Twice Shy
: Chapter 15

I AM BURIED ALIVE UP to my neck in a sleeping bag, every breath a thunderclap, cold puffs of fog curling in and out of my mouth.

“Wow, I’m so tired,” I lie, unprovoked.

Silence. And then:

“. . . Yeah.”

“Time to count sheep, I guess.” I roll in the opposite direction of Wesley, features twisting into Kill me now. I will never be cool.

“Does that ever work for you?”

“Sure.” I’m lying again. Being nervous is turning me into a liar. “I mean, no. Have you never tried it? What do you think about before you go to sleep?”

He falls quiet. I think he’s trying to figure out what I’m really asking. “It’s like sheep, but Maybells. A whole bunch of you, one after the other, skipping through a field.”

I’m too keyed up for my sarcasm sensors to work, so I have no clue if he’s joking. Before I can blurt out any questionable nonsense, he thankfully keeps talking. “What about you? Do you go to your happy place?”

It takes me a second to remember that my happy place isn’t this tent, smelling of nylon, bug spray, and old garage. He’s referring to the coffee shop.

“Yeah, usually.” With the exception of this past week.

For years, shutting the door on the real world and dropping out of a hole in the clouds into my make-believe café has been an automatic transition. It requires full cooperation with abandoning the here and now, vacating my body. Here and now, I’m so aware of my body that there’s no way I’m going to be able to leave it. I’m powerfully aware of Wesley’s, too, how the back of his hand grazes my thigh through our sleeping bags. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s fine.” Boy, is it. I wish he’d do it again.

The reminder of my café flips a Pavlovian switch: pink shafts of light slant through the plastic skylight, then vanish as they rotate like a lighthouse beacon. I can already smell sugar and flour, hear the notes, lighter than air, twinkling out of a retro jukebox that harbors all my favorite music. I know where my invented customers with their blurred faces will be waiting in stasis, a magic wax museum where everyone comes to life when my hand turns the doorknob to enter. Inner peace is only a heartbeat away, an irresistible invitation.

Resist I do, pink neon shrinking from Wesley’s profile, receding into the night like banished spirits. “Do you really think about a whole bunch of skipping Maybell sheep?” I ask.

“Are you sure you want to know?” His voice is low and dangerous.

Yes.

No.

This is a feast of terrible ideas. Don’t start anything you can’t finish, I tell myself. We live together, a fact that will be true no matter how many regrets I wake up with tomorrow in the glaring light of day. I will not jeopardize my peace, my dream career, for a man. No matter how surprisingly sweet he may have turned out to be under his crispy shell.

“No,” I decide, uncertainly.

Wesley’s silences are even more frustrating in the dark. I can’t read his face to know if he’s disappointed or relieved.

Damn my aversion to thick silences. “Your bedroom is right above mine.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I respond too quickly, almost sitting up. Almost pouncing on him. “How?”

“You close your window at about three in the morning, whenever the temperature starts to drop.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was that loud.” I like fresh air, but he’s absolutely right—I get too cold in the middle of the night and have to shut my window.

“It isn’t. I have trouble sleeping, so I’m usually awake at three anyway. That’s why I can hear it.” He adjusts his position, sleeping bag rustling. “It’s nice, in a way. I don’t feel so . . . by myself.”

“I know what you mean. I’m not sure I’d even want to live in that house by myself, anymore.” I wet my lips. “I mean that I wouldn’t have minded, but having had company, and knowing that having company is better—” I twist the knob on that sentence until it shuts off. I’m rambling nonsensically.

“No, I know what you mean.” We’re repeating ourselves now, and can’t help but laugh. It breaks the tension.

“I stayed in a tent like this when I went to camp as a kid,” he tells me. “I refused to participate in the trust fall and the counselors told my parents I was combative.”

I giggle. “Of course you did.”

“Are you calling me combative?” he says, mock stern.

“You? Noooooo, never. You’ve been a prince from the jump. Trying to get me to sell my half of the estate, eating breakfast at seven because I wake up at eight—and don’t even try to tell me that’s not on purpose—”

“All right, all right,” he cuts in before I can pick up steam. “I’m sorry. It takes me a while to get used to new people. And I didn’t see you coming, so it was even harder. Didn’t get a chance to prepare myself.”

“I think I’m growing on you, though.” I know I sound smug. It’s because I am. I poke his ribs and he convulses. My laugh kicks up an evil notch.

