I nod.
Finn quickly calls the waiter back, taking care of the check and collects a couple of pastry boxes filled with dessert. Soon we’re back out in the car, his headlights cutting through the dark. All the while, my heart beats faster and my mind races to justify this reckless change of plans. It’s stupid, crazy putting my heart back on the line when I’ve barely stitched the broken pieces back together. I came here for questions, closure: firm solid facts and reasons why. But logic doesn’t play a part when it comes to pure desire, and right now, all I know is that I’ve spent five years with a restless body and an empty bed, daydreaming about this moment. Finn, and me. A dark night. An empty road, and all the possibilities waiting in the shadows.
He was the best I’ve ever had.
And it’s wrong, I know, but I want more.
Ten.
Finn drives for twenty minutes in an easy silence. He doesn’t speak again, but reaches casually across the gearstick and takes my hand in his. The warmth of his touch radiates, heating my body from the inside out, even when his fingertips start to trace lightly over the curve and crevice of my knuckles. A shiver of sensation, feather-light and all-consuming.
I shift in the passenger seat, already feeling a heady rush of anticipation, that lurch of desire unsteady in my belly. Over and over he brushes my palm, until I’m almost melted into the seat, every nerve ending in my body alight for his touch.
What do I want from him?
The question echoes in my mind as the miles slip past. I know what I should do: have the conversation I’ve been avoiding all this time. About why he left, why he never said goodbye. I should ask him the hard questions that will let me finally move on with my life, untangle old memories and lust so that they don’t overwhelm me every time he walks into the room.
It should be simple, and on the surface, it is. How many times have I watched a movie, or read a book, and been screaming at the characters to just get it together and say what’s on their mind? ‘They’re acting like a kid,’ I would think. ‘Real adults just suck it up and face the conflict head-on’. But here I am, all grown up, and I can’t bring myself to ask Finn why. Because it turns out, when the answer matters more to you than anything – when his words have the power to break your heart all over again – it’s easier just to turn away, and bite your tongue, and fall into the dizzy rush of desire rather than take the blade of truth straight to the heart.
His hand tightens around mine, and I squeeze it in response. I push the doubts away one final time, too hungry to feel like this.
To feel anything at all.
Suddenly, Finn yanks the wheel and curses, sending us off the main road and onto a dirt track, pitch-black in the dark. “Sorry,” he says quickly, and I grab the seat to keep from bouncing around on the uneven terrain. “I forgot there’s no markers out here.” He glances over, a reassuring smile cutting bright through the shadows. “Not far now.”
I hold on as the track winds deeper into the dark woods. I’ve spent most of my life along this stretch of shoreline, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where we are right now. All sense of direction has been sent scattering to the wind, and I only know one compass anymore: where I am in relation to Finn’s body, how far I am from his hands, and mouth, and tongue.
Right now, it’s barely inches, but still too far. The track evens out, smoother as the dirt gives way to grass underneath the tires, and eventually Finn slows the Mustang to a stop. He looks around at the pitch-black cliff, and lets out a laugh. “I can’t believe this is still here,” he says. “Untouched. I was half expecting to find condos and some ugly shopping mall. C’mon.”
He opens the door and gets out, and I do the same, surprised to find my legs wavering for a moment beneath me. Blood rushes to my head, and I realize just how much that simple caress of his hand has played havoc with my body, winding me tight with a slow-burn desire.
He hasn’t even kissed me, and I’m wet for him. Aching.
I take a gulp of cool, crisp air. We’re perilously high above the ocean, nothing but dark, rocky cliffs below. Finn’s parked far enough back from the edge that I can almost – almost – relax.
He hops up on the hood of the Mustang and stretches his legs out, leaning back against the windshield. “What do you want?” he asks again, opening one of the dessert boxes. “Death by chocolate, or pistachio éclairs?”
“Both. Everything,” I answer, relieved for some distraction. I clamber up and take a seat beside him. He passes me a plastic fork and we dig in, breaking the delicate pastry on the éclair first. The cream is cool on my tongue, and I sigh in pleasure. “Mmmm.”