TWENTY-NINE

At night, Dave kept the garage door half-open.

It let in slants from streetlights and the glow of moonlight. The concrete floor flickered when cars drove by. A couple of lamps on the workbench illuminated a small circle, and the rest of the studio space faded into dark. It was quiet—peaceful. I was glad that my spot on the couch fit as perfectly as ever.

“I was surprised you texted,” Dave said, offering me a cup of coffee before sitting down. Pulling his right ankle up onto his left knee, he spread out in his corner of the couch. Arm trailing the back of it, his fingers plucked at the old plaid upholstery. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did.”

Curling around the heat of my mug, I nodded. “I appreciate it. I know things have been rough for you lately.”

“Actually.” Dave’s brows lifted thoughtfully. “I’ve been all right. Better than I have been in a long time.”

With a sip from my cup, I peered at him. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I’ve had some time to sort myself out. Clearing out the studio, breaking out of old habits . . . it’s been good.”

“You look good,” I told him.

It wasn’t a lie. No matter how many times I noticed his new clothes, the way he stood now, the way he walked into a room with the calm assurance that he commanded it—it all still surprised me. All this time, this next, best version of himself had been waiting to appear. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my fault it had taken him so long to get here.

Thoughtful, Dave said, “You look tired.”

Closing my eyes, I nodded. Weeks of staggered schedules had caught up with me. My face showed all those nights that I’d gone to bed after two just to get back up at six. It seemed reasonable. My last year in high school was mostly a formality. It was imperative that Will do well his first year of college. So I was the one who bent, and bent, and now I was in Dave’s garage, slightly broken.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Did I?

Shifting, Dave slid closer to me. Leaning over his knees, he let his hands dangle between them. The faint light flashed off his thumb ring. The silver was duller now than it had been freshman year but richer. Even now, he idly spun it, like it was a totem. I don’t know why it mesmerized me all of a sudden. It just caught my eye and I couldn’t look away.

Or maybe I was watching his hands. They were so talented on a guitar. Deft and careful with his restoration work. Animated when he talked. Rough and callused from hard work and hard play, they were strangely beautiful. The ring set them off.

With a smile in his voice, Dave teased, “Sarah, didn’t you pay attention in physics? Time and space are the same dimension. You’re only as far away from something as you want to be.”

Raising my head, I looked at him. Really looked at him. There had been a time once, when I’d been afraid to let him touch me. He’d wanted to be so much closer, but I hadn’t been ready. I couldn’t imagine where those feelings could lead.

Now I could. Without guitars between us, or even a hint of melody, he was so present. So electric and alive. That was the one thing that had been missing all that time. It was so unfair that it took this—breaking up, moving on—for me to feel it.

I could admit, maybe some of it was that moment at the Eden. When he came out of nowhere, hands hot, eyes burning. It wasn’t that I wanted him to act like a Neanderthal. But I’d always felt like Dave could take me or leave me.

It was so different now—now that I realized he could hold back, but it was driving him a little crazy to do it. And now that I knew what it would be like. I wondered, would his weight feel different on me? What would the roughness of his fingertips feel like, circling the curve of my breasts?

My thoughts twisted, making my breath hitch. When I looked over, I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth. Full and teasing—I knew what it felt like when he kissed me. What if he went down on me? Would he try to catch my gaze when he did?

Dave shifted. His hand on my shoulder was theoretically friendly. In practice, it was more. In spite of his warmth, his ring was cold. He traced it in subtle strokes, just along my collar. Still pretending that touch was nothing more than friend to friend, partner to partner, Dave asked, “You all right?”

I wasn’t. I was lonely and confused, and it felt so good to be touched again. Sensation drifted down my throat, swirling lazily and weighting my breath. My body reacted now, entirely on its own. Without thought, it wanted; it recognized a signal and it longed to send one back. It anticipated the coolness of that ring on the small of my back. On my hip, pressing in. . . .