He grimaces. “Okay, then I might need to make a few calls.”
I swat at his arm. “You don’t have to do any of that. Not with me.” I mean for this to be a good thing, but he’s not laughing.
Part of it was sweet, that gesture. At least, I think my heart fluttered, or whatever it is a heart is supposed to do in response to that kind of thing, before the dread set in.
Still, I feel compelled to extend some kind of olive branch. Something to make him more of his regular self. Because truthfully, this was fun. Not just the movie, but our conversations at Mansour’s and the zalabya he made, and it’s not something I want to have been a onetime thing. I want another night like this, a realization that rocks the ground beneath me.
“So.” I scuff at the pavement with my sandal. “The woman whose harp studio I’ve been working in, she’s having a show next weekend. I was going to ask Julia, but… maybe you want to go too?”
I deliver the invitation directly to the sidewalk. It’s dangerously datelike, and I might regret it, but when I risk a glance at him, the way Tarek lights up to match the full moon is enough to ease my panic. It’s both lovely and terrifying.
“I’d love to,” he says, stepping closer, grazing my wrist with the fingertips of his free hand. “Thank you.”
Two friends hanging out. Not a date, even when I close the space between us and kiss him, his hands on my waist and mine in his hair. This is easier. The physical always has been—no thinking, just feeling, touching, sighing. An anchor when I’ve felt anchorless.
He pulls back, nodding to his car. “Do you want to, uh…?” A nervous Tarek is not something I’m used to seeing, and the idea that he’s nervous because of me is almost too much to handle.
“Make out in the car?” I ask.
“I was going to say ‘get in the car,’ but yeah, you know what, I like the honesty. Do you want to make out with me in my 2011 Ford Focus, Quinn Berkowitz?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
When we get in the back seat, I do my best to push away my car-hookup-related nerves. Maybe it’s the dark or the weight of the words we’ve exchanged, but it doesn’t take long for us to turn frantic. I press myself close to him, his mouth hot on my neck as I pull at his hair. The scent of him clouds my senses and quite possibly my good judgment.
I don’t need to do this to turn off my brain, I remind myself. I wasn’t searching for a distraction—he just happens to be one. I am in control.
“I’m sorry about—about my hands,” he says, pulling back when he touches my shoulders. I can barely see the red of the rash in the moonlight. “I hope it’s not gross or anything.”
“Tarek,” I say softly. “It’s not. Not at all.”
He lets out a breath, clearly relieved. “I’m not as self-conscious as I used to be, but it still feels like something I need to explain to people. I’ve accepted that it’s going to be bad sometimes, even with the creams and medication, even if I still wish I didn’t have it.”
“You shouldn’t have to explain it. It’s your body.” I want to tell him I’ve always found him beautiful. But it’s not right for this moment and I’d hate for him to read into it, so I don’t.
“Thank you. For saying that.”
He draws me to him again, and in this tight space, it’s so easy to mold my body to his, especially when I’m not in my stiff wedding planner shirt and slacks. My thin dress might as well be lingerie. There’s more skin to explore, and that’s exactly what he does, his hands running up my legs underneath the dress.
“I like this, by the way,” he says, playing with the hem of it. “The dogs with the hats. One of your rest-of-the-time dresses?”
“My what?”
“When you gave me that tour of your room. You had your dull dresses and the more exciting ones you wore the rest of the time.”
I’m stunned he remembered something like that. I’m also not used to talking this much while hooking up with someone. Sometimes I’m so wrapped up in sensation that the person I’m with almost becomes faceless, but Tarek seems intent on reminding me that it’s him I’m here with.
“Yes. One of my rest-of-the-time dresses.”
What he must mean is that he likes the way it bunches up around my hips, the way his fingers meet my bare thighs just above my knees. I tug him down on top of me, one leg on either side of him, kissing him deeper. He could easily pull the dress over my head, but instead, one by one, he flicks open the buttons.
When he gets the last one and I’m in my bra and underwear, he buries his face in my neck. “Give me a minute.” He lets out a rough laugh, pressing his mouth into the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, dropping kisses lower and lower and lower, until he reaches my navel and I can’t help giggling.
I rub my hand over the front of his jeans, and he sucks in a breath. Maybe my memory is failing me, but hooking up has never been this fun. I knew this would erase any lingering weirdness from earlier this evening.
“Our clothing ratio seems radically unfair.” I reach for his shirt, and he helps me tug it over his head. It’s cruel, really, that it’s too dark for me to take in every detail of his chest, but I can use my hands to map him out.
Without my dress in his way, his hand travels from thigh to hip, free of obstructions. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I breathe
