Our Year of Maybe

So we don’t stop.

Soon we are in a puddle of sheets and clothing. In sixteen years of friendship, we have never been totally naked in front of each other, and tonight I drink him in. He’s still skinny, though he’s put on some weight since the transplant. And oh my God, he has hair everywhere.

His fingers go to my scar. “I did this to you. I can’t believe I did this to you.” His voice breaks.

I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss his fingertips. “You didn’t do anything to me. It was my choice. It was the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”

“Thank you,” he says, then lets his gaze flick over my body. He nods. “You’re so beautiful.”

You are too, I think, but what comes out is, “I love you.” I hope he knows how I mean it. A long time ago I love you like a friend turned into I love you like I need to be close to you in every way imaginable. “I love you so much.”

Peter has always gotten what he wants. But this time—this is what both of us want.

He kisses me everywhere—my neck, my breasts, my scar, my navel, my hips. Gently I run my fingertips over his scar too. Then his hand is between my legs. “Can I?” he asks, breathless, and I sigh out a yes. “Tell me what to do. I want this . . . to be good for you.”

Of course—if there is something Peter can get an A on, he won’t settle for a B-plus. But at first I don’t know how to verbalize it. How can you verbalize a need so deep it aches?

Somehow I find the words. It’s tentative, like all my firsts with him, but soon it’s deliberate, adventurous. Good. And then my body reaches that cliff so intensely that I can barely control myself as I shudder next to him, moaning into his shoulder.

“Did you—was that—”

“Uh-huh,” I say, breathless.

“Oh,” he says, but he’s sort of grinning, like he’s proud of himself. It is so fucking adorable that I pounce on him, pinning him down, kissing him with more ferocity than I ever have before.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, and it’s then that I realize this is actually about to happen.

I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“Yes, yes,” I say as I kiss him even harder, pressing myself against him in a way that conjures this magnificent groan. I can’t help smiling at that.

A six-pack of condoms has lived in the back of my underwear drawer since I learned Tabby was pregnant, and I slip out of bed to retri

eve it. It felt smart to have them. Just in case. When I bought them at the drugstore, I spent way too long debating whether to get a single condom or a three-pack or a twelve-pack or a thirty-six-pack. I couldn’t tell which size meant I was being too presumptuous. If he wonders why I picked a six-pack, he says nothing. He simply tears the foil packet, but then struggles with the condom.

“Do you want me to help?”

“I got it,” he says, and then it’s on, and he’s above me, my heart beating so hard he must be able to see it trying to crash through my chest.

There’s an awkward few seconds where he stabs the inside of my thigh instead of in me, but then we figure it out. I bite the inside of my cheek, bracing myself for what society has warned me will be painful—but it’s not. It’s different more than anything else. There’s a little discomfort as he pushes deeper, but then the discomfort is gone, and it starts to feel good. Odd and new, but good. The next time we do it, I’m sure it will feel even better.

In my fantasies, our bodies snapped together effortlessly, like this was the way we were always meant to fit. The reality is not at all like that. We don’t know what to do with our hands, and I’m slightly worried about the expressions I’m making. Peter’s socks are still on, and his stubble scratches my face, but I don’t care. I don’t care. None of that matters.

I’m so overwhelmed with how it feels to have Peter this way that I nearly start crying again.

Peter’s face is serious, but I want to see him completely lose himself in this. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull at his hair. Again and again I say his name, the vowels and consonants blending, like I am begging for something only he can give me. Finally his concentration breaks, and exactly how good this feels is painted in the squint of his eyes, the O of his mouth.

“I don’t know how much longer I can—” he says.

“It’s okay,” I reassure him, and then he lets himself go.

After he rolls off me, wiping the sweat from his brow, I curl my body into his and lay my head on his chest.

“I love you,” I say to his heartbeat. Suddenly I can’t stop saying it. The words waterfall off my tongue, splash in the bed around us. I burrow closer to him. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

PART IV

CHAPTER 30