that I canât get all of you in my hands. I fucking dream about that now, obsess over how good you felt, almost lose my mind thinking about how much I wanted to drag you in the house and strip you down until I could see everything.
Just thought you should know the power your ass has over me.
Wield this power carefully, Lacey.
I feel like weâve been dancing around what this thing between us really is. For me, it isnât pen pals or some weird nostalgia tour. What that means beyond me admitting to feeling whipped over you (again), I couldnât really say.
Know this: I missed you. I didnât even know I did because I tucked everything about you away in a memory bank. But I havenât felt this stupid over a woman in a long time. Maybe ten years or so.
Go ahead. Do the math.
If none of this causes you to block my email permanently, Iâd be curious to know what you think of my ass. The effect it has on you. Or any other body part you prefer to name. My wicked brain, perhaps. Or my very hot, passion-inducing kneecaps. A drunken old Inuit woman in Alaska once told me that my kneecaps were sexy as hell, but these things are subjective.
Tell me, pretty girl. Tell me everything you want to say but probably think you shouldnât.
OK, honestly, how does a woman properly respond to that? Does she send back a forty-seven-page email detailing a number of provocative things about his eyes, the scruffy hair on the back of his neck, his arms, his torso, and the insanely arousing roughness of his hands? Or does a woman with any sense of self-preservation indeed block his email?
Since I canât decide, because thinking clearly is too difficult, I close the email and commit to waiting until this evening to respond. Iâm already a few minutes late to meet Trevor and Kate, so I couldnât write back even if I wanted to. We can hope that Sunday-morning pancakes at Deatonâs will be enough to throw my lewdly wandering mind a bone toward other things.
When I arrive outside Deatonâs, just beyond the front window Trevor and Kate are sitting side by side in a large horseshoe booth looking like a picture postcard for contentment. Trevor with one arm casually thrown over Kateâs shoulders, his fingers curled loosely at the nape of her neck, while he absentmindedly pokes at his cell phone. Even from here, I can see his thumb lightly tracing the skin just under her left ear. Kate is using one hand to rock Nic in the baby carrier sitting next to her as she thumbs through a newspaper. Only weeks out from delivering Nic, and from certain angles Kate almost looks like her old self. The combination of prenatal yoga and daily five-mile runs up until the last month of her pregnancy kept her body from ballooning up anywhere beyond her belly.
With Jakeâs email still at the forefront of my mind, observing those two is a catalyst for panic. What Jake probably wants is a round or two in the sheets for old timesâ sake. As for what I really want? What I expect? Who the hell knows? It changes based on the day, the hour, and the email.
What I do know is that Iâm going to be thirty years old in a few short months, which makes the idea of something fleeting sound less practical than it once did. Sure, buried after the lede, as my newspaperman father would sayâthere are words in Jakeâs emails that hint at more, but what weâre doing right now doesnât feel like that. It feels like Iâm a twenty-dollar bill he found in his coat pocket, the one he forgot about but canât wait to spend. Once he does, thatâs all there is.
Inside Deatonâs, once our plates arrive, Kate and I dig into the fat stacks of pancakes in front of us while Trevor supposedly enjoys the annoyingly responsible egg-white omelet sitting sadly on an otherwise empty plate. While he has blended into our little town rather effortlessly, he sometimes shows his Californian-ness in moments like these.
Just thought you should know the power your ass has over me.
Wield this power carefully, Lacey.
I feel like weâve been dancing around what this thing between us really is. For me, it isnât pen pals or some weird nostalgia tour. What that means beyond me admitting to feeling whipped over you (again), I couldnât really say.
Know this: I missed you. I didnât even know I did because I tucked everything about you away in a memory bank. But I havenât felt this stupid over a woman in a long time. Maybe ten years or so.
Go ahead. Do the math.
If none of this causes you to block my email permanently, Iâd be curious to know what you think of my ass. The effect it has on you. Or any other body part you prefer to name. My wicked brain, perhaps. Or my very hot, passion-inducing kneecaps. A drunken old Inuit woman in Alaska once told me that my kneecaps were sexy as hell, but these things are subjective.
Tell me, pretty girl. Tell me everything you want to say but probably think you shouldnât.
OK, honestly, how does a woman properly respond to that? Does she send back a forty-seven-page email detailing a number of provocative things about his eyes, the scruffy hair on the back of his neck, his arms, his torso, and the insanely arousing roughness of his hands? Or does a woman with any sense of self-preservation indeed block his email?
Since I canât decide, because thinking clearly is too difficult, I close the email and commit to waiting until this evening to respond. Iâm already a few minutes late to meet Trevor and Kate, so I couldnât write back even if I wanted to. We can hope that Sunday-morning pancakes at Deatonâs will be enough to throw my lewdly wandering mind a bone toward other things.
When I arrive outside Deatonâs, just beyond the front window Trevor and Kate are sitting side by side in a large horseshoe booth looking like a picture postcard for contentment. Trevor with one arm casually thrown over Kateâs shoulders, his fingers curled loosely at the nape of her neck, while he absentmindedly pokes at his cell phone. Even from here, I can see his thumb lightly tracing the skin just under her left ear. Kate is using one hand to rock Nic in the baby carrier sitting next to her as she thumbs through a newspaper. Only weeks out from delivering Nic, and from certain angles Kate almost looks like her old self. The combination of prenatal yoga and daily five-mile runs up until the last month of her pregnancy kept her body from ballooning up anywhere beyond her belly.
With Jakeâs email still at the forefront of my mind, observing those two is a catalyst for panic. What Jake probably wants is a round or two in the sheets for old timesâ sake. As for what I really want? What I expect? Who the hell knows? It changes based on the day, the hour, and the email.
What I do know is that Iâm going to be thirty years old in a few short months, which makes the idea of something fleeting sound less practical than it once did. Sure, buried after the lede, as my newspaperman father would sayâthere are words in Jakeâs emails that hint at more, but what weâre doing right now doesnât feel like that. It feels like Iâm a twenty-dollar bill he found in his coat pocket, the one he forgot about but canât wait to spend. Once he does, thatâs all there is.
Inside Deatonâs, once our plates arrive, Kate and I dig into the fat stacks of pancakes in front of us while Trevor supposedly enjoys the annoyingly responsible egg-white omelet sitting sadly on an otherwise empty plate. While he has blended into our little town rather effortlessly, he sometimes shows his Californian-ness in moments like these.
Similar Books
