In the Wake of Touch

Chapter 1: First Encounter

The mediocre sex is the one thing I won't miss about the city.

The loud noises, the infinite variety available on every block, the

constant stimulation that keeps me from hearing my own thoughts … that I

will miss.

I know a lot of people would consider Smoky Heights an idyllic place to

spend the foreseeable future, what with the small-mountain-town vibes, the

endless woods that meet the horizon in all directions, the peace and quiet

you hear so much about.

Those people didn't flee that town in their early twenties, to never

return until now.

Tonight's scoop du jour rolls off of me, panting, sweat running down

one side of his face.

Rude of me to call him the flavor of the day. We've been seeing each

other on a ton of days when neither of us has someone else filling our

calendar, on and off, for a while now. It sounds harsh, but we both know

what this is. A shitty alternative to sleeping alone.

Tonight's a night I'll take any company over my own.

My last night in NYC.

His eyes squint in question, and I give him a half-hearted smile with no

pretense behind it. I didn't even bother faking it, and we both know it. "A

lot on my mind," I tell him in response.

It's not an apology. It's the truth. So would be saying that he's maybe a

five out of ten, but sometimes a real cock is better than a silicone one, even

if he can't use it that well.

But then again, when you start your sexual history off with an eleven

out of ten, I guess everyone who comes after (pun sort of intended) is going

to be a disappointment. It's had me grading every partner since on a curve.

Haven't found anyone above a seven in all my years trying. And believe

me, I've tried.

But that's the thing about your first, you don't have anyone to compare

them to, so you don't even know if what you have is average, terrible, or—

depressingly, in my case—the best you'll ever find.

Speaking of going back to my hometown, of all that's on my mind, all

I'm freaking out about … His ears must be burning.

For my own sanity, all I can do is hope to hide out at my mom's, avoid

the reminders of my past, and somehow pray that I don't run straight into

my past.

You'd think more than a decade apart would fracture the magnetic pull

we once had between us, the electric chemistry that sparked up as soon as

we were in one another's presence. Common sense says it probably has. But

what we had defied common sense. A kind of attraction, an all-consuming

need, that's never manifested with anyone else since. I guess I thought it

would be the norm with other partners, but, turns out we were the anomaly,

and I'm the one who ruined the best thing I'll ever have out of selfish fear.

I suck in quick breaths through my mouth, in and out, while my eyes

bounce from object to object in my room, anything in the vicinity, until the

thoughts stop spiraling. Until my head quiets a bit.

The guy to my right helps. So do the shouting voices from the street,

floating up and infiltrating my sixth-floor window in the midnight hour,

sandwiched by sirens and the occasional single horn blast.

Not sure what's going to focus me when I don't have these distractions

to drown out the sound of my own thoughts, but I guess that's just one more

cross to bear when I'm back in the Heights.

But when you get the call that your only remaining parent has months

left to live, what else do you do? Maybe it's the guilt of leaving her alone

all those years ago, never going back to visit since, maybe it's just what

anyone with a heart and the financial means to pull it off would do, but I

didn't think twice. I knew there was only one right thing to do after that

news, and if I didn't follow through with it, I'd never forgive myself.

They may still never forgive me, but there's no way I'm not trying now.

I turned in my notice as an associate at the major firm I've been

employed by for the past eight years (they didn't accept it, but I did try to

quit), broke the lease on my studio apartment on the Upper West Side, and

scheduled movers to be here tomorrow to pack it all up and put it in a

portable storage unit while I head back to where I escaped from.

Never thought I'd be forced to face my fears at thirty-three, but I guess I

couldn't run forever.

"Aurora?"

My eyes find Trevor's, and I see the concern shining in his.

"Mmm?"

"You good, hon?" he asks, that Eastern seashore accent poking through,

despite the fact he's lived in Manhattan about as long as I have.

I let my fingers trail over his temple, push through his sandy blonde

hair, mid-length nails scraping softly along his scalp. "As good as I can be,"

I promise him.

"Gonna be weird without you on the sixty-second floor." Trevor never

passed the bar, so he's worked as a paralegal for years longer than he ever

planned to. He's a good paralegal. A good guy. Just not the guy capable of

passing his bar on the third attempt. And not the guy capable of holding my

interest, at least not for more than the occasional office lunch or casual

hookup. Though, to be fair to him, nobody does these days.

"Gonna be weird, period," I tell him, trying to keep my mind on the

here and now, not let it drift and wander to what's waiting for me back

home. Who. All the reasons I left in the first place. "What am I supposed to

do when I'm craving Korean barbecue at two in the morning?" I joke.

"I suspect you won't have a shortage of barbecue where you're headed."

"A definite shortage of variety, though." In a town of less than five

thousand? Barely got a Sonic and a Dollar General. "And restaurants open

past 8:00 p.m.," I tack on, remembering the one local diner we had growing

up used to close before the sun went down. Though, it's probably out of

business now, like so much of the town, considering who used to run it.

"I'll send you some of your usuals from Goldbelly. Besides, you won't

be gone forever, right?"

I scoff. "I'll be scratching my way back to the city tooth and claw the

second my mom's affairs are in order and the dirt is on the casket." The

words are more callous than I intend them to be, but they're still true.

That cynical voice in the back of my head tells me those sound like

famous last words, and I let the bevy of sounds that accompany living on an

island along with millions of others drown that voice out in the cacophony,

the way I've found peace for the past twelve year