The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

As he dries himself off and wraps the towel around his waist, I’m left standing there with most of my questions answered—yet somehow less informed. Steel casing seems appropriate right about now, considering I can’t seem to get through to him where Shana is concerned. I should leave it. We’ve been through a lot already. And yet, I’ve admitted to myself I care about him when I promised myself I wouldn’t. He made it clear he’s not emotionally available, and for the first time I wonder if it’s because he never wants to fall in love again, like he said, or if it’s because he’s still in it. “Andrew?”

He glances over his shoulder but doesn’t look at me. “Hmm?”

“Do you still love her?”

He pauses, but only for a second before he picks up his drink, downs the rest in one gulp, and then does the same with mine. “I don’t know. I did, but it’s been almost four years since I’ve seen her, so . . .”

Unfairly, my heart drops a little. I’ve been warned. I have no right to be upset if he still pines over his ex. I don’t understand it—I’ve never been tempted to give Reggie a second chance—but I don’t have to.

I realize I’m alone in the bathroom, standing knee-deep in cold water. I pull the stopper from the drain and change into a black cotton nightdress before I find him in the kitchen rinsing out the tumblers.

“What was she like?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Shana.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Volatile.”

“And?”

He places a glass on the drying rack. “How specific do you want me to get? She’s a woman. Women have a lot of different person—” He stops, smartly so.

“What?” I ask tersely. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. They’re just complicated is all.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I say. “Men are a fucking breeze.”

He wipes his hand on a dishtowel and turns to lean back against the counter. “Look, it’s really not worth getting into. I’m in a good place now. I don’t want to drudge up old shit.”

“Do you think it was easy for me to talk about Reggie?”

“No, but I’m glad you did. It’ll help the healing process. It’s better to be open about these things. I just can’t.”

I balk. “That’s unfair.”

“Maybe.”

That’s it. Maybe. “Why’d she leave?”

He crosses his arms. “How should I know? There was no note.”

I take a step back. “She didn’t even tell you she was going? She just left in the night? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back. “I understand how she could leave me, but not Bell, even if she didn’t want her.”

He says it so bluntly, a statement both cryptic and telling, so sure and sad, I don’t even know where to start with it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

I school my frown. “I’m sorry, I just—it’s shocking, is all.”

He looks down at the ground between us, and I take the reprieve to study him with new eyes. His tattoos are less intimidating now that I know their meanings. Oddly, though men with ink are typically considered tough, Andrew’s artful body makes him softer. Sweeter. I wonder if he’s always been this way, or if Bell is the reason. Shana hardened his heart and simultaneously gave it a weak spot.

“You going to make me leave now?” he asks.

My thoughts clear, and I meet his eyes. His beautiful, blue, piercing, searching eyes. Eyes that belong to a man who has the potential to hurt me. Look how far we’ve come in only one night. “You don’t want to?” I ask.

He shakes his head slowly before pushing off the counter. He stalks toward me. I place my hands on his chest as he wraps his arms around me. “I didn’t set that rule. You were the one who wanted that.”

I didn’t want that, though. I needed it. Sleepovers are scary. They’re fitting yourself to a new body, they’re that split-second confusion when you wake up with unfamiliar arms around you. Staying the night means morning breath, awkward exchanges over a whirring Keurig, closing the bathroom door in your own apartment for the first time in years. He’s right. I set the rule. I haven’t wanted him to leave since the first night we spent together, though. And now, I know about him. He knows about me. We’re damaged, our edges ragged, but is that why they seem to fit together?

“What do you want?” I ask him.

“I already told you. I want to spend the night with you.”

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll argue my case.” He adds, “Respectfully. If you don’t want me here, I won’t stay, but if you do but you’re still afraid, I won’t let that be the reason we spend another night apart.”

He says another night as if there’ve been endless nights apart. There haven’t. Not by a long shot. He really does want this. My forearms, rigid until now, give against his chest.

“I’m spent, Amelia. Let me sleep,” he says. “I’ll spoon you like you’re my favorite ice cream. Promise.”

I curl my hands into loose fists right over his heart—his real one, not his hardened one. “What does this mean, though?”

He kisses the top of my head and leads me into the bedroom. “It means good things.”

