Z’s ready to step up.
I can be the mother I never had.
We can reallydothis. We canmakeour dreams into reality. All the raw materials are right here.
I just have to reach out and take everything I ever wanted, as long as I stop being an idiot.
“Yes,” I whisper earnestly to Z.
“I’m sure.”
I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything.
But I still need to cement this decision with action.
I need to fuck Z until I can’t remember the feel of Caleb’s touch.
Z’s eyes search mine, and I see the war there—want versus concern, desire versus decency. He’s such a good man. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I’m not.” Another lie. “I want this. I want you.”
Please believe me. Please just take what I’m offering before I lose my nerve.
He must see something in my face that convinces him, because his hands come to the hem of my shirt, fingers trembling slightly as he peels it up and over my head.
His eyes track over my body as if he’s seeing it for the first time, even though he saw all of it that night I can’t remember.
My bra follows.
Then his hands are at the button of my jeans.
I help him, kicking off my jeans and underwear until I’m naked on our shitty mattress with its worn sheets and lumpy pillow. The room is too bright and still too hot with the afternoon sun streaming through the window. It’s not exactly candlelight and soulful R&B.
Z strips quickly and efficiently. His body is lean, all sharp angles and ropey muscle. Beautiful in its own way.
He lays me back, hovering over me, and for just a second his face is backlit by the window and I can almost pretend?—
No. Don’t do that. Don’t go there.
“I love you,” Z whispers, and his voice cracks with the honesty of it. “God, Harper, I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old.”
I should say it back. The words are right there. Three simple syllables that would mean everything to him.
But they won’t come.
They’re trapped behind the memory of Caleb’s voice saying those exact words in his bed, in the dark, with his arms around me like he could protect me from the world.
Z notices my silence but doesn’t push.
He just kisses me again, slower this time. His hand trails down my side, over my hip and then between my legs.
I try to focus on the sensation. On the fact that someone is touching me. Wanting me.
This should feel good. Thisdoesfeel good, technically.
But I can’t stop comparing.
Caleb’s hands were bigger. They always moved with this careful precision, like he’d studied the mechanics of pleasure the way he studied everything else.