Dad’s sermon this morning— temptation. When his eyes meet mine, I imagine he knows every errant thought in my head concerning Reid. There’s no way Dad could know, but there he stands, detailing how to identify temptation and how to resist it. Meaning to pay strict attention and take notes, I click my pen and open the smal notebook I keep in my bag.
And then I can’t stop thinking about Reid’s hands in my hair and splayed at my waist, propel ing me to the wal , his lips brushing over my cheek as I turned my face away.
There is no logical reason for my inability to stop thinking about that almost-kiss. No reason at al . Especially in the middle of church.
The page in my notebook is stil blank at the end of the sermon.
Chapter 18
REID
Dori seemed surprised but appreciative the day I brought her a soy latte (after having heard her tel someone on the phone the previous afternoon that she was craving one), so I add it to my morning coffee run. Just to throw her off balance, I bring Gabriel e the same thing.
When I get there, the two of them are in Gabriel e’s future bedroom, which we’ve painted a stomach-turning shade of pink. Ceiling fan parts are spread in an organized manner on the floor—nuts, bolts and fan blades in neat piles. Dori reads over the instructions while Gabriel e stands with her arms crossed, looking annoyed—until she sees me. “Reid!” she beams.
For a split second, I wish Dori was that enthusiastic about my presence… but no, her unwavering pretense of indifference is a major aspect of the chal enge of her. She doesn’t look up, but she’s so aware of me—hands gripping the instruction packet tightly enough to crumple the edges, ears almost matching the wal s.
Taking my caramel macchiato from the tray, I choke back a laugh at Dori’s apprehensive expression and focus on Gabriel e, who makes a face when I mention the soy. “Is there syrup in it?” she asks hopeful y.
“In the latte? Uh, no…”
“I’m sure Roberta has some sugar packets,” Dori interjects. Her eyes flick to mine and skitter away. Gabriel e gives me an enthusiastic hug (Dori purses her lips but makes no comment) and goes in search of sugar.
“C’mon, Dori—the first hit is always free.” She reluctantly accepts the cup I hand her and says,
“Thanks,” like it takes a herculean effort to speak the word to me.
She studies the instructions and sips the latte while I regard her silently. She’s sporting the faded red M.A.D.D.
shirt again, but today her hair band matches her shirt, and she’s wearing thin silver hoop earrings. And is that lip gloss on her mouth? Interesting and atypical Dori behavior.
On the day I started work here, I stupidly assumed that getting into Dori’s pants would be effortless, and in the same thought I concluded that I couldn’t be bothered to hook up with her. Had she sensed that vain mental verdict and decided to make me pay for it?
“This isn’t the first… hit… for me, you know.” She’s obviously hesitant to use addict jargon, even in jest.
“Hmm. I guess you’l owe me, then.”
She doesn’t respond, just sets her cup on a windowsil and takes one last glance at the instructions. Armed with a screwdriver, she picks up the bulky mechanical component and climbs the ladder directly beneath the hole cut into the center of the ceiling. I gather from watching her that she has to get the wiring hooked up before she can attach the motor to the electrical box in the ceiling. She balances the bulky thing in her right hand while she twists the wires together with her left, pul ing safety caps out of her pocket and affixing them to the connected wires.
Halfway through, she fumbles the motor, almost dropping it and exclaiming, “Popsicles!”
I climb up behind her and take the weight of the motor in my hand, but there is no goddamned way I can keep from laughing. What does popsicles even correspond to? I’ve heard her say fudge—a way more obvious substitute. I’m beginning to think she just tosses out whatever food item she thinks of first.
Without a word, she hooks up the wiring.
If I wasn’t aware of her proximity before, I am now. The light press of her body against mine and the unanticipated sweet scent of her make me abruptly, ful y conscious of it.
Standing on the rung below her places my mouth level with her ear. “You smel good. What are you wearing?” Her breathing goes shal ow, from either threat or desire.
“Deodorant.”
I laugh softly, inhaling careful y. “Mmm, no, something more than that, I think.”
“I… I don’t know. Lotion? Some store brand, I think.” She doesn’t know? My mother and every girl I’ve ever dated, Emma included, coordinated lotions, powders, and colognes. If asked, any of them could have said what scent they were wearing without thinking.
“No… it’s more like… cake, or something else…
edible.” I’m staring at the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, her smal left earlobe, the silver hoop threaded through it, her dark lashes in profile. She’s shut her eyes, as though she’s lightheaded.
“Um… okay…” She opens her eyes, turns slightly towards me. “Reid, I… I want to get down now.” I hop from the rung to the floor, reach up and swing her lightly to the ground, my hands lingering at her waist. She grips my upper arms, not letting go once her feet are on the ground. We look as though we were dancing and someone hit the pause button. Common sense tel s me not to try to kiss her again. She’s not ready yet. So we stand there, staring at each other, silent and unmoving.