"Watching you come home was nicer than what you offered earlier," I say, my voice low for at least a few reasons.
"I didn't think this was an option," he chuckles softly. "It's the middle of the night."
"And you need to sleep."
Mateo shrugs. "I just had a drink with a couple of other teachers. I wouldn't mind another one with you."
He unlocks his door, and I follow him into his kitchen, our shoes kicked aside and his jacket draped over a chair on our way. The only light is from the dim lamp he'd left on in the living room, his apartment small enough for him to keep everything else off for the night. I watch as he reaches for a bottle of bourbon. I say nothing, fine with anything that will help dull what happens next.
I can't be nobody anymore, but just for tonight, I could do without feeling all of Jameson Sinclair's highs and lows.
"How was prom?" I ask as he pours.
"Incident-free, which is pretty much the measure of success on our end." He passes me a glass and takes a sip from his own. "Harper looked beautiful."
"Youlook beautiful."
He smiles almost shyly. "I assume she's spending the night at afriend's?"
Her last text came about ten minutes before Mateo pulled into his complex. I nod. "She is."
"So you can stay?"
"I won't."
He wants to ask me why—I can read that much in the tilt of his head and the quick crease between his brows—but he stalls with another sip. Honestly, I'm not sureIknow why anymore. I should say the things I came here to say, but they make less sense now. I'm standing in a mostly dark apartment with liquor in my hand and Mateo staring at me, and I consider taking this in the opposite direction, just to let us have this one night together. We'd know what it was like to see and hear and taste and feel everything before I ruin it with my happiness. I was raised to focus on a singular goal, but maybe I can have two tonight.
Maybe I can hold on to Mateo now and let him go tomorrow.
I don’t beg for the chance because I’ve learned to live with the bruises he’ll touch without trying. Sometimes I think the nearness of pain motivates me as much as anything.
"Dance with me."
I startle at that, the request falling from Mateo's lips and not mine. "You were just at prom."
"It wasn'tmyprom, Jamie." He's teasing me, but sobers quickly. "Thisismy apartment. Dance with me."
The bourbon is smooth when I swallow, and I hope it will keep my heartbeat steady. For almost a minute, neither of us moves except to lift our glasses to our mouths. Then I step forward and pull his phone from his pocket.
"Pick a song."
He does, and it's a U2 song I know well. It doesn't need to be loud for me to know I'll hear it for the rest of my life. Mateo may havebeen the one to ask me for this, but he hesitates as the song plays. I assume he's still curious about why I showed up just to tell him I have plans to leave. I'm not going anywhere yet though, and I reach for one of his suspenders. With my fingers curled around it, I back toward the living room and drag him with me. I don't know how to do the rest of this—I couldn't guess when I last slow-danced with anyone, and I definitely haven't done it with another man—but he seems to understand. He takes me in his arms as we start to sway.
Minutes pass, and I only know because the songs have changed. I'm locked in an embrace I still want forever, and I'm remarkably silent as I press my nose to Mateo's neck. I've heard scents are closely linked to memories. He doesn't stop me, no matter how careless I am, and it reminds me of something else. Slowly, I pull away until my mouth is just a few inches from his, and I find his bun with one hand, tugging until I can drop the hair tie to the floor.
"I care," he whispers, because he's been reminded, too.
"We're friends."
"Friends. It’s the faintest line I’ve ever drawn," Mateo scoffs, shaking his head. "I've never known how to be less than everything when I'm with you."
People lie to me all the time. I'm an easy mark with a big ego. Bullshit does its job for as long as I let myself believe it. I've had things people want—money and a pretty face now; breathtaking talent and a pretty face long ago—so they've always told me what I need to hear. But while held captive by Mateo's soft stare and clumsily dancing in his arms, I know this is different. That just like that first night, when we could've said goodbye after dinner from a taco truck and careless kissing by the beach,he'sdifferent.
Years later, he's still telling me the truth, and I'm the fucking liar.
We take a deep breath together as if we can reset both. Then Mateo guides my hand to where his tie remains loose around his neck.Tossing it aside is easy for me, but he doesn't stop there. He finds my other hand now, and moves both to his shoulders, humming his encouragement when I push the suspenders down his arms. There's nothing to add to the pile this time. In search of something else to do, I untuck his shirt and swear—even in the dim room—that I can see his brown eyes bleed black.
"I'm not staying the night with you," I say, gentle when I work my way through his buttons. "I won't touch you everywhere."