are still lingering. When I sit back, he’s closing his eyes, and I take the opportunity to kiss him. I mean it to be quick, but he kisses me back, harder, and I run my hands against the back of his head. The sensation tingles every inch of my palms and travels up my arms until all of me hums like a neon sign, electric. These few motions, and we’ve clearly pushed each other into new gear, into a faster pace, barreling forward.

Matt unzips my hoodie, smoothing it off my shoulders. I’d probably let him keep going, but his hands don’t move in that direction. He presses my body against his with one arm, using the other to slide me onto the bed. I run my fingers over where I know his tattoo is, touching the words like deciphering Braille, trying to read his very person.

Time goes blurry as we lay on the bed, interlocked and mouth against mouth. There is a moment that I know we both sense—the one where it becomes clear that either of us could initiate more. This is an opportunity that most guys fumble for, greedy and even desperate to grasp it, but not Matt Finch. Instead, I feel both of us slowing ourselves down, and I’m oddly relieved.

Sure, I’m thrown by his restraint, but I refuse to let myself think too much into it. I don’t want to regret Matt, and I don’t want to stick him into the same formula I’ve used with every other guy. I’ve seen how that turns out.

By the time we lie still, it could have been minutes or hours or days. Our heads are resting on the same pillow, and I can’t stop looking at him. I know it doesn’t make sense, but the haircut makes him look more like Matt, more like who I know him to be. Lying here together, there’s the sensation of being in a different world, like when you’re little and can imagine lifting off into enchanted forests and starry galaxies, all from the comfort of your bed.

He stretches his arm out toward me, and I scoot closer, resting my head on his chest. His heart beats beneath my ear, with the low, steady cadence of a kick drum. Just a few more minutes.





I startle awake, disoriented. Blinking rapidly, I realize that I’m still in Matt’s bed. Light is filtering in through the windows, but I have no concept of what time it is. Beneath the sheets, I’m still wearing my tank top and pajama shorts, and my bare feet are warm on his legs. I fell asleep here, and I slept through the whole night. Matt’s eyes are still closed, and we’ve separated somewhere in sleep; his arm no longer curls over me. Good. Easier escape.

My instinct is to bolt. I don’t want to think about whether I talked in my sleep or drooled or something. I don’t want the awkward morning conversation. So I slowly inch one leg out from the covers, glancing over at him. His eyes are still closed, and I still like his short hair. To keep from shifting the bed, I hover my feet until they meet the floor. I reach for my hoodie, which got discarded last night, and start to stand up from the bed.

“Hey,” Matt murmurs from behind me, his voice gravelly from sleep. I turn back to look at him. He notices my sweatshirt in my hand and his tired eyes widen. He gives a mock gasp. “You were trying to sneak out!”

I drop back down on the edge of the bed, trying to look less guilty. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were!” He tries to look offended.

“No, I just . . .” My speech stalls out. I’m taking too long to find an excuse, and he reaches across the bed and wraps his arms around my waist. Making a growling noise, he pulls me toward him.

“No!” I squeal, trying to cover my bed-head. “Don’t look at my hair.”

“Your hair is so cute!” he squeals back, mocking me. “Promise you won’t sneak out!”

“Fine!”

He sits up against the headboard, and I settle myself against his shoulder. Beside him, my rigid limbs relax. I slept here last night, and that’s okay.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning. I like your hair.”

“Why, thank you.” His hand is on my leg, his fingers gently pressing one by one, like he’s playing piano keys.

This stirs a curiosity in me. “Don’t you play the piano?”

“Have you been watching old YouTube videos of me?”

I laugh. “No. But I thought you played it in the Finch Four sometimes.”

“Yes, I can play the piano.” He moves his hand to run it through his hair, but instead he winds up rubbing the short cut. “My mom taught me when I was little. I was the only one of my brothers who would sit still to learn. I haven’t played in public in a while because . . . well, because it feels like too soon.”

“I’d like to hear you play sometime.” I’m inching across this territory, over a path of grief that is unknowable to me. “Not today or tomorrow. Just someday.”