He tells me the passcode to his phone and I put together a good playlist of fun songs to sing along to.
And suddenly, I’m not Cancer Girl, and he’s not Celebrity Hot Guy; we’re just Wes and Jo, a boy and a girl, singing along to ABBA and Hansen and One Direction and Swan Song and Ricky Martin.
Just a boy and a girl in love, concentrated.
Exploration
Westley
We stop at a hole-in-the-wall diner off the freeway somewhere outside Des Moines. The waitress recognized me and took some surreptitious photos from behind the register. I got up to use the bathroom, and on the way back to our booth, I pulled her aside for a selfie, asking her in return to delete the other one.
I don’t want the media to get ahold of this thing with Jo and me. I don’t want the circus, the hordes of paps chasing us, asking questions. The blogs and vlogs and reels and TikToks dissecting our relationship and my motivation and her intentions and everything in between.
I want to keep Jo out of the spotlight as much as possible. Not because I’m embarrassed or anything like that, but because I don’t think that kind of intense scrutiny is something she needs, and I feel an obligation to protect her from it.
We finish our meal, I pay, and we head out again. I drive us out of Iowa and into Nebraska. Conversation comes and goes in waves. We’ll spend hours talking about everything, and then we’ll lapse into mile after mile of companionable silence. We’ll listen to music, trading favorite songs, top hits from favorite artists, favorite mood playlists. We listen to podcasts for hours on end.
It’s past dark, and I’m drowsy, fighting to stay awake. “I think we gotta stop somewhere,” I tell her. “I need to rest. I’m not used to long drives like this.”
“I wish I could help with the driving,” she says. “I feel dumb for not being able to.”
I offered to let her drive a few hours ago, and she revealed that she doesn’t have a driver’s license. With everything going on in her life, learning to drive hasn’t been a priority. Or possible.
“Nah,” I say. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna start looking for a hotel or something.”
Fortunately, we’re close to Cheyenne by now, so within another thirty minutes, we’re checking into a new-ish Hilton sub-brand.
The clerk—a young, attractive Hispanic woman—widens her eyes when I hand her my card and she reads the name on it. She doesn’t say anything, however, or otherwise give any indication of recognizing me. I give her a smile and very genuine thank-you as she hands us the little bi-fold envelope with our room number.
I carry my go-bag as well as Jo’s to the elevator. She leans against me, eyes drooping.
“Tired, huh?” I ask.
She nods. “I didn’t even do anything. You did all the driving.”
“Travel is tiring, even if all you’re doing is sitting there.” I have my bag on my shoulder and hers in my hand, so I wrap my free hand around her shoulders as we ride the elevator up. “So, it’s not just you, and it’s not weird or unusual.”
We reach our room, a main floor single king room. Entering and flicking on the lights, I set our bags down on the floor by the TV, and bend to untie my boots. It’s then I notice that Jo is frozen in the entryway, staring with wide eyes at the bed.
The one bed.
I straighten, one boot undone. “Shit. Jo, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I should have gotten us two beds.” I wipe my face with a hand. “Hey, listen. I’ll just go and get us a different room. Or another room next to this—it’s empty, I’m pretty sure, on one side or the other.” I retie my boot and move for the doorway. “Just…hang here and I’ll be right back.”
She puts a hand on my chest to halt me. “No, it’s okay.”
“Jo, I just wasn’t thinking clearly, since I’m tired. I’m not—” I swallow hard, sigh. “I’m not assuming or expecting anything to… happen between us. I’m not expecting you to be ready to share a bed with me, even if all we do is sleep.”
She smiles up at me. “Wes, it’s okay. It was just…a moment of weirdness on my part. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone except Bethany.” She leaves her hand on my chest, her eyes on the point of contact. “I know you’re not going to push me or rush me into anything. And…I don’t want a separate room, or a separate bed.” She bites her lower lip. “I’m not saying I’m ready for anything to…you know…happen. But I guess maybe we just—we just start here.”
I search her face, her eyes, her expression. “You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“Okay, then.” I feel nervous, oddly. “As long as you’re a hundred percent sure you’re okay with it.”
“I am.”
I cover her hand with mine, and then, on impulse, I curl my hand around hers and lift her fingers to my lips, kiss her knuckles, each of them in turn.
Her pupils dilate, her nostrils flare. Her chest swells as she sucks in a breath.
God, she’s responsive. Sensitive.
I clamp down hard on that line of thinking. Kiss the back of her hand, and then let go. Sit on the bed and take off my boots, my socks.
My jeans are tight and I’m ready to take them off, but that seems kind of forward. Issue is, I didn’t bring shorts or anything. I hadn’t anticipated a need.
She’s just watching me. She’s kicked off her shoes and is looking at me, as if waiting for something. “Now what?”
I laugh. “No idea. I’m gonna brush my teeth. Maybe turn the TV on for a few minutes, just to unwind.”
She glances at her suitcase, which is a small, hard-sided roller with an extendable handle. New, nice, and lightly used. Her eyes widen, and she smothers a shocked laugh with her hand. “Ohmygosh. I just realized something.”
“What?” I ask.
“I forgot to pack pajamas.”
“What do you usually sleep in?”
She blushes. It’s adorable. “Um. Usually just whatever shirt I was wearing and some underwear. Or just my underwear.” The blush spreads, deepens. “I wasn’t even thinking about pajamas.”
I laugh. “Honestly, I didn’t bring any either. I’m like you, just my underwear, usually.”
“So…what do we do?”
I shrug. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I can sleep in my jeans and T-shirt.” The thought makes me cringe, but I’ll do it for her.
She shakes her head. “We can be adults about this, right? Nothing to be weird about.” She bites that lower lip again. “It’s just underwear. No different than wearing a bikini to the beach.” She snickers. “I don’t own a bikini, but still.”
“You don’t?”
A shrug. “Nope. Once pieces only. My parents are pretty conservative. My grandma is a Christian, and raised my dad that way. We don’t really go to church much, but they still hold to a lot of the more conservative ideals and such, such as modesty. And, you know…no sex before marriage.” If she blushes any deeper, I’m worried she’ll faint from the blood rush or something.