Page 35 of Finders Keepers

As soon as I’m inside the dark living room, door closed and bolted, I collapse backward onto the couch with my arms crossed like a vampire going to bed for the day.

It feels like I need to gather everything close to my heart and hold it there for a minute.

I’ve never been more grateful that my parents consistently go to bed at ten and sleep like the dead.

If mom had been peeking through the blinds and caught sight of that?

No way would she give me even a minute of silence to process what just happened.

And what did just happen, exactly? Oh god. I kissed Quentin. I kissed Quentin . And he kissed me . We kissed. And I liked it so much. Holy shit.

My body is alive with desire I haven’t felt in years.

Maybe ever! Sex is easy for me to push to the very back of my mind most of the time.

It isn’t usually a need so much as a want that surfaces on occasion.

But Quentin’s touch, his scent, his everything…

it feels beyond need. It feels crucial. Something certain and solid when few other things are these days.

Not that it matters, since he put a stop to it.

But still. It’s novel, to feel this vibrance inside me.

I sit there with the sensations, enjoying the low hum of arousal that hasn’t yet stopped vibrating just beneath my skin.

I am also exhausted, though. If I wind up falling asleep here and smear makeup on mom’s hand-embroidered throw pillows, she will actually kill me. So I trudge up the stairs. I need to take care of this distracting, almost painful ache so I can get some sleep.

In my warm, stuffy room, I slip out of my clothes. I sigh in relief as my bra unhooks and my breasts fall into their rightful gravitational place. There are grooves in my skin around my rib cage where the band sat, and I soothe them with my fingertips as I make my way to the window and open it.

I do a quick, too-late inspection of the house across the alley. The blinds there are all drawn, so I’m assured no one can see me.

I didn’t realize as we were walking back, our path illuminated by the lights along the trail and streets, how dark it is tonight. Sure enough, there’s only a sliver of moon in the sky.

When we were young, I always assumed Quentin intended to be a constant in my life.

That even during times when we might not be face-to-face, he would always be around—ever present regardless of if I could see him, like the moon he pretended to be.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so badly when he didn’t stay in touch after moving away; I took his constancy for granted, like I do the fact that night always turns to day.

But if I don’t make that mistake again, if I keep in mind that we’ll both be going our separate ways soon and don’t have any expectations…

No, that’s not the reason it’s a bad idea to have sex with Quentin. The reason is…it’s that…

He didn’t want to?

No, I don’t think that’s true. I don’t want to stop.

I really don’t want to stop. That’s what he said.

There was a “but” afterward—“but we can’t—I can’t,” sure.

Whatever it was doesn’t negate the fact he did want to continue.

His huge, dark pupils, his heavy breathing, the way his lips caressed and pressed and sucked and soothed…

I was not alone in what happened out there.

So, tomorrow, with our heads clearer and in control again, we will talk about it.

I will find out what the “but” is. Maybe it’s …

because I’m trying to get with this other person I used to like, so I shouldn’t be hooking up with you.

I’m not fully over my ex. I’ve decided to take a vow of celibacy.

I don’t actually think of you that way, this has all just been an elaborate prank. A mistake.

Well, there’s the nausea.

Unless…it could be something easily fixable? A temporary obstacle, like… because I don’t have any protection. We’ve had too much to drink. I want to take things slower. To know that we’re both sure.

My stomach calms as I remember how he looked when we first broke the kiss—hair tousled, his eyes darker, a shade of blue like a pool inside a grotto.

Even if being with him in that way isn’t in the cards, I can hold tight to that memory, pull it out when I need to remember I’m capable of this all-consuming feeling of want.

Because my body still wants, badly and thoroughly. Especially with the lightest breeze on my bare skin, and the thought that there may be a world in which I get to kiss Quentin again. Do more than kiss him.

Perhaps he’s standing at his window now, much like I am…

“Hey, Moon?” I ask, my voice quiet. Like that first night I came back here, I’m not sure if I actually want him to answer or not.

And this time he doesn’t.

But it doesn’t keep my tipsy brain from imagining him there anyway.

