If I’m not enough. If I’m a burden.
‘A burden?’ I’m so shocked the words fall out. ‘What does that even mean, Rhys?’
I see him swallow. If you have to translate for me all the time. Or push me out of the way of postal vans.
‘For God’s sake,’ I snap, surprised at my own sudden rush of annoyance. ‘That was just an accident. It could have happened to anyone. Why does it bother you so much?’
Because I don’t want to lose you.
You’re not going to lose me. I don’t know how to handle this kind of conversation. I’ve always been the irrational one, the one with the neuroses. Is this how Tem feels when I go off on one of my why-don’t-you-get-a-better-friend-than-me ramblings? Look. I hesitate, trying to work out my own thoughts. Maybe we’re both still figuring things out. I don’t want to lose you either. What if you get tired of me? You have to translate for me if I’m in your world. This isn’t . . . I pause, trying to find the right signs. ‘This isn’t just a one-sided thing.’
Rhys shifts a little closer to me, our hands almost touching across the space between us. I’m sorry, he signs again. I’m sorry that I upset you earlier and I’m making things hard now. It’s because I like you so much. It’s new. I’ve never . . . I see him hesitate, then take a breath. I’ve never loved a girl before.
My heart gives an almighty, chest-breaking thump. I think I actually make a little squeaking noise. We both stare at each other.
After a long, excruciating pause, he tries again. Did you . . . did you get that?
I shake my head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at my lips. I don’t think I did. Can you say it again?
He points to himself. He puts two hands to his heart. He points to me. I love you.
I bridge the gap between us and kiss him, lifting myself on to his lap and winding my arms round his neck. He loves me. He loves me! We kiss until my breath runs out, and then he leans back a little and asks, Do you feel the same?
And of course I say, Yes! Yes, yes, yes. Because I do. I really, really do.
At some point during our major post-I-love-you kissing session, I realize something: my bedroom door is closed. And also: Rhys and I are kissing on my bed.
There are things you can do on a bed when the door is closed that you can’t when it’s left open. And once this thought has whispered through my mind, it’s all I can think about. Rhys’s hand is up under my T-shirt, his fingers stroking under the wire of my bra. The way he is kissing is intensifying, and it’s making every single tiny nerve in my body come alive.
My T-shirt winds up on the floor and that’s when his hand makes a slow, hesitant slide in the opposite direction. My skin heats up a thousand degrees. My heart starts to race. His hand reaches my hips and then stops. He breaks away, leans up on his elbow and looks at me. I love you, he signs with one hand. You’re beautiful. He hesitates, and I watch him lick his lips nervously. Can I touch you? he asks.
And I – shy, anxious Steffi Brons – nod. And not a tentative nod either, but a definitive one. A yes please! one.
Rhys moves his hand back down to my hip, pauses to look at me again for confirmation and then reaches between my legs. My jeans are still on, and he doesn’t make a move for the zip, just rests his hand there. And even that, alone, is like fire. We look at each other, both of us breathing hard, and he puts his lips to mine to kiss me again.
At first he is tentative, applying only the slightest amount of pressure (oh my God), and I can feel his nervousness in his kisses. I think about moving my own hand down and showing him, but I want this first time to be a moment of discovery that we share. So instead, I put my hand on him, just as tentative, just as nervous. He is hard, I can feel it, and oh my God oh my God this is a penis, this is a hard penis and I am about a millimetre of denim away from touching it for real.