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Because he’s been such a tease.
It’s been a week since we had it out in front of his brother’s tattoo shop. Seven days since sayingokay,and giving in to everything he laid out because I wanted it just as badly.
One week of sweet, intoxicating kisses—his mouth growing softer, slower, and far too teasing, languidly exploring my own, coming back for seconds, and thirds, and fourths, trailing from my mouth to my cheek to my neck, to that sweet spot directly beneath my ear.
One week of pushing at every boundary but refusing to step over them. His inked hands roving over every curve of my body, feeling and groping, pushing me into him but never pushing further—much to my own terrible, agonizing sexual frustration.
One week of being teased to the point of no return.
It feels like he’s been holding himself back. Waiting. But for what? Andwhy?
We only have three weeks left until he leaves, and the three that have already passed flew by because of how busy we’ve both been—me, picking up more shifts at the coffee shop while struggling to make it through my accelerated writing course, and Jude, visiting with his friends and family, on top of helping coach a part-time summer youth football gig—so if that’s anyindication, the next three weeks are going to be gone before we know it.
I’m desperate. And he’s wound me up so goddamn tight this past week, I can’t handle it.
Maybe that’s his plan. I don’t know. But I want him so badly at this point it hurts.
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We pull into a spot in the museum parking garage, lock up the helmets, and make our way over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with my hand in his. He bought us tickets for today, so even though we plan on spending most of the day in Central Park, that’s where we’re headed first.
Once we’re inside, my jaw hits the floor and stays there almost the entire time.
There’s something beautiful about being around pieces of history—art, places, old buildings and artifacts. It’s like you can feel the centuries of energy whispering between your bones, the faint echo of past lives surviving through time.
We spend the most time walking through exhibit eight-twenty-two—Van Gogh.With his arms wrapped around me from behind, his hands clasped on my waist on opposite sides and his chin resting lightly on my shoulder, we take each piece in together. I don’t know a lot about art, but there’s something extra captivating about his pieces. The way his strokes of paint make the pictures feel like they’re in constant motion. I fall in love with each and every one of them.
“Which was your favorite?” Jude asks as we leave the museum, and all of the paintings, behind.
It takes me a while to decide, but my mind keeps straying back to the irises—Irises,the title of the painting. “I think I have to go withIrises.”
“Hm.” The quiet, contemplative noise sticks to the back of his throat. “That’s interesting.”
I smile. “Why?” I ask, twisting to see his face as we walk.
“A cliché as it may or may not be, Starry Night, over at the Museum of Modern Art, happens to be my favorite. And it’s interesting, because of all his paintings, those two have similar theories surrounding them. That they represent a connection between life and death, the earth and the heavens.” He shrugs. “Seems fitting—in a dark and twisted way—with our pasts and whatnot.”
“Or in a beautiful way,” I volley back, and it makes him smile.
“Yeah, that too, Little D. That, too.”
We grab a couple hotdogs from a vendor nearby and begin our walk through the park.
Addy and I have been here twice. Once just for fun, and a second time when we decided we wanted to be“Central Park, New York joggers.”Titled by her. We gave it about five minutes and a quarter mile before giving up on the idea entirely. Running simply wasn’t for us. But I had no idea how big Central Park was before then. When I’d seen it in movies, or online, it looked like a small park nestled in the middle of a crazy-packed city, skyscrapers hugging every inch of it. But the park itself is actually huge.Eight-hundred and forty acres, huge. There’s a zoo, and the Met, and a few other museums, too; a carousel, a skating rink, a pond, a giant reservoir, restaurants, a garden, a small castle, tons of bridges and architectural arches; and that’s still not everything it has to offer.
Anyone could easily get lost here, discovering new parts of it for hours and hours on end.
And that’s pretty much what we do, walking hand-in hand—joking, flirting, talking—about nothing of real importance, but the words pull us closer together anyway.
During all the months we spent apart this last year, Jude became my closest friend outside of Addy, and here, spending the day with him in Central Park, it’s evident why. We click, in a way that didn’t make sense to me last summer but doesn’t need to anymore.
The vibrant green leaves of the trees shift and sway in the breeze, Jude’s backdrop as he tells me an old childhood story about him and his brothers, and I find myself wishing I could see him here during other parts of the year. In the spring, during a downpour of rain, droplets of water saturating his hair, dripping down his chiseled face, and soaking through his clothes. In the fall, with colorful leaves falling down all around him and littering the floor. In the winter, white drifting snowflakes caught in his dark lashes, the press of his boots crunching along the white-blanketed ground.
I want more than this summer, and last summer, too.
I want all of the months in between.
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