He pokes me back. “It’s like if you throw a frog into a pot of boiling water, it’ll jump out. But if you heat the water slowly, it gets used to it and stays put. You were already boiling when I was thrown into you.”

“My apologies. I can’t help being this hot.”

He doesn’t laugh at my joke. “It’s getting easier to handle. I’m not minding being boiled, nowadays.”

Our next period of silence descends naturally, but if I shone a flashlight over all the dark space that surrounds us, it would illuminate a hundred lingering words. My lips part, trying to summon the right ones. Most of the time, I feel like I live all the way down inside of myself, deep, deep down, so far away from my voice that I hardly hear it and certainly nobody else ever does. I’ve been told before that I blend in, difficult to notice, easy to talk over. But ever since I realized Wesley notices me, it’s like I’ve gone to the surface of myself and stayed there. I’m not used to feeling the world at such close range, having an effect on my environment, present in my own life. I’m run ragged by it. I don’t have the wherewithal to project a more flattering version of myself, stumbling when I aim to be charming and likable. I’m bare-bones Maybell.

“You over there counting sheep?” he asks.

“It’s a parade of Wesleys now, one after the other, skipping through a field. In tuxedos.”

“I don’t mind that at all.” The smile in his voice makes me smile, too.

“You still counting Maybells?”

“Oh, definitely not. I’d never be able to fall asleep that way.”

If I go digging into that I will end up taking a shovel to the face. “Look, that’s Orion’s Belt.” I raise my arm.

“Ursa Minor.” He raises his arm, too, letting it lean ever so slightly against mine. I press a little; he presses back.

“They didn’t have this many stars in Pigeon Forge.”

“Restricted viewing up there,” he agrees. I think Wesley’s prejudiced against large towns.

“This is the HBO of skies.” At once, we both say, “Starz,” and laugh at our corny joke.

My hand tilts, fingers curling back. His fingers claim the spaces between mine, just resting like that. I wonder if he’s looking at our hands, too. Listening to the telltale thud of my pulse.

“I see the letter W,” he tells me.

I bend my neck, and if the movement brings me closer to him, that’s entirely accidental. “Pretty sure what you’re looking at is an M from the wrong angle.” Our arms fall, side by side between our sleeping bags. Neither of us moves to withdraw.

His face shifts toward mine, breath stirring my hair. “I’ll let you have it.”

My jaw hurts, refusing to unclench. My face, exposed to chilly air, is hot, while my covered body is ice cold, muscles coiled tight. Walking home tomorrow is going to be a punishment.

Bats flap overhead, and even in my sleeping bag I can feel the cold seeping up out of the soil, through the tent’s fabric. My stiff back is beginning to think that getting closer to nature is overrated. I remind myself it would be inappropriate to ask Wesley to be my blanket.

The silence deepens. Our long day is catching up to me, my eyelids shuttering, when he whispers, “Are you awake?”

Here’s my chance to leave tonight at a wise stopping point. I will simply say nothing, feigning sleep. He’ll fall asleep, too. Danger averted.

I waste no time answering, “Yes.”

“I found out something that embarrassed you today,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll tell you an embarrassing thing, too. The most embarrassing thing. To make us even.”

“You don’t have—”

“Neither did you, when you saw my drawings in the loft. But you did. And it’s easier right now, in the dark, to be braver. So I’m going to tell you.” He exhales a soft breath, turning on his side toward me once more, closer than ever. All I’d have to do is give an inch and I’d have his lips to my forehead. I shiver, fingers curling around my shirt to restrain myself.

“I’ve never been with anyone.”

Time goes liquid, pooling between us. The temperature goes up like a Roman candle. “You mean . . .”

“Yes.”

My heartbeat thumps in my ears. My arm is positioned crookedly under my head, tingling with pins and needles as it falls asleep, but I can’t move.

He’s so soft, unbearably, when he prompts, “Say something?”

My throat is packed with sand. “I’m trying to come up with a response that doesn’t sound like a proposition,” I confess hoarsely. “Wesley, that isn’t embarrassing at all.”

He shifts onto his back again, arm across his stomach. “It bothers me. There’s a stigma, especially for guys. Especially for guys who are about to hit thirty. It’s not that I want to be a . . . you know . . .” He can’t bring himself to verbalize it. “But it’s hard to meet people when you have social anxiety as bad as I do. I panic. Or I want to say one thing, be a certain way, but it gets all tangled up on its way out of my mouth. A pumpkin trying to be flowers and coming off like a cactus. It’s frustrating.”

