Where We Belong by Emily Giffin Page B

has yet to ask about him. But nearly every time I look in her eyes, I think of him and that night, especially the aftermath, in some ways more vivid than the act itself. I can see the two of us sprawled across the bed, naked and exposed, yet completely unself-conscious. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment, no trace of regret or panic or instinct to escape the room as we stared at the ceiling, and occasionally at each other, in perfect silence. There wasn’t even much pain, just a dull, pleasant ache. We stayed that way for a long time, our sweat evaporating, our breathing returning to normal, until he finally leaned over, kissed my cheek, and said, “Beautiful.”
    “Hmm?” I asked, even though I had heard him. I wanted him to say it again. I wanted to be sure to remember this perfect word from his lips, red and raw.
    “That. Was. Beautiful,” he said, which I decided was even better than calling me beautiful.
    “Yes,” I said, because I agreed. It was beautiful. Although before he said it, I would have chosen a different word. “Thrilling,” maybe. Or something far less meaningful, more juvenile—such as “hot.” It was thrilling. It was hot. But it was more than that and he had just nailed it.
    He exhaled, as if mustering the strength to get up, which he then did, slowly sitting up and peering around the room, before looking down at me with an expression of contentment. I covered myself with the sheets, not because of shyness, but because of a sudden chill that came over me.
    Transfixed, I watched him stand, and walk naked through the shadows to the bathroom where he turned on the faucet and splashed water onto his face. His body was thin yet strong—more muscular than it looked in his baggy clothes—and I wondered how he could have a six-pack when he completely rejected the notion of sports, seldom even participated in PE. I watched him reach for a hand towel folded on a bar near the shower, drying his face with it, and then slowly and methodically running it under the water, wringing it into the sink. Seconds later, he was standing over me, holding the wet towel. He pressed the coolness against my forehead and cheek, then peeled back the sheets, and before I could protest, he wrung it harder over my bare stomach, a few drops falling onto my stomach, before he wiped the faint streaks of blood from the insides of my thighs.
    I tensed, embarrassed by the evidence of my inexperience, and said, “Here. Let me do it.”
    But he pulled the cloth away and continued, with a look of concentration and care. Helpless, I reclined again, forced myself to relax and let him finish his diligent, careful work. I even shifted my weight for him, until I noticed a spot of red on the white fitted sheet beneath me.
    “Shit. Look,” I said, touching the mark with my finger.
    He put his free hand on my stomach as if to hold me in place, his other still wiping my leg with long, slow strokes. Then he made a reassuring noise and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll throw it in the wash tonight, after everyone leaves. It’ll come out … and I make a great bed. It’ll be fine.”
    I felt the corners of my mouth rise in a smile, feeling both relieved and impressed, but too young to know how impressed I should have been. How unusual it was for a boy, or even a grown man, to wash me, offer to do laundry, remain stoic to the sight of blood, especially blood of this variety.
    “So. This was your first time?” he deadpanned, with no hint of either pride or apology.
    “Obviously,” I whispered.
    “It’s not obvious. It could be … your time of the month.”
    Blushing, I made a face and said, “Eww. Gross. No.”
    “It’s not gross,” he said. “You couldn’t be gross if you tried.”
    I smiled, accepting this compliment, looking at him sideways. “So I assume this … wasn’t your … first?”
    “Um, thank you?” he said, grinning back at me.
    I opened my eyes, closed them again, completely sober. “Answer the