Not as the Moon, but as Quentin. Imagining him giving me instructions on how to touch myself.

Run your fingers over your nipples , he might say.

My hands move before I can process that thought, and I sweep them over the tips of my breasts.

Then, deep and almost confiding: Slide a hand into your underwear, Nina, and make yourself come for me .

As soon as I make contact with my clitoris, I shiver.

I haven’t done this manually in so long, resorting instead to toys that will get me off as efficiently as possible on the rare occasions I feel turned on enough to bother at all, but the self-attention feels good.

Luxurious. Sensual instead of clinical. My eyes close so I can better focus on the sensations—of the nerve endings coming alive and rejoicing, of the muggy nighttime air caressing me as if it wants me to feel good too. You look so fucking beautiful.

And I don’t even have to imagine him saying that one, because he did. Quentin Bell told me I looked beautiful, and then we kissed and it was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.

A screen door slams shut and my eyes spring open to see Quentin walking out into his backyard, a glass in his hand.

Eeep!!

I’m not sure if the startled noise is in my head or if it actually comes out of my mouth as I drop to the ground and cover my head for some reason, like I’m in the middle of an elementary school tornado drill.

“Neen? Was that you?” Quentin’s question drifts up through the still-open window.

Okay. I must’ve actually made the noise.

I don’t think he saw me, though—at least not fully enough to process what I was doing.

If I ignore him, he won’t know that I was standing almost completely naked in front of an open window.

Doing more than standing , really. But…This is fine.

I can stay like this until he goes back inside. Or I can army crawl away, maybe.

Except , some daring part of me whispers, what would happen if I just…stood back up . My arousal raises its eyebrows and cocks its head in interest at the idea of how he might react.

I’m going to start with the worst case, because it does seem important: Quentin finds the situation extremely uncomfortable and asks me to please cover myself.

Or, no, an even worse outcome would definitely be that he’s not alone and I expose myself to him and like, Mr. Farina, whom he’s invited over for a late-night chat.

Most likely: It’s less sexy and more awkward than I’m imagining, and we wind up having a perfunctory conversation about the weather or something, with me in nothing but my underwear, before saying good night again.

Best-case outcome, though? I guess best-case would be that he’s into it and I orgasm so intensely that I discover another dimension.

My therapist once told me that sometimes big rewards involve big risks, and while I’m sure this is not the particular circumstance to which she was referring, I am still just drunk enough to decide it can apply here.

I turn back toward the window and slowly rise up in front of it, cupping my breasts in my hands so that I’m not immediately inflicting them upon the unwilling or, god forbid, our elderly across-the-street neighbor.

There’s barely enough light to see Quentin lowering himself into an Adirondack chair, a whiskey tumbler in his hand.

He glances up at me and freezes for a moment before dropping the rest of the way into his seat like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“Hi,” I say. It’s the complete opposite of the uninterested version I practiced in the mirror a few weeks ago. In fact, it’s probably the most interested “hi” I’ve delivered in my whole life.

“Hello again.” His voice is deep and rough like it was when he said my name earlier, before he completely came back to his senses.

There’s a long silence. Quentin brings his glass to his lips and takes a sip from it, eyes never leaving mine.

“Nice night,” I say conversationally, regret blooming in my chest. Guess it’s called most likely for a reason.

“Seems to be getting nicer by the second,” he answers with a small smile.

He takes another long drink. Quentin stares into his glass for a moment, looks back up at me.

Then he says with a casualness I can tell he doesn’t feel, “If your hands get tired…Don’t feel the need to keep them there on my account. ”

Oh my god. Are we veering toward best-case outcome?

There’s so much heat running through my bloodstream.

At first I think it’s embarrassment, and I am a little embarrassed.

Which feels reasonable considering I am about to basically flash Quentin from my upstairs window.

But it has more in common with the hot thrill I get whenever he touches me.

It’s as if I can feel him near me, against me, all the way up here.

My anxiety is still working under its usual impression that everything is about to go horribly wrong, but my body’s excited thrum is enough to drown it out, leaving only an easily ignored murmur.