“You’re much more flowers than you are cactus,” I tell him, meaning every word. I hope he believes it. “But for what it’s worth, pumpkins are the best.”

“Anyway.” I think he’s rubbing his eyes. “Maybe I’ve overshared. I’m sorry. It’s late, and I’m tired.”

Of course. He’s tired—he’s not hinting anything. Not suggesting. He definitely does not want me to roll on top of him and have my wicked way. The only Wesley who will let me thread my fingers through his hair and crush my mouth to his is the imaginary one. Which I feel guilty thinking about, but I can’t help it.

“I’m honored you trust me enough to tell me something like that.” I bite down hard on my tongue, reaching for his hand. He acknowledges it with a mellow squeeze, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand.

“The only reason I was able to admit it is because you’re so easy to talk to. It feels like you . . .” He inhales sharply. “Like you pay attention.”

My body is rigid with tension, collecting in my temples. I could be imagining it but I think his muscles have tightened, as well. I am burning alive.

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” he mumbles.

Before he’s finished with his sentence, I jump in: “You’re right. I see you.”

“Oh.” His voice is light as a feather. Winded. “Good.”

This is the part where he adds, I’m paying attention to you, too, and descends on me with a fiery passion, but that never happens. He only says, “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” I echo.

“Good night, Maybell.”

Disappointment crushes every bone in my body. “Good night, Wesley.”

I don’t close my eyes. We lie there with our arms still touching, his golden curls brushing my ear, a million microscopic points of contact. Maybe he falls asleep immediately, maybe he lies awake for as long as I do, staring unseeingly at the stars.

I’VE SPENT THE BETTER part of the night debating whether I’m in heaven or hell, but this morning has clinched it. I am for sure in hell.

Deservedly so. There’s a pair of warm arms around me, a sleeping man’s chest rising and falling against my back, and the sinful thoughts won’t stop coming. Morning breath is the only factor keeping me from rolling over onto my other side to stare at him. Also, manners. But mostly morning breath.

“You awake?” he asks.

I stretch and yawn, pretending I’ve been out of it. “What? Oh! Mm-hmm.” I could lie here forever. Maybe he’ll bury his mouth in my neck and tell me how badly he’s wanted me, and we’ll roll around in this field all day—

“Good. I want to get an early start.” He unzips his sleeping bag and climbs over me, grabbing his bag on his way out of the tent. His hand pats my head like I’m a golden retriever. I fall back onto my elbows, shooting a cross expression at his back.

Apparently I’ve misread last night’s signals.

By the time I’ve changed my clothes and joined him, he’s wearing a fresh change of jeans and plain white T-shirt (Did he change behind a tree? Or out in the open? None of my business!), munching on granola.

When he glances at me, I automatically flush and stumble. “Uneven . . . this grass is all uneven,” I mutter. “Gopher holes or something.”

He raises his eyebrows at the ground, still munching. Nods. “Mm.”

I should have packed a mirror. I could have dried patches of drool on my cheek for all I know. I’m sure my hair’s on its worst behavior. My hair always has such an attitude problem whenever I especially need it to look good. But on days I’m not going anywhere, with no human witnesses? That’s when I could be a Pantene Pro-V model.

After I zip off into the trees for a few minutes (nature calls), I help Wesley roll up our sleeping bags, tent, and supplies. The metal detector is still nowhere to be found.

“Maybe Sasquatch took it,” I suggest, enjoying myself. “You said he lives in Appalachia, right?”

Wesley shakes his head. “Not even going to respond to that.”

“You just did.” I try to sprint away before he can get the last word in. “Last one home has to clean out the gutters!” This is a terrible threat. The gutters have saplings and who knows what else growing in them.

“Have fun with that. I’ll just be over here, then.” He juts a thumb. “Going the right way. See you in a week.”

I veer left. Check his expression. I veer right. He laughs, dispelling some of my unease about waking up to business as usual. This isn’t anything like last night, but it also isn’t anything like any other morning. We’re off the map.

“Ready to see what the fifth treasure is?” he inquires when I circle back.

The brown envelope weighs heavily in my pack, waiting to be opened, but I’m still not ready for this to end. “When we get back. It’ll be our reward for not getting eaten by bears.”

“Bears are solitary creatures. If we meet one, we’ll outnumber it. Meaning no bears will be running after me when I outstrip you.”

