Out of Nowhere(46)
Rafe freezes and inches his hand up to rest on my back once more.
And I hate it. I hate that he made me feel so good and then I probably made him feel like shit. I hate that I just had the best fucking orgasm of my life and then I ruined it. I hate that I wanted to kiss Rafe’s neck and instead I’m freaking out. I hate it. I hate myself for fucking it all up. I hate myself for being such a mess that I can’t even get off without wanting to punch myself in the face.
Rafe slides his hand up my back soothingly. It’s not sex anymore. He’s rubbing my back like Mom used to do when I couldn’t sleep. I take a deep breath and force myself to relax. His hand moves up to my head, stroking the short strands of my hair. I let out the breath I’ve caught and lie back on him, trying to recapture the feeling of relaxation from a minute before.
But I’m also sticky, and with each passing second, it’s all I can think about, and the more I think about it, the twitchier I get. I need to get washed up, like, now.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I croak into Rafe’s neck.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, I just… um… sticky.”
Rafe chuckles and my face burns. I feel gross. Sticky and dirty and a little shaky. I clamber off of him, probably squishing something vital in the process. Before I can get away, though, he grabs my shoulders.
“Colin?” He sounds almost shy. I look at him, but I’m jonesing to get into the bathroom. He leans in so slowly that I have every opportunity to pull away. But I don’t. I let him kiss me softly on the mouth. “I’ll go with you,” he says, gesturing to the door.
I don’t want him to. I need a little distance, some space to think, but I nod.
Under the fluorescent lights, I look like crap. My face is flushed and my eyes are too bright. I want to put the door of a stall between us, but I force myself to stay at the sink and clean up. Every time I glance into the mirror, Rafe is hovering behind me, a slight frown on his lips. I don’t know why. It’s not like this is new to him.
I get myself cleaned up enough that my skin isn’t crawling, but I have no idea where to go from here. A door slamming outside makes me startle and drop the wad of damp paper towels. I swipe at them but miss, leaning on my knees and trying to get a deep breath. Fuck. Every good feeling rushes out of me. The weight on my chest is back and it doesn’t leave room for anything so warm or delicate as the things Rafe makes me feel.
“I didn’t say that about Javi to make you feel sorry for me,” Rafe says. He’s regarding me uncertainly in the mirror when I stand up.
“I don’t feel sorry for you, man. I mean, of course I’m sorry you lost your friend. But you’ve got a job you love, lots of friends, shit to care about, your family. Those kids worship you.” I shake my head. “From where I’m standing, you’ve got everything.”
He drops his hands from my shoulders and looks at the tile floor.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m lucky. Luckier than I have any right to be.”
Chapter 7
SINCE MONDAY, Rafe and I have talked a lot, and it’s been easy. He doesn’t pretend that he’s into the same things as me. He doesn’t like horror movies, doesn’t know anything about cars, and doesn’t follow sports except for the World Cup and the occasional hockey game. He did give me shit when he found out I played football in high school, though. Said he was surprised I turned into a runner because didn’t most football players try their damnedest not to run more than a few yards at a time. So I guess he does have a sense of humor.
Well. Not really. And he doesn’t want me to entertain him the way I would with someone in a bar. In fact, when I try to joke around to fill the silence or make light of something, he doesn’t seem amused. He’s not rude or anything. He just takes things seriously, I guess.
It’s a strange feeling. I’ve spent so many years shooting the shit that I kind of forgot that I had things to say.
I’ve been remembering it lately, though. Remembering people I used to talk to. There was this kid I knew in seventh and eighth grade. Charlie Lancaster. He was kind of strange, always talking about morbid stuff like death and skeletons and plagues. But I liked listening to him. I liked how he didn’t care that people thought he was weird. And after Mom died, all the things he was talking about kind of made sense to me.
His parents had been killed in a car crash when he was ten, and he managed to sit with me and talk and not spout a bunch of shit about how sorry he was for me. Useless comments that made me want to scream and punch people right in their weepy, sympathetic mouths. But Charlie and I talked about what it meant for someone to suddenly cease to exist. About the space someone can leave behind. About where you go after you die—we never agreed on that one: he thought you just disappeared as if you’d never existed, lingering only in the memories of the ones who knew you; I thought there had to be… something. Now, though, I think Charlie might’ve been right.