saying “I can’t” and that it was a “mistake.” Now, mistake perhaps. But might have been worth it…Maybe he was just being faithful to his harem?
Which in an odd way is quite sweet. I know he real y does care about them. Dammit, he’s even great when it comes to them! But I know “I can’t”
wasn’t accurate. “Can’t” implies some kind of erectile dysfunction. And I felt that junk on my thigh. Sigh. Sigh for thigh. This sweater is doing things
to my head. Sniff…
...
Simon: She just sniffed it again—why does she keep doing that? When I wore it I didn’t notice it smel ing like anything other than wool. Girls are
weird…weirdly wonderful…Pussy…Caroline’s pussy…Aaand I’m hard. Why the hel am I even pretending I’m not total y and completely over the
moon for this girl? And it has nothing to do with her pussy…and now I’m harder.
...
Caroline: Stop trying to get out of answering this question. Face it head on! Why did you throw yourself at Simon, forgetting about the friendship
and the harem and the O drought and al of the very good reasons you had for staying away from him and his banger voodoo??? Come on,
Caroline. Suck it up and say it. What was it he said when you asked him why he kissed you that night you met? “Because I had to.” Jesus, even in
my head he sounds amazing saying that…There’s your answer, Caroline: because you had to. And now you have to figure this shit out. I kissed him,
and he kissed me because we had to. And the choices we made were ours and ours alone…And the fact that he stopped it and said he couldn’t?
Even after al the ridiculous weeks of flirting? After he invited me to Spain? Motherfucking Spain! And I want to go to motherfucking Spa—wait, do I
want to go to Spain with him? Argh! Spain Schmain. Anyway, he better have a damn good reason because I am a fucking catch—O or no O—I am
a fucking catch. Yeah, you are, Reynolds. Weird how you flip back and forth between first and third person during your inner monologues, though…
Thank Christ, the Bay Bridge! Enough introspection…
...
Simon: Shit, the Bay Bridge. We’re almost home, and I have no idea how this is going to go with Caroline. We’ve barely said anything the entire
way—although I’m glad to be almost home. I smel like beef jerky, and I need to jerk off like you wouldn’t believe…
...
Mimi: Yay! The Bay Bridge! I wonder if Ryan would mind spending the night at my place!
...
Ryan: Thank fuck, the Bay Bridge. We’re almost home. I wonder if Mimi knows I’m spending the night at her place—and planning on making her
cal in sick tomorrow? Little girl, the things I plan to do to you…But I’m never eating that much beef jerky again. This has been the quietest road trip
ever.
We dropped off the new couple at Mimi’s—not that they particularly noticed—they were in their own bubble gum world—and continued on to
our apartments. Though we’d mostly just been lost in our thoughts, the tension had grown during the drive, and it was even more noticeable now that
we were alone in the car. Simon and I had always had things to talk about, but now that we had so much to discuss, we were silent. I didn’t want
things to be weird, and I knew I’d have to be the one to make sure he knew I was okay now. He’d already done his part to have a mature
conversation, and once again my bul -in-a-china-shop delivery seemed to have taken care of that.
A vision of me announcing on the deck, at ful volume, that I’d made a pass at Simon flashed across my mind, and while my cheeks certainly
heated in embarrassment, I also had a mental chuckle at how odd I must have looked, arms flailing, mouth set as though I could spit nails. And then
barking at frightened Simon to fol ow me to the beach. He must have wondered if I was going to thrash him and dump his body in the lake.
Looking at his hands on the steering wheel, the very hands that were on me in a very pronounced way the night before, I marveled at his ability
to stop himself, because I know for a fact he had been in to it. Or his body had been, at least, if not his head.
The thing is, though, I did think his head was in it, at least until he thought about it too much. I glanced over at him once more, noticing we were
pul ing down our street. As we stopped at the curb, he looked over at me, biting down on the same lower lip that less than twenty-four hours ago I’d
had the good fortune to be biting on.
He sprang from the car and ran around to my side before I even had my seatbelt unbuckled.
“Um, I’m just gonna…get the bags,” he stammered, and I studied him closely. He ran his left hand through his hair while his right drummed