Page 12 of Only After We Met
“Now this does feel like a date.”
“Stop joking. I want to know.”
“Make a living, not really. I get by. Basically I travel, and then I stay a while in whatever city offers me opportunities. Right now I’ve got a gig at a club in Belleville for two months. After that, we’ll see.” He shrugged. “And I’m twenty-six. I hope that satisfies your curiosity, Ginger Snap.”
“No, dammit! Don’t you dare!”
“What, Ginger Snap? I like that. Ginger snaps are my favorite. You are literally one of my secret vices,” he confessed.
“I hate you right now.”
“I like you every bit as much as I did before.”
“You’re one of those people who can’t take anything seriously.”
“Maybe. You’ll have to find out.”
I sighed when I saw he was just playing along.
“Okay, your turn. Now that we’ve gotten all serious, what’s your dream?”
“My dream?”
“Or your job then?”
“Right. You’re one of those idealists who thinks I should be living my dream. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I don’t have one of those wild fantasies I have to fight to make come true. I’m studying marketing and business management. Same as Dean.”
“Were you two separated at birth?”
“Don’t start. It’s simpler than that. My father is the owner of one of the biggest cabinet companies in Britain. He does all types of designs and materials…”
“Are you trying to sell me some?”
I laughed and took a sip of beer. “I’m trying to explain why I’m studying business. The idea of running a company, I don’t know, it’s always seemed cool to me.”
“What about Dean?”
“I told you, our parents are friends. He was always going to work in the family business when school was over.”
His eyebrows furrowed. Just for a second, but I saw it, the doubt, the urge to contradict me. Then he smiled the same old smile again, the one that made me breathless if I looked at it too long. He finished off his beer and left the bottle on the floor next to our dishes. Then he lay back on the bed, bent his arm behind his neck, and looked up coolly.
“How old are you, Ginger?”
“Twenty-one. As of last month.”
He turned serious, and I felt his fingers wrap around my wrist and pull me gently toward him. I didn’t stop him. I lay there next to him, my head resting on his pillow. On the sloping wall of the attic was a round wooden window like a porthole on a ship. It was right above us, and the moon was looking at us through the glass. I shivered. I knew this was a significant moment, but I still didn’t know why. I took a deep breath.One, two, three. The music was floating in the background. His hand was on top of mine. He’d let my wrist go and was tracing circles on my skin with his thumb and following the lines of my veins.
He turned off the lights.
I was sinking down into his mattress.
Everything else, the whole outside world, suddenly ceased to matter. Because he was there. I was. We were. And a French song I couldn’t understand. And a window to the sky. And the feeling of ease, of being able to breathe. Excitement.
I closed my eyes and focused on his fingertip as it traveled over my skin.
“Rhys.” I whispered in the darkness.
“Yeah.” He took a deep breath.