“Hey!”

“You snooze, you lose.”

“I can see why they didn’t like you at camp.”

Wesley laughs again—I’ve got to start counting them, comparing numbers to yesterday’s best score. “No, they didn’t like me at camp because I wouldn’t do this.” He stops short in front of me and leans backward.

“No!” I cry, but it’s too late, he’s already tipping back. My arms reflexively snake around his middle as if I have a prayer of holding this enormous specimen up, but he’s stopped tipping. Wesley locks his arms over mine, holding me to him. He turns so that I can see his grinning profile.

“Gotcha.”

“Thank goodness,” I sigh. “You’re too much man for me.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he replies, releasing his hold after another beat. I can’t tell if he’s wistful or joking.

This is the trouble with crushes. You begin to doubt whether they’re reciprocated, even if on paper the signs are all there. If I ever get married, I think I’ll be wondering all the way down the aisle if the wedding’s an elaborate prank and the groom will say Gotcha! at the end. I can’t trust my own judgment here.

The hike home flies by much faster than the hike out, since we’re not stopping to hunt for treasure, and we’re making good enough time that I don’t think the lunch I packed for today will be necessary. We stop mostly for my benefit, my poor legs and back aching. Wesley makes me reapply that minty green goop every two hours.

I can’t resist. “You missed a spot,” I say, dabbing more on his nose.

Wesley smiles, eyes crinkling. “So did you. Here, I’ll help you out.” He presses my forehead, leaving a green handprint.

“Thank you so much.”

He winks. “No problem.”

Tree canopies blocking the sunlight throw off our sense of time, and when we saunter into a clearing the sky looks more like late evening than noon. Dark clouds gather ahead, rolling our way.

“That doesn’t bode well,” I mutter.

Wesley grabs my pack from me, leaving our shovel behind. “We’ve gotta hurry.”

“I am physically incapable of going any faster. My shoulders are still angry that they didn’t get a mattress last night.”

“I’m kind of used to the sleeping bag by now,” he replies, calling to mind the image of his sleeping bag in the loft, and the colored-pencil Maybell I discovered there. “You need me to carry you?”

Is he serious?

He is. Of course he is.

Wesley’s offering a fantasy and doesn’t know it. If I say yes, forcing this poor man to carry a fully grown adult on top of everything else he’s already carrying, I truly will go to hell.

I spend a handful of seconds considering it anyway. “You’re strong,” I sigh, relinquishing this opportunity, “but not invincible. That’d kill you.”

“I’m not that strong at all,” he replies modestly, head ducking, “but for you, I can be strong enough.”

He quickens, shooting forward so that I can’t see his face. I’m so glad he can’t see mine, either. It’s of paramount importance that we get back as fast as possible so we can get away from each other. If I’m in Wesley’s company for another hour, I’m going to irreparably embarrass myself.

I have feelings for you, I hear myself hypothetically gushing. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. They snuck up on me. Wesley’s hypothetical shock, followed by mortification, is bad enough to hasten my pace. The detail that my muscles are melting marshmallows is irrelevant—self-preservation demands sacrifice sometimes. It’s growing increasingly clear that I need a week of no contact to salvage my wits. I can’t be trusted anymore.

Wesley doesn’t get the memo. He does horribly destructive things like passing me his canteen to make sure I get the last drink and pointing out which animals the angry clouds resemble. He touches my wrist gingerly between two fingers; I grind to a halt at once, and my soul twirls up out of my body when he kneels to retie one of my shoelaces.

I can’t watch. I clench my teeth, staring resolutely at the approaching rain clouds, but he’s ruined clouds for me, too. I’ll never be able to look at one again without thinking, Hey, it’s a floppy-eared bunny, in his deep, pleasant rumble.

Head bowed at my waist, one of his knees digging in the mud without so much as a flinch, a second thought, Wesley’s long, callused fingers that paint sea monsters on ballroom walls and make things grow from the earth are delicately handling my dirty shoestrings. He murmurs, “Over, under, cross the bridge, make a loop and right on through.” A mnemonic device about tying shoes cannot be what sends me over the edge. I forbid it.

“We’re getting pretty close, right?” I ask when we take off again, more than a little desperate.

Wesley throws me a sidelong glance. “You getting sick of me?” His tone is playful, but I detect apprehension.

“Listen, I’m just trying to protect you from the rain.” I return his smile with a wobbly one of my own. “Lest you forget, you’re wearing a white T-shirt.”

