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Something happened during that conversation that I hadn’t expected. When I’d breached Ken’s impenetrable force field, I think I broke it. For the rest of the night, he stayed within arm’s reach of me. I tested his limits by touching him here and there, but he never flinched. I grabbed his tie and dragged him outside when I went to smoke. He came willingly. I laughed and swatted him on the chest whenever he said something sarcastic, which was always. I clutched his veiny, muscular forearm and whispered in his ear whenever I was talking about someone at the party. And he let me, all the while smiling and making eye contact and leaning in to tell me his own stories about the people there that I didn’t know.
When it was time for me to leave, Ken grabbed his empty Gatorade bottle—which I knew from previous conversations would be responsibly recycled as soon as he got home—nodded his goodbyes to his friends, and walked me down the four flights of cement stairs to the parking lot. Our elbows rubbed the whole way.
My heart was pounding—and not from the stairs. Ken Easton was letting me touch him. The man had a personal-space bubble the size of a planet, but he didn’t seem to mind my intrusion at all. Which was good because I liked it inside Ken’s bubble. It was quiet and warm in there, but the energy was electric.
I knew I shouldn’t push my luck, but when Ken walked me to my car, stopped a mere twenty-four inches away from me, and gave me that look—the one that felt like a challenge—I said, Fuck it.
And with a flying leap, I wrapped my arms around his neck.
And with the reflexes of a ninja, he caught me.
My eyes shot open in surprise as Ken’s strong arms clamped around my waist, as his face—rough, thanks to a dusting of evening stubble—came to rest against my neck, and as my toes dangled at least six inches above the pavement.
For possibly the first time in my life, I felt grounded, and my feet weren’t even touching the ground.
Just when I was beginning to think that I might like to spend the rest of my life on Kenneth Easton, he slowly lowered me to my feet.
“You’re working tomorrow, right?” His eyes dropped to the ground as he adjusted his coat.
“Yeah,” I replied, looking around for a rock to kick. “Hey, maybe you could come have lunch with me?” My voice, my face, and my eyebrows all lifted in hopeful expectation.
But Ken did not mirror my enthusiasm. As he pulled his car keys from his jacket pocket, he cast a guarded gaze my way. “Maybe.” Then, without so much as an explanation or another embrace, he turned and walked away.
