Like something I wanted.

Fuck. I can’t go there. I haven’t let myself think about our one night in ages.

“You know I won’t fall.”

I shake my head. “You know that scares me,” I say. I don’t let go of his belt. He places a hand on my hand. Skin on skin. His flesh on mine. I try not to shiver. But it’s useless. I do anyway as my stomach executes a huge somersault.

“I’m like a bad horror film director. I can’t resist scaring you because you’re so damn cute when you get scared.”

He jumps down off the railing and engulfs me in a hug, wrapping his strong arms around me, pulling my face to his neck. God, he smells good. All sweat, and work, and some woodsy scent that’s just so him.

“Sorry about Miranda and your mom and all those stupid guys,” he says softly in my ear, just for me, just to me. “I don’t want you to be with any of them. I don’t want you with anyone.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms to stop from pressing my body into him, from whispering kisses across his neck. Because this Trey, this soft, sweet, caring Trey, is the only guy I ever let touch me without agenda, the only man I wanted to kiss, the only man who’s ever made me come. I never faked it with him. I never knew not faking it could feel so good. That giving in, letting go, could be scary and intoxicating all on its own.

Now, with him so close, arms looped around me, his smell in my nose, his strong body pinned against mine, I don’t know anymore what happened to withdrawal, because nothing feels painful right now. I only feel potential. Possibility. The slim hope of starting over, like a stone skipping across the water, whisking up a few drops.

Maybe this is the new high. He skims one hand once across my back, so lightly it could be a friendly touch, but even through my flimsy shirt, my insides flutter like hummingbirds, and my mind is back to our night.

His hands on my naked skin.

The unfamiliar ache in my body that craved more of his touch, of the way he seemed to memorize me with his palms and his fingertips, as if he needed to trace every inch, to imprint the feel of me, the outline of my body in his memory. Then his lips everywhere, traversing my arms, neck, breasts, belly, legs, ankles, and back up to calves and knees and thighs, then in between. His lips and his tongue made me want to die and live and soar. I’d never let go like that, never moved like I did with him, with abandon, with desire, with the sharp, sweet rush of wanting someone to touch me for the first time.

I let go with him. I gave my body to him. In a way so many of them would have paid top dollar for. But I didn’t ever want anyone to see me like that. To watch me, feel me, hear me come.

Maybe he’s the arrow.

Maybe he’s the thing I’m not withdrawing from.

The one person who knows all my stories, the one person I’ve become best friends with in recovery, is the only one who knows exactly how I feel, what I think, what I want, what I hate, what I need.

Who I am.

I don’t know how to be known like this. In this naked kind of way. Like, I’ve taken everything off and am waiting for judgement.

Or touch.

Maybe they’re one and the same.

I sigh once, then manage to pull away from his grasp and look at him, giving him a quick nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He tilts his head to the side, his hair falling past his ear. His hair is light brown with hints of copper. It’s thick and full and he could be a shampoo model, only he doesn’t have that overly coiffed, perfectly combed look. His hair is deliberately undone, purposefully tousled, and all I want is to run my fingers through it and cling to it and never let go. Hold his cheeks in my palms and kiss deeply and without regret.

Hear him groan.

Let him do the same to me.

Look in his eyes, see myself reflected back. Because his eyes, like the rest of him, are beautiful. They’re the color of a forest, of a green beer bottle, of lush grass after it rains. They are the reflection of every girl and woman falling in love with him, because they all do. Then there’s his face — strong cheekbones, the stubbled jawline, and his scar that tells me he’s like me.

He went too far. He hurt others. He was hurt.

But that hurt is part of the connective tissue of our strange friendship that blurs all sorts of lines, that spills over into the feeling of more, even if we don’t truly venture there. Sometimes he looks at me like he wants to go there again, and he can probably tell too that I still want him that way. It’s so hard not to rake my eyes over him. He’s tall and sculpted, and I bet if you turned off all the lights and it was pitch black and there was a sea of shirtless twenty-one-year-olds guys I could find him by touch.

No one has ever felt like him.

But if I acted again on these desires, then he’d be Twenty-Five. And if he’s Twenty-Five, then I’m just the same. And I have to be different. So only when I stop wanting him, stop feeling for him, stop thinking about him, can I have him. But even then he’d never have me, so it’s a moot point. Besides, what do I know about feelings? Nothing. They make zero sense to me. I don’t know if they ever will.

Trey

Her hands on my belt drive me crazy. But I won’t be the one to break her. She is trying so hard to be good. She is so fucked by Miranda and by her mom and I hate all they do to her. I can’t be the one to lead her down this path. Even though I think of her all the time, and the memory of our night has fed my imagination countless times.

The trouble is I know she’s dying to see Cam again. And I know I’m fighting all these stupid chains that my past keeps clamping on me.

The other day I stopped by my parents’ building to have dinner with them, and it was like walking into the lion’s den. Everything about that place reeked of my past, of all the afternoons I’d spent in those corner penthouses with those women. Those pent-up, ravenous women whose husbands never gave it to them enough, or whose husbands had grown tires around their midsections and bald patches in their hair.

Like Ms. Rachman in 10E. I nearly ran into her in the lobby the other day, and seeing her brought back the memories of how needy and hungry she was. She used to run her fingers through my hair and hum happily. Like she was blissed out beyond any and all recognition. I was eighteen then, and she loved to be on top, her fake breasts barely moving as she rode me, her wine red nails raking through my hair.

“God, Trey, I love your hair. You have so much of it,” she said.

Didn’t take a genius to figure out Mr. Rachman was on the thinning side upstairs.

Her husband, a corporate litigator, never found out. He still travels all the time, defends companies from lawsuits, and ignores his hot wife. She still wants me to not ignore her. She crooked her finger to call me over when she spotted me in the lobby a few days ago. I pretended I didn’t see her. I faked her out with the earbuds I had in, Screaming Trees blasting in my head. I wear them every time I go to my parents. So I have an excuse to ignore them all. I try desperately to avoid all the beautiful women who live there.

I can’t not go. My parents pay for college. They want to know how I’m doing. They want to know what I’m learning. They want to know if I’ll switch majors and study medicine like they did and become a plastic surgeon.

“That ship has sailed, dad,” I said the other day.

Still, they try. They’d rather I change my mind, stay in school for many more years, turn pre-med, become a respected doctor in the family. Not a guy who studies art and history and works part-time at a tattoo shop. I’m their only hope after all. There’s no one else.

When I make my weekly visits to their building, my parents and I serve up uncomfortable small talk. We dart around all the things and people we’re not allowed to bring up. Like they never even existed.