He barks a laugh. “So?”

“So, people in wet white T-shirts are distracting. Don’t look at me like that, this is a thing. Everybody knows.”

His brown eyes glint, then glide down my tank top and jeans. “Your shirt is white.”

I have to do a double take. So it is.

His eyes are darker when they meet mine again. I’m hanging from this cliff by one finger. A cold raindrop taps one shoulder, then the opposite one when I turn to look. Wesley squints at the sky. “Here we go.”

We crest a hill, Wesley’s truck materializing in a field a hundred yards off like a mirage.

Tap, tap, tap becomes a downpour, slicking my hair to my face and neck, clothes sealing to skin. Wesley’s hair darkens, curling, dripping over his cheeks, spiking his eyelashes.

“It’s cold it’s cold it’s cold it’s cold!” I squeal, running as fast as I can. Wesley flies alongside, and even with the burden he’s carrying all by himself, I think he’s putting a damper on his endurance. He’d be at the truck already if he weren’t matching my speed.

The heel of his palm meets the base of my spine, jolting me forward even faster. We’re fifty yards down. “Should have stayed in the tent,” I sputter. “For another night. We’d be dry right now.” Relatively, anyway.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” he responds, fingers curling into my waist and gripping harder. I’m not sure he’s aware of it.

“I guess”—I’m out of breath, panting—“that we couldn’t, after all. Not enough food.”

“I’d replace some berries.”

“You can’t subsist on berries. I’ve seen how much you eat. You’d need bushels.”

“I don’t need anything.”

It’s a strange thing to say. I turn to study him, but we’ve made it to the truck at last and he’s yanking my door open for me. Small lakes are collecting around all four tires, but before I can try to hop over one to get inside Wesley picks me up handily by the waist and deposits me on the seat. He then flings our equipment into the back and darts around to the other side. When Wesley slams his door shut behind him, safe and soaked, we take a moment to slide down in our seats. Eyes closed, breathing heavily. Rain pummels metal and windows, so much louder in here than outside.

When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me. Sure enough, his shirt’s so wet that it’s nearly see-through, molding to every contour. My focus drops to his chest, which is rising and falling deeply—I try to correct the impulse, quickly raking my eyes upward, but it’s too late. My thoughts are too obvious to need words. Wesley’s eyes flash moments before the lightning strikes. A frisson of heat shoots through me as I peer into their depths, and if you were to look on at us from above I think you’d spy smoke undulating against the windows, two people inside a crystal ball with their fate sealed.

He reaches for me with both hands and slowly, carefully slides my glasses off my face. I stare as he peels up the hem of his shirt, exposing an inch of golden skin, and uses it to wipe the spots of rain off my lenses. He hands them back, skin warm against my freezing fingers.

I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I reach out, too. I touch a thumb to a raindrop sliding over the arc of his cheek, following it with my finger all the way down to his lower lip. He watches me from beneath lashes at half-mast, beautiful wide eyes going liquid black. There are dark shadows beneath them, easier to discern in the dimness of the car.

A crack of thunder splits the air; we swivel to face the windshield. Wesley swallows hard as he puts the truck in gear.

We drive.

I can feel every particle of air moving against my skin. The heavens are swirling purple and green, lifted from an illustration in a storybook, all the colors so impossibly and exaggeratedly saturated. Long grasses are blown flat by rain, a forever stretch from here to Falling Stars. Here in the enclosed cab of Wesley’s truck, dry heat gusting out of the vents, it could be the end of the world.

Wesley nudges the brakes, slowing down even though we’re nowhere near the house yet. Then we stop entirely. The look on his face drowns out all sound, din pushed beyond our bubble by magic. “That’s a lie,” he says quietly.

Blood drains from my extremities, rushing to my brain. “What’s a lie?”

He stares straight ahead, deathly pale save the bright red blooms on his cheekbones, ruddy blotches under a stubbly beard. I follow his line of sight, trying to see whatever it is that he’s seeing. Wesley’s elbow bends, white-knuckled fist easing the gearshift into park.

“Is something—?” I begin to ask, when Wesley unbuckles his seat belt without warning and gets out of the car. He’s going to run.

Oh no, he’s going to run.

But he doesn’t. He rounds the hood of the car, stride powerful, coming right for me. All of my attention telescopes down to that minute flex in his arm as he throws open the passenger door.

My jaw drops, another question forming.

