John's hand is big and warm, his fingers strong. I don't know if he plays offense or defense, but either way, he has hands that look like they could deal with just about anything. I keep my eyes on the ground because holding his hand and looking into those dark brown eyes would be dangerous. Dangerous for both of us.
John's fingers wrap around mine, his thumb gently grazing my skin. It's intimate and soothing, and the empty space inside me where self-worth, love, and security should reside craves more. This is why I ended up in Justin's bed. This is why I give myself over too quickly and don't hold anything back. I shouldn't look at him, but I'm drawn like a moth to a flame, too weak not to seek out the comfort that I know he can offer.
Those soft brown eyes seem to reach inside me and cup my heart like a gentle hand. I see his breath hitching in the movement of his shoulders. It's not a static attraction that exists between us, just hurt and pain, and a deep need for something to soothe it.
I want him to kiss me. To pull me into his arms and make me forget. There is too much in my life that I wish I could put in a box, close the lid, and staple shut for good. Justin helped me do that for a while, and my life was a damn sight less complicated then.
John blinks, and his lips move as though he already imagines what it would be like to press them against mine. When he drops to his knee in front of me and does just that, I slip into his kiss like a spoon into honey. It feels good when he teases me with light exploratory kisses, and better when our mouths part and his tongue slides against mine. Oh God, I shouldn't be touching his shoulders. I shouldn't be letting him tug my hips until my legs are around his waist. I should have more sense than to open myself up to more hurt and more disappointment, but I don't.
I'm like an addict for this. I seek out physical comfort, knowing it's only a short-term fix for the emptiness that runs so much deeper. But while I'm letting John thread his fingers through my hair, and while I'm breathing in his scent and falling against him like a drowning woman, it feels too good to stop and do what's right.
It's not until the phone rings in another room that I'm jolted back to my senses, pulling back and breathing hard.
John's eyes scan my face, his own shoulders rising and falling as though he's been running. Seconds pass as we both search for what to say next. I could tell him it was a mistake. I could tell him we can't do it again, but I don't want to hurt him or make it awkward, and anyway, I'm terrible at being honest about my feelings. Maybe he struggles in that way too because he doesn't find the words to explain away the craziness that just happened between us. I feel heat running over my face and neck, a blush of arousal and mortification.
It's why I need to be warier so that this whole situation doesn't become one big bundle of mistakes. I give John a small smile that I hope he reads as apologetic. "Shall we move on to the bathroom? I don't think it'll be so hard." When I pull my hand away, John doesn't resist.
"Sure. That sounds like a good idea." Neither of us says anything as we rise to continue the job at hand. I follow John into my dad's adjoining bathroom, clutching the trash bag like it's a lifeline. The room is small, with just a shower, vanity, and toilet. I don’t remember Dad taking a bath, so I guess that it must have suited him.
On the vanity, there is a toothbrush and a mostly empty tube of paste, which go straight into the bag. The shaving items do too. There is a bottle of cologne that I reach to pick up. I know it's the one he used to wear because I remember the unusual shape of the bottle and the tan-colored liquid inside. If John wasn't here, maybe I'd have the confidence to bring it to my nose and risk the tears that feel on the brink of emerging, but with John here I have to keep myself together. As I hesitate to drop it into the trash bag, John gently takes it from my hand. He does smell it and then braces himself on the tiled vanity top. "It feels strange that a smell that used to bring me comfort and familiarity now makes me feel so sad."
Again, I rest my hand over his before I can care about the consequences. Our eyes meet in the white framed mirror, his soft brown and mine as black as midnight. He adjusts our hands, so mine are tucked beneath his palm, making it harder for me to break away.