Good things.

Reggie meant good things once. It doesn’t feel the same with Andrew, though. With Reggie, everything is measured and calculated. I was never quite sure if he got that from his work, or if he exceled at his job because he was innately that way. Andrew, on the other hand, is upfront. Honest. It’s what attracted me to him that first night I met him.

I can trust him.

But after all the mistakes I made with Reggie, all the times he was out with her behind my back, the fact that I let him take from me without fighting back or even speaking up—it makes me wonder . . .

Can I trust myself?

TWENTY-ONE

ANDREW

When Amelia wakes, I’m standing at the foot of her bed in my underwear, sipping coffee and watching her. Like a fucking creep. Great. As if the first morning with a girl isn’t awkward enough.

“Morning,” I say, breaking the silence. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. Really well.” She sits up, rubbing one eye like Bell does after a deep sleep. Her blonde hair is tangled and full of static, messier than I’ve ever seen it. Finally, I managed to ruffle her. Hair mussed, makeup gone, skin pink where I’ve left little marks with my mouth and hands.

“God,” I groan, “you look—” I stop. I hadn’t meant to say anything out loud.

She grimaces. “I know. The bubble bath sounds nice in the moment, but it makes me all sweaty, and my makeup runs, and the humidity destroys my hair—”

“Beautiful. I was going to say you look beautiful.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to say that. You already got me in bed.”

I pass her my coffee. “You have a lot to learn about me.”

“Oh yeah?” She curls her hands around the mug and takes a sip, humming pleasurably. “Teach me.”

“I don’t pass out compliments. Never have, never will. I have no reason to. When I say something, it’s ’cause I mean it.”

Two red patches form on her cheeks. “All right.”

“Something else about me you should know going forward,” I say.

“Forward—”

“I don’t find beauty in the glossy stuff.”

She blinks up at me, and I think she’s attempting to suppress a smile. “Where do you find it?”

“When you get done up with your hair and makeup and dress—I like it if it’s for me. I like when you’re messy, like now, if it’s because of me. I don’t find my daughter beautiful because she has nice hair or unusual, blue eyes. She glows like a beacon from the inside. When you let me see you without hair and makeup, it makes me feel like you’re beginning to trust me, and that . . .” I pause, taking in her alarmed expression. Steam from the coffee coils around he

r face. “It’s really beautiful,” I finish.

She swallows. “Andrew . . . please don’t tell me—”

“I’m not telling you what you want to hear.”

“That’s not what I was going to say. I believe you. I just . . . don’t tell me what you tell other girls. That’s all I ask.”

She wants to be special. Or, at least, different. Is it because she’s jealous? I let a slow smile spread over my face and don’t respond for a few seconds, enjoying the way uncertainty sets on her face. “Is that all you ask?” I repeat. “Or are you asking me not to tell other girls anything at all?”

She glances into the drink. “I mean, that wasn’t really our deal . . . we haven’t discussed anything other than—but last night . . .”

I wait. I could rescue her, but I want to hear what she has to say. Honesty has been a two-way street for us, and if it’s going to work, it has to stay that way. I’m not going to guess what she’s thinking just so she doesn’t have to own it.

She looks up again, a new determination in her eyes. “I don’t know what I want,” she says. “And that’s the truth. The idea of other girls makes my stomach hurt. But I can’t ask more of you, because I don’t know if I can give more.”

I feel a slight pinch of disappointment, but then it’s gone. This isn’t Amelia’s fault. It’s that motherfucker ex-husband of hers. After what she told me last night, I can’t expect her to trust me just because I ask it of her. I’ll have to prove to her I’m worth it, and for the first time since Shana left, I’m up for the challenge. Amelia is broken. I can help her through it, because I was broken too.

Was? My thoughts grind to a halt. I was broken? I’ve known for some time that my resentment toward Shana was weakening. When I thought of her, anger was no longer instant; it took me more time to work up to it. But am I finally past it? It’s been almost four years to the day. Everyone who knew Shana and me said ‘give it time.’ I’d thought it was bullshit. Maybe I’ve been here awhile and didn’t realize it until Amelia came along.

She’s gnawing on her bottom lip. I’ve left her out in the cold with no response. “There are none,” I say.