Page 28 of All Our Almosts

The next moment is like a movie. Both because it happens in slow motion, and because it’s hotter than anything else I’ve ever seen in real life.

The bathroom door swings inward. A plume of steam cascades out, and through it walks Andy, a white towel slung low over his hips, a second towel roughly tousling his hair.

And sweet baby Jesus.

I realize that, up until this moment, I’d still been thinking of Andy as the scrawny 19-year-old I met at a party the first week of my freshman year—all limbs and angles, too tall for his own skin. He’s still lean, but he has definitely grown up in the intervening nine years.

My eyes catch first on his arms, raised to dry his hair with only an effortless, utilitarian flex of biceps that shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is. Then my gaze drops to his chest, his stomach, the dark trail of hair leading down...

“Oh, you’re up,” Andy says as he lowers the towel from his face. “Sorry—I would’ve put clothes on if I realized…”

I avert my eyes as quickly as possible. “No, no, I’m sorry. You’re good. Carry on.”

I stare into my bowl of Chex like it contains the lost texts of Sophocles, waiting a full three seconds after his bedroom door snicks shut before daring to look up again. What is wrong with me???? A single week without sex and it’s like my brain has already turned to horny mush.

(Well, that’s not entirely true. My brain has a history of turning to horny mush for Andy.)

I know, I know. It’s never going to happen. Nor do I even want it to, really! I wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship with something as superficial as sex. Especially since he already turned me down once, you’ll recall.

It’s been long enough that I can laugh about it now. (Sort of. Maybe.) It actually almost seems surreal, that I straight up asked him if he wanted to hook up. I’ve never been that bold in my life! Needless to say, I never made the same mistake again. But every once in a while something like this happens, and it reminds me why I did it—while also burning a scorching hot hole of embarrassment straight through my chest. I pray to any and all Gods that he’s completely forgotten about that night by now. And anyway, I eventually found a way to turn those feelings off.

Well… if not turn off, at least tamp way down into oblivion.

That is, until a few years ago.

It was an uneventful Saturday in an uneventful month, and Andy and I set out to watch all of the Lord of the Rings movies in a row to pass the time. It started as nothing. I was cold and asked for a blanket. Andy brought one. Then Andy was cold too and tucked himself under the other half. Our knees touched and neither of us moved away, but that was excusable, plausibly deniable, even normal for us to maintain that small point of contact.

We talked and watched and talked some more and eventually the first movie ended and the second began.

Halfway through, Andy made popcorn. We fought over the last handful until Andy scooped up the kernels and jokingly put them in my mouth. I clamped my lips over his fingers, sucking off the butter as he pulled them free. And it was fine—just a joke. (Kind of.) I laughed, and he laughed at my laughter, and then he was pulling me down across his chest. We fought and twisted and fell until our laughing died down and all that was left was the curl of our bodies into each other. Him flat on his back, my head resting on his shoulder.

And there we stayed.

I swear in that moment I could feel my pulse just under my skin. Could’ve counted my heartbeats from the pressure of it. The movie kept playing but I didn’t take in a single second of it when my entire attention was focused on the press of Andy’s warm body against mine.

The second movie ended. Andy sat up, reached for the remote, pressed play on movie three, then laid back down, exactly as he had been. Our silence was a shield and I followed suit, tucking myself into his side without ceremony.

When I stirred awake in the middle of the night, I was still on that couch, lying across Andy’s sleeping chest. The TV cast a faint, cool light over the room, and I took in a deep breath. The body beneath me smelled like laundry detergent and… Andy—a faint muskiness that was familiar and comforting, like the soft embrace of bed after a long day.

And it just felt… right. It felt like I should’ve been there the whole time. It horrified me, actually, how good it felt to hear the rise and fall of his breath. To feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his arm curving around me.

I repositioned myself by just an inch, my cheek moving against his shoulder.

“Soph?” Andy whispered, almost under his breath.

Shoot.

“Yeah?” I whispered back.

“You awake?”

I hesitated. “A little.”

“Should…” he started but trailed off.

The radiator clanged. A siren passed outside.

“Should I get up?” he finally asked.