The sky had darkened over the past few hours, and now it was night. All the lights in the apartment were off. The only light came from the TV, paused on the credit roll. Honey’s voice was soft. “Girls like me?”
Savannah’s gaze dropped to Honey’s mouth. Her rosebud lips, plump and parted. She wanted to feel them. Touch them. Savannah nodded, her voice both small and, somehow, enormous. “Yes.”
Honey shifted closer. Her eyes were questions as she reached for Savannah’s hand, taking it in hers.
Their fingers met. Electricity jolted up her spine. Savannah was so overwhelmed, for one horrifying second she thought she might cry. Then the feeling settled, blooming into something more manageable, and they were holding hands. Just like Imogene and Mina. She was holding Honey’s hand.
But she wanted more.
The air between them sparked with possibility.
She leaned toward Honey, closing the distance between their mouths. Honey did the same. This was it. It was happening. She could feel Honey’s breath. Savannah’s heart was beating wildly, slamming her rib cage with an undiscovered ferocity. Everything inside her was urging her forward, forward, forward until Honey’s lips met hers and they were kissing.
They were kissing.
And all of a sudden, everything made sense.
Every love song made sense.
Every romantic movie made sense.
Every poem, every painting, every Taylor Swift lyric, everything in the entire world made sense because this, this, was how it was supposed to feel. How love was supposed to feel, how kissing was supposed to feel. This was what everyone was talking about.
It was a sweet kiss, a sexy kiss, the first kiss where she wasn’t thinking about if her breath smelled or how much tongue she should use. It was simply the most natural, most easy, most thrilling act of her entire life.
When she pulled away, her eyes were wet. Honey stroked her face, a smile turning worried. “What’s wrong?”
Savannah pressed Honey’s fingers into her cheek and shook her head. “Nothing,” she managed. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”
Because everything was finally right.
59
Sam hurried up the steps to the brownstone. He was almost an hour late. His ex-wife, Claudia, had come down with the flu, so he’d asked Claudia’s sister to sleep over and babysit. Dottie loved her aunt, but since the divorce, his daughter had become sensitive to broken promises and changes to routine. It’d taken bribes of ice cream and a princess costume to allow Sam to leave for an “overnight work trip,” and even then he felt extraordinarily guilty. On top of everything, he was lying to his child, even if it was for a good reason.
Sam liked order. While happy to improvise in the kitchen, he preferred the satisfaction of following set rules to produce an expected outcome. But there was no recipe for this, the divorced-dad-dates-a-widowed-mom dish. This was life: messy, chaotic, and never quite turning out how you anticipated.
He’d been keeping Liv in the loop over text. Her last few messages had been a little… strange.
Sam, 6:50 p.m.: Issues with Dottie: I’m going to be a bit late.
Liv, 6:58 p.m.: No problem!!!!
Sam, 7:25p.m.: Working on it. So sorry.
Liv, 7:35 p.m.: I’m good!!!! Ha ha, LOL.
Sam, 7:45 p.m.: Okay, finally en route! Be there by eight.
Liv, 7:47 p.m.: !!!???!!! WOW. I feel
Liv, 7:48 p.m.: Srry sent that too
Liv, 7:49 p.m.: IM RELAXED!!!
Sam, 7:50 p.m.: You okay?
Liv, 7:55 p.m.: HA HA HA!
Inside the brownstone, he could hear Fleetwood Mac. The soft, rocking blues took him back to being long-haired and loose-limbed, pre-children, pre-marriage, even. A time without consequences, when the future was nothing but possibility and pleasure. Sam took a moment to ruffle up his hair and then unruffle it. He’d slept with a few women since his divorce, but not someone he really liked. There’d been a moment when they first met, her waving a banana, when her bathrobe had gaped open and he’d almost glimpsed a nipple. He’d thought about that moment many times. Liv was complex, sometimes prickly, sometimes even mean—and he liked it. It felt dangerous. And he had a suspicion she’d be a little hellcat in bed. Not that they would definitely have sex tonight: they were taking it slow. No matter what happened, they’d have fun.
And, hopefully, they’d have sex.
Sam rang the doorbell.
From the other side of the door, uneven footsteps approached. Then, nothing. “Liv?”
A muffled squeak sounded from the other side of the door, followed by a giggle.
He smiled. “Hello?”
The door yanked open. Liv was wearing a black silk robe over a pair of jeans. Her hair was wild. Her lips were painted dark red. The effect was witchy and a little weird. Not unappealing. She planted her hands on either side of the doorframe. “Hello.” Her voice was husky. “Mr. Sam.”
A rill of excitement pulsed through his body. This was a Liv he hadn’t seen before. The fact that this complicated, alluring woman could keep opening up to him was thrilling. “Hello,” he replied, “Ms. Liv.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
Sam chuckled along, double-checking that what he’d said wasn’t actually that funny. Was something off? Or was she just nervous like he was? He followed her inside. “You seem very, ah, chill.”
“I am.” She sounded drifty and full of air. “I’m chill. Chill as a cucumber.” She spun around, putting both hands atop her head like a little hat. She made her voice high and squeaky. “Hello, I’m a cucumber. Put me in salads.”
“Okay…”
Liv swept into the living room and started dancing to “Dreams.” Well, dancing wasn’t the right word for it. Flailing was more accurate.
A half-empty bottle of red wine sat on the coffee table. Next to it, half a joint.
Oh.
“Hey babe, have you been smoking?”
“A little.” She blinked slowly. “A lot?”
Fortunately you couldn’t overdose on weed. But the combination had clearly pushed Liv over her limit. Sam picked up the joint and the wine bottle from the coffee table. Liv watched them go, saying, “Nooo,” in a small, sad voice.
Sam stowed the bottle of wine he’d brought in the pantry, corked the open bottle, and poured a glass of water. “Drink this.”
Liv took a sip and made a face. “It’s water.”
“Yup.”
“Yuck.” She turned her face away from it, like a child refusing brussels sprouts.
“Please? For me?”
Sighing as if this was the single most annoying thing that’d ever been requested of her, Liv took a few gulps. She leaned back into the sofa, propping her head up in a sloppy approximation of sexy. “Why don’t you show me that cucumber in your pants, Sammy?”
“Oh, boy.” Sam laughed. “I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
“But we have a sex date,” she whined. “I got a wax. It hurt.”
Sam inhaled, oscillating between concerned and amused. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetie, but you’re a little out of it.”
Liv launched herself at him, her fingers diving for the top of his jeans. “I wanna see it.”
Sam skidded back. “No, Liv.”