The Fortunate Ones

I grin. “So you just leave it empty. You’re either a much simpler creature than I thought you were, or you’re deeply troubled.”

“Probably a little of both. What about you?”

I lean back on the barstool, as if I’m trying to put distance between myself and whatever question he’s about to ask.

“What about me?”

“You mentioned a boyfriend a few weeks ago. Are you still seeing him?”

“Seeing him? Yes. He lives at the co-op with me. Dating him? No.”

My focus is pinned on the countertop, so I can’t tell if he smiles when he says, “Thanks for the clarification.”

Then I remember something that will amuse him even more.

“You know, he was actually at the window the night you picked me up for that party.”

His brows rise in surprise. “So he saw you in that dress?”

My cheeks flush. “No. I had the coat on, remember?”

He nods, and I swear I see him replaying that night in his head. I wonder if he remembers the dress like I do. The feel of it against my skin is hard to forget, even when I want nothing more than to put that entire night behind me.

I shift on my barstool and wince when my tank top brushes across the seatbelt burn on my chest.

“Oh shit,” he says, pushing off the counter. “I can’t believe I just remembered. Do you want something for the pain?”

I glance down at my chest and am surprised at how angry and raw the scratches look around my tank top. Under my gaze, the skin seems to throb even more. “Yeah, I guess so. It wasn’t hurting too much until I looked down at it.”

He tells me to stay put, and I do. I learned my lesson last time, and I don’t think he’d buy it if I said I was searching for a bathroom a second time. He comes back quickly with a small, rattling bottle of Tylenol. I expect him to hand it over, but instead, he fills a small glass of water and doles out two pills into the palm of my hand. His hand grips mine to keep it steady so the pills don’t fall onto the ground. It’s something you’d do for a child, but I don’t mind him touching me, and I don’t mind how close he is now compared to earlier. He was standing half a kitchen away from me, but now we’d be toe to toe if I weren’t sitting on the stool.

When I’m finished taking the medicine, he takes the glass and sets it on the countertop. Even though he’s done playing nurse, he doesn’t move away. His attention is on my chest, and I will my breathing to slow down when he reaches out gently, brushing his fingertip across my skin, just barely touching the edge of the wound.

“How badly does it hurt?” he asks. “One to ten.”

My breath catches in my throat when his fingertips brush across my collarbone.

Does what hurt? Him touching me?

It burns.

I shake my head, aware that it doesn’t really answer his question, but it’s the best I can do right now. I don’t trust my voice with words.

His fingers brush higher, up near my shoulder, and they light a fire beneath them. My stomach squeezes tight, and my chest is rising and falling so fast it feels like I’m spiraling through the car accident all over again.

It would be different if his touch was hard and deep, but this thing he’s doing feels more like torture. The light drag of fingertips across my skin means I can’t control the goose bumps or the shiver that rolls down my spine.

Every nerve ending in my body is focused on his movements, on where they might go.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “It’ll leave a bruise, I’m sure.”

He seems pissed by the notion and drops his hand, turning away to drop my glass in the sink. In the blink of an eye, the atmosphere in his kitchen has shifted. There’s enough pressure brewing in the space to kick-start a hurricane. I can’t stand the awkwardness, and I consider trying to bring the conversation back to the pleasant topics from earlier, but it seems futile. Besides, who am I kidding? I am currently equal parts hot and bothered, all because James platonically stroked my clavicle. It’s embarrassing, and my opaque cloud of emotions suddenly crystallizes into an intense urge to flee. I’m afraid to find out just how much sway James has over my libido.

Best to not overstay my welcome, I think in a desperate attempt to rationalize my feelings. We all have that one friend who’s the last to leave the party, ignoring the fact that you’re cleaning up in your pajamas. It’s not like James invited me back to his place at the end of a sexy date. He is definitely not trying to seduce me. He probably just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to drop dead of a brain hemorrhage.