Dark Wild Night

She holds up two pints of ice cream. “Well now we have dessert, too.” Rocky Road and strawberry. Our favorites.

My chest feels tight and uncomfortable, as I cross to the cupboard and pull out a platter. The calm distance is unraveling, and I can sense the impending explosion. I just have no idea what shape it will take.

Lola putters around behind me, and when she walks over to the freezer to put everything away, I absolutely don’t look at her arse.



* * *




THE EXPERIENCE THROUGHOUT dinner puts me as close to torture as I’ve ever been. It never occurred to me that serving Lola barbecued ribs might have been a bad idea, and that for what watching her eat them does to me I might as well have handed her a banana, or reached across the table and had her suck my finger.

And so I spend a good part of the meal half-hard—again—and shifting in my seat as Lola sits across from me, working through some thoughts on her new book, and completely oblivious to my struggle. She’s clearly avoiding thinking about Austin’s ideas for Razor Fish, and I want to give her useful feedback, but it takes superhuman strength to drag my eyes from her mouth while she licks sauce from her fingertips.

Finally I give up, claiming a need to use the bathroom so I can get some air. I splash water on my face and give myself a long, hard look in the mirror.

This is exactly why I didn’t let things go too far between us in Vegas. Why—as much as I wanted to punch myself in the face at the time—I turned down her invitation to join her in a hotel room. Lola is smart and beautiful, and, knowing we were going to be living in the same city and I would really, really want to be her friend, I didn’t want to ruin things or make them weird by fucking her.

But things are definitely weird now.

We clean up dinner together, working side by side in companionable silence as we load the dishwasher and wipe the counters. She isn’t talking, but there’s a determination in the set of her jaw that says she’s thinking, plotting. It’s an expression I’m familiar with, though it seems different tonight. I’m not sure why but my stomach twists with nerves as the number of things keeping us in the kitchen and away from the comfortable sofa in my dark living room dwindles down to nothing.

What is she planning?

I tell her to go ahead and pick out a movie, and I watch from my spot near the stove as she scrolls through the choices on my iPad, her mouth turned down into a frown until she finds exactly what she wants.

“Point Break?” she says.

“Go for it.”

Bank robbery and explosions, guns and testosterone? Exactly what I need to keep my eyes and hands to themselves.

I start the dishwasher while Lola heads into the other room. Grabbing the popcorn and a couple of beers from the fridge, I flip off the light with my elbow.

The previews are playing as I get to the living room. Both lamps have been dimmed, and the couch is huge, big enough for at least four grown adults. Lola is sitting squarely in the middle.

Okay . . .

“Comfortable?”

She pats the spot next to her. “Almost.”

My heart slowly melts into my gut.

I take a seat and after a moment of hesitation, she crowds a bit closer, tucking herself neatly into my side.

I go still, holding my breath before exhaling and molding into the shape of her against me.

Lola and I have always had what Finn and Ansel call a touchy relationship—lots of playful shoves, pinky swears, and high-fives—but cuddling on the couch? Definitely new.

“Do you want me to grab the ice cream?” Lola says, lifting her chin to look up at me.

I imagine her this close, eating ice cream from the carton and licking melted strawberry from the spoon.

That would be fucking catastrophic.