I look, too. Even looking at the screen, I’m clueless. “Should’ve paid attention to the ticket lady, huh.”
“I guess.”
We turn back to each other. For half a second, I literally want to dive in for another sweet kiss with the natural ease of drawing a breath. But I hold back. For whatever insane reason,I hold back and just keep my hands on his face, where they still are. His hands are also still on me—my chest and shoulder.
Slowly, as if deciding it without words, our hands slide down, settling into place on the shared armrest between us. He leans his body toward my seat. I lean my body toward his. Side-by-side, our shoulders together, we stare ahead at the movie, breathing deeply as we return to ourselves.
Neither of us are watching the damned movie.
And we know it.
The sides of our feet touch in a bubbly field of spilled popcorn around our shoes.
He gently moves his hand, fingers stroking idly over mine.
I return the gesture so he knows I felt it, and for whatever’s left of whatever earlobe-sucking movie is pouring senselessly over our faces, this becomes our new language: fingers playing, feet touching, and our shoulders pressing together determinedly.
And our hearts, never daring to calm.
By the time we’re out of the theater, the town is dead quiet. The bowling alley is closed, only a scattering of cars left in its lot. Timothy’s and mine are surprisingly close, right across the lane, noses pointing at each other’s.
“It’s late,” I note after checking my phone. We’re standing in the lane between our vehicles. Everything feels so different now that we’ve kissed. Our wall, ripped right down. Every door, busted open. “I’m, uh, sorry for keepin’ you out so long.”
“You kidding?” He laughs. “I had such a great night.”
I smile, relieved. “Me too.”
He looks off to one side, then the other, as if noticing how far away everything feels suddenly, how alone we’ve become. “I, um, was thinking …”
“Yeah?”
He meets my eyes. I can see sparks of eagerness in his, as if even the tips of his eyelashes are charged. “Well, I mean … it’s so … it’s so late … and …” He clears his throat, quickly crosses his arms. “Look, I don’t want to sound like I’m suggesting anything. I’m not. It’s totally a … a simple, innocent,practicalidea.”
“Very practical,” I agree with no idea what he’s getting at.
“An innocent and practical idea about … being practical.” He takes a quick breath. “But because it’s a bit of a drive for you.Andfor me. Especially at this hour. I was thinking, um …for our safety… if maybe we … want … to …” He closes his eyes, nearly mortified, as the words comes out. “… maybe stay here for the night?”
I’ll admit, I didn’t expect Timothy to be so bold.
And also, I trust his intention. He doesn’t want to go home so late. I’d rather not drive back to the hotel in wherever-the-fuck. It’s sensible to stay here overnight. He isn’t suggesting anything. We can just talk more. Eat yummy vending machine snacks. Watch TV. Laugh at stupid shows. Get to know each other even better.
And sneak glances when the other’s not looking.
And totally …notdo things.
Because we’re adults who can behave ourselves, right?
So why don’t I instantly answer him? Why don’t I say hell yes? Why don’t I leap on this chance like it’s the only one I’ll get, and if I don’t say yes, I’ll fucking die?
Are Wily’s words still living rent-free in my ear?
Ian’s warnings? His critical eyes? Beads of sweat gathering on his forehead?
And then Timothy, right here, trying so hard to play it cool, like the question he just asked isn’t eating him alive the longer I stand here without an answer.
“Or I can just—” he starts, patience snapping at last.
“That sounds great to me,” I cut him right off.