And right now, I’m pretty damn sure I want to kiss Miles.
His hand slowly trails all the way up my back until he’s touching the back of my neck. I feel like his hand has left marks on every single part of me he’s touched. His fingers are at the base of my neck, and his mouth is no more than half an inch from my jaw. So close I can’t distinguish if it’s his lips or his breaths that are feathering my skin.
I feel like I’m about to die, and there isn’t a damn thing in that first-aid kit that could save me.
He tightens his grip on my neck . . . and then he kills me.
Or he kisses me. I can’t tell which, since I’m pretty sure they would feel the same. His lips against mine feel like everything. Like living and dying and being reborn, all at the same time.
Good Lord. He’s kissing me.
His tongue is already in my mouth, gently caressing mine, and I don’t even remember how that happened. I’m okay with it, though. I’m okay with this.
He begins to stand, but his mouth remains on mine. He walks me a few feet until the wall behind me replaces the hand that was on the back of my head. Now he’s touching my waist.
Oh, my God, his mouth is so possessive.
His fingers are splayed out again, digging into my hip.
Holy hell, he just groaned.
His hand moves from my waist and glides down to my leg.
Kill me now. Just kill me now.
He lifts my leg and wraps it around him, then presses against me so beautifully I moan into his mouth. The kiss comes to an abrupt halt.
Why is he pulling away? Don’t stop, Miles.
He drops my leg, and his palm hits the wall beside my head as if he needs the support to continue standing.
No, no, no. Keep going. Put your mouth back on mine.
I try to look at his eyes again, but they’re shut.
They’re regretting this.
Don’t open them, Miles. I don’t want to see you regret this.
He presses his forehead against the wall beside my head, still leaning against me as we both stand quietly, attempting to return air to our lungs. After several deep breaths, he pushes off the wall, turns around, and walks to the counter. Luckily, I didn’t see his eyes before he opened them, and now his back is to me, so I can’t see the regret he obviously feels. He picks up a pair of medical scissors and cuts through a roll of gauze.
I’m stuck to the wall. I think I’ll be here forever.
I’m wallpaper now. That’s it. That’s all I am.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. His voice is firm. Hard. Like metal. Like a sword.
“I didn’t mind,” I say. My voice isn’t firm. It’s like liquid. It evaporates.
He wraps his wounded hand, then turns around and faces me.
His eyes are firm like his voice was. They’re also hard, like metal. Like swords, slicing through the ropes that held what little dangling hope I had for him and me and that kiss.
“Don’t let me do that again,” he says.
I want him to do that again more than I want Thanksgiving dinner, but I don’t tell him that. I can’t speak, because his regret is caught in my throat.
He opens the bathroom door and leaves.
I’m still stuck to the wall.
What.
The.
Hell?
• • •
I’m no longer stuck to the bathroom wall.
Now I’m stuck to my chair, conveniently seated at the dinner table next to Miles.
Miles, whom I haven’t spoken to since he referred to himself or us or our kiss as “that.”
Don’t let me do “that” again.
I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to. I want “that” so much I don’t even want to eat, and he probably doesn’t realize how much I love Thanksgiving dinner. Which means I want “that” a lot, and “that” isn’t referring to the plate of food in front of me. “That” is Miles. Us. Me kissing Miles. Miles kissing me.
I’m suddenly very thirsty. I grab my glass and down half of my water in three huge gulps.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Miles?” my mother asks.
Yes, Mom. Keep asking him questions like that, since I’m too scared to do it myself.
Miles clears his throat. “No, ma’am,” he says.
Corbin laughs under his breath, which stirs up a cloud of disappointment in my chest. Apparently, Miles has the same view on relationships as Corbin does, and Corbin finds it amusing that my mother would assume he’s capable of commitment.
I suddenly find the kiss we shared earlier a lot less impactful.
“Well, aren’t you quite the catch, then,” she says. “Airline pilot, single, handsome, polite.”
Miles doesn’t respond. He smiles faintly and shovels a bite of potatoes into his mouth. He doesn’t want to talk about himself.
That’s too bad.
“Miles hasn’t had a girlfriend in a long time, Mom,” Corbin says, confirming my suspicion. “Doesn’t mean he’s single, though.”
My mom tilts her head in confusion. So do I. So does Miles.
“What do you mean?” she says. Her eyes immediately grow wide, though. “Oh! I’m so sorry. That’s what I get for being nosy.” She says the last part of her sentence like she just came to some realization that I still haven’t come to.
She’s apologizing to Miles now. She’s embarrassed.
Still confused.
“Am I missing something?” my dad asks.
My mother points her fork at Miles. “He’s gay, honey,” she says.
Um . . .
“Is not,” my dad says firmly, laughing at her assumption.
I’m shaking my head. Don’t shake your head, Tate.
“Miles isn’t gay,” I say defensively, looking at my mother.
Why did I say that out loud?
Now Corbin looks confused. He looks at Miles. A spoonful of potatoes is paused in midair in front of Miles, and his eyebrow is cocked. He’s staring at Corbin.
“Oh, shit,” Corbin says. “I didn’t know it was a secret. Dude, I’m so sorry.”
Miles lowers his spoonful of mashed potatoes to his plate, still eyeing Corbin with a perplexed look about him. “I’m not gay.”
Corbin nods. He holds up his palms and mouths, “I’m sorry,” like he didn’t mean to reveal such a big secret.
Miles shakes his head. “Corbin. I’m not gay. Never have been and pretty sure I never will be. What the hell, man?”
Corbin and Miles are staring at each other, and everyone else is watching Miles.
“B-but,” Corbin stutters. “You said . . . one time you told me . . .”
Miles drops his spoon and covers his mouth with his hand, stifling his loud laughter.
Oh, my God, Miles. Laugh.
Laugh, laugh, laugh. Please think this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened, because your laugh is also so much better than Thanksgiving dinner.
“What did I say to you that made you think I was gay?”
Corbin sits back in his chair. “I don’t remember, exactly. You said something about not being with a girl in more than three years. I just thought that was your way of telling me you were gay.”
Everyone is laughing now. Even me.
“That was more than three years ago! This whole time, you’ve thought I was gay?”