We’re spending the holidays at their lake house in the mountains, which will be filled with a lot of screaming babies and crazy antics. But I’m honest-to-God looking forward to it. Because Willow is here.
I’m not going to be the seventh-fucking-wheel in the core six anymore, and I won’t have to video-record anything. We can whisper to each other. We can laugh together.
Willow wheels her suitcase into my apartment as I flick on the lights. She never saw it in person. I moved in after she left, so she’s soaking up the surroundings.
“It’s strange,” she says. “I feel like I’ve been here before, even though…I haven’t. Obviously.”
I get it. I’ve never been to her dorm in London. But I can picture every piece of furniture there. Mostly because I watched the videos she sent me about a million times.
“You’re here now,” I tell her. “Want anything to drink?” I pop open my fridge.
Only Lightning Bolt!, Fizz Life, a bottle of vodka and a couple six packs on the shelves. I do have a tub of hummus.
Willow notices the contents—or lack thereof. Her brows furrow. “What have you been eating?”
“The food of gods.” I swing open my freezer, packed with five frozen pizzas.
She laughs.
“Also Cobalt Inc. has a pretty awesome cafeteria. They have everything: prime rib, sushi, and a thousand different vegan options.” I nod to the fridge. “Pick your poison.”
“The vodka, definitely,” she says, which causes a chill to rake my skin. That would have been the very last thing I would have thought she’d choose. How much has she changed in four months?
My hand solidifies on the top of the fridge door.
Willow’s lips slowly rise. “Garrison, that was a joke.” She points to the soda. “I’ll take the Fizz Life…or the beer. Either is good.” That’s what I thought she’d say but…
“Are you sure?” I question. I don’t want her to feel like she can’t change or grow. Like I’m stifling her. “If you want vodka—”
She puts her hands to my chest and electricity practically shoots through my veins. “Garrison.” Her eyes fill mine, and whatever she was going to say, it just gets lost from her gaze to mine.
The air stills.
She curls her fingers over my jeans’ waistband. I hold her cheek and lean down, our lips connecting. I kiss her strongly, pulling her closer. Heating my blood. We stumble out of the kitchen, never breaking apart.
Willow fumbles with the button to my pants, her chest rising and falling in quickened breath. I run my hand up underneath her shirt. Bare skin warm under my touch, but she still shivers.
Like this is the first time all over again.
“Willow,” I breathe.
She slowly unzips my pants, so fucking slowly. Like it’s a metaphor for how slow we’ve always been physically together. It almost makes me smile, but I nod her on like it’s okay.
She inhales, trying to rid anxiety, I think. While we’re lip-locked again, my hands roaming up her shirt, the backs of her calves hit my couch. I spin her towards my bed, and I walk her backwards and meet her eyes.
“You sure you want to do this tonight?” I whisper, cupping her cheek. “You can say no—”
“I really want to,” she says and then stops unzipping me. “Don’t you?” Fear springs in her eyes. Like maybe I wouldn’t want to touch her.
Like maybe I’ve grown less interested.
Never. Impossible.
“No question. Of course I do.” I kiss her again, fully and deeply. Reminding Willow that she’s all I want. Her limbs seem to slacken in relief.
And I back my girlfriend up to my mattress. She plops on the edge just as she tugs my pants down, also slowly. I can practically hear her thoughts: is this the right thing to do right now? Should I be taking off my shirt first or…
I help her tug down my pants, showing that there’s not a right or wrong way. There’s just our way.
Willow smiles up at me, but as soon as my jeans bunch to my knees, her breath catches in shock.
She gawks at my thigh, then reaches out to trace the new ink. “When did you get this?” she asks softly.
I step out of my jeans. “Two months ago.” I couldn’t muster the nerve to tell Willow about it, so I figured she’d see the tattoo in person. It’d be better that way.
Willow seems to hold her breath. Unblinking, her gaze bears on the tattoo. An inked skeleton hand brushes fingers with a smaller hand like they’re trying to hold on. Hang on. I didn’t really plan on getting a tattoo, but I walked into a shop and sat down and came out with this.
“You don’t like it,” I assume.
She shakes her head. “It’s beautiful but…also really sad.” Her brown eyes rise to mine. “You’re not dead yet, you know that, right?”