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I nod. My eyes sting.
“Then go. Don’t let me keep you.”
My feet won’t move.
“You said it,” he says. “It was a bad idea.”
And hearing him repeat my words shouldn’t hurt. What’s wrong with me? What do I really want?
“I’m sorry,” I say again, turn and leave his bedroom, leave his apartment, not sure why I feel like crying.
***
“Is he really your boyfriend?”
Seth’s voice echoes in my head. Saturday afternoon and I’m still in bed, curled under the covers, my ereader on, although I can’t focus on the words. Can’t even remember anything I’ve read so far, so I turn it off and sigh.
I should be thinking of my fascinating new classes, the start of my new life. Of the job I landed at a gym not far from Damage Control, teaching belly dancing and Pilates.
Instead, I think about boys. Two specific boys, and what I’m going to do about them.
I’ve been meaning to call Fred, call until he picks up and we can talk. I need to hear his voice, be reassured about what—who—I want, and why. I mean, we share so much. What other guy can I talk about ballet with? And classical music?
We spent hours debating whether Marius Petipa’s classical ballet choreographies are better than his contemporary’s Sergei Diaghilev’s. Whether Tchaikovsky’s music was a better fit than Stravinsky’s. About Fred’s preference for contemporary dance, and what kind of music he’d use for the piece I was working on.
Over our long talks, it was as if we were setting the foundations for something. An implicit promise. He’d compose the music. I’d make the choreography. He’d play. I’d dance.
Unless it was all in my mind. And besides, I’ve broken my half of the promise, haven’t I? Didn’t fight to stay in the dance school – which makes me wonder if the dream of becoming a ballet dancer was really mine, or my mom’s. Wouldn’t I have fought more if I really wanted it?
In any case, would good conversation be enough reason to be with someone? Really be with someone, sleep with him, date him?
God, I need to see Fred.
And yet I don’t call him. My phone is right here, on the
nightstand, within reach, and I make no move to reach for it.
I close my eyes and remember Seth. The way his dark eyes crinkle at the corner when he grins, his naked, powerful body, his ink. How sexy he looks with his hair falling over his eyes, how vulnerable he looks when that shadow passes over his expression.
How kind he is. How he gives me exactly what I need when I need it: acting gentle when I feel fragile. Overpowering me when I’m not sure how to ask for his touch. Stepping back when I’m confused.
But he’s been clear about this strange thing going on between us: he’s helping me win over Fred.
He’d obviously like to do more with me, and his suggestions make me curl up tighter, the blood burning in my veins. The thought of him going down on me makes me moan. The thought of his big cock filling me make me squirm.
If I let him show me, like he says, what it’d feel like—what then? What will he do afterward? Will he walk away? Is that all he wants?
And what do I want from him?
I lift my fingers to my mouth, recalling how he kissed me both times—like a man starving for this kiss—and I know my heart is tangled up. Can’t mistake the way my chest tightens when I think he’s sad, the way it flutters when he looks happy.
The way it threatens to burst when his eyes darken with desire.
No, no way. I’m not falling for Seth. I can’t be. That would be stupid—letting my heart dictate what I’ll do, change my plans of being with Fred.
As if love can be planned…
Shit. I bury my face in the pillow and tell my brain to shut up. Plans change, anyway. Everything changes. Right when you start feeling happy, safe in your decisions, a wave comes in and turns everything upside down.