He cradles my face in his hands, ever so gentle. I slacken in the fierce hold of his stare, his pupils hungry stains drinking up the iris. He is himself, endearing and unsure, but he’s also under siege by something new: steely determination. Wesley’s mentioned he often has trouble expressing himself, but mouths can speak in more ways than one. For this, all he needs is a kiss.

He answers my question with shuttering eyelids, no room to wonder anymore because this isn’t an I like you, maybe or an I’m into you, a little kiss. It’s a force that cuts me off at the knees, stealing the breath from my throat like pulling rope, both of us tangled and tethered to each other as we pitch over the cliff’s edge.

He jams the button on my seat belt to release me, bringing me to him. I snatch him closer, too, greedy. My arms slide around his neck as though they belong there, slick with rain. I smile dreamily against his mouth, face upturned, mist in my hair.

“I’m sorry,” he pants when we break. “I had to . . . I had to—”

I don’t let him finish, not done falling yet.

I drag him back for more. Wesley goes rigid, then every part of him loosens, a small sigh escaping like a candle blown out. He wants and I want, no chance of miscommunication. Kissing him, I feel powerful. In command, even as I fumble and paw. There’s no such thing as a missed mark, only shifting ones.

At long last, I get to do what I’ve so badly wanted for weeks, plunging my fingers into his hair. Thanks to rain, the strands are more slippery than supple, fresh water lifting the strong scent of his shampoo. His mouth is pure satin everywhere except a crescent of tougher skin where his top teeth have dug into his bottom lip for years. Anxiety. Nerves. Self-punishing, but so painfully sweet with me.

We break to readjust, trying out new rhythms. While I sense his self-consciousness, perhaps comparing this kiss to what he thinks it should be, I wish he could know how much I love what it is. It doesn’t matter how much pressure he applies, what angles we meet each other at, or his level of confidence. It matters that he gives himself at all.

I want everything, I want all of him, I want to familiarize myself down to every freckle and fine line.

His kiss is the Fourth of July, a Southern summer night. Cicadas and the tongues of smoke off a burning firework—hiss, pop. Hot. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and oh, he’s good with his hands. Firm, reverent hands, one sliding along my scalp to cup the back of my head, the other undecided between jaw, waist, hip. He feels better than I ever dreamed, and I’ve done quite a lot of dreaming.

He leans back slightly, brows drawn together in mingled desire and trepidation, still not quite sure if he’s doing the right thing. “More,” I murmur into his ear. Wesley shivers, but that crease between his eyes disappears and he switches our positions, him on the seat, pulling me onto his lap. I have to tilt my head so that I don’t bump the roof of the car. There isn’t enough room for us to sit like this comfortably with the door shut, so we leave it hanging open, cold rain streaming in.

My hand lingers at his throat, and the close touch seems to steal something from him. He lets his head fall back, Adam’s apple bobbing up the arched column. I kiss that, too. His breathing comes shallower, shallower. The red blooms on his cheeks are roses, his eyes hooded and glassy.

I like it here, his hand decides, spanning broad fingers across my hip, pressing into a sensitive divot where muscles join. I make a soft sound in his mouth, involuntary; his palm flattens, pressing more, more. I move against him just right, feeling a hard ridge in his jeans. My skin sears even as goose bumps radiate, awareness never this heightened, and I feel the full vibrancy of it as I burn and burn and burn.

“I’m rusty,” he admits, clearing his throat. “I’ve never slept with anyone, but I’ve kissed. It’s been a long time, though.”

“You’re perfect,” I tell him. He doesn’t kiss like an expert, like a Casanova who’s smooth and sure of his every practiced move. He kisses like Wesley. That’s the new standard.

We kiss and touch and taste, until the rain abates, until my mouth feels bruised and my body is dying for more. But we taper to a natural close, both somehow knowing that this is a kiss, only a kiss. Whether he wants a dynamic with me in which we’ll ever go further than this, I can only guess. As for me, I’m still trying to remember why this was a bad idea. Right now, it feels like there are no bad ideas.

Eventually, I slide off his lap and we emerge in a different world from the one we last stood in, both a little disoriented. When he’s back in the driver’s seat, he sits up straighter than usual. His gaze flicks to the upper-right corner of the windshield, to something in the sky that’s caught his attention, but I can’t remove mine from his face. He looks utterly wrecked in the most wonderful way.

I am under Wesley Koehler’s skin. I don’t know how deep, but I’m there, and I am not imagining it.