The screen of my phone lit up with a text notification, and I picked it up off the coffee table to find a message from my sister.
Annie: Can you watch Emma and Lucy Friday afternoon so I can take Henry to the dentist?
Two weeks after our coffee date with our sisters, and I was starting to wonder if Annie had actually fallen in love with Reed. Like fucking clockwork, I’d get daily texts or phone calls that often started out as normal chitchat about her kids, our crazy parents, or my column, but eventually, my sister would find some way to steer the conversation to Reed. I had a feeling today wasn’t any different.
In the spirit of giving her the benefit of the doubt, I tapped out a reply and silently prayed this conversation wouldn’t lead toward her asking me something ridiculous like Reed’s shoe size.
Me: That shouldn’t be a problem. What time?
Hmmm…speaking of Reed’s shoe size…
While I waited for Annie’s response, my gaze moved toward Reed’s bare feet that were resting comfortably on the top of my coffee table. Surprisingly, for a guy, he had really nice feet. They were just the right size—not big like clown’s feet or freakishly small—and the skin was smooth and void of cracked heels or eyesores like bunions or warts. His toes were long, and the nails were trimmed and well-manicured.
Call me a weirdo, but the man had some nice fucking feet.
“You got a thing for my feet, LoLo?” he asked while wiggling his toes, and I wondered how long I’d been sitting here, examining his feet like there was going to be a pop quiz on his anatomy.
“Not particularly,” I answered, and he waggled his brows in my direction.
His smirk turned cocky, and I tapped his ribs with my foot.
“Oh, get over yourself,” I huffed. He just laughed it off.
I mean, if I’d ever develop a fetish for men’s feet, I’d venture to guess that his would be at the top of my list, but feet weren’t really my thing.
Reed is your thing, my mind whispered.
Yeah. I guess he kind of was my thing. He was the one person I’d been spending all of my time with, and even though he had a penchant for making me crazy, I didn’t want it to stop.
I loved spending time with him.
I pretty much loved everything about him.
That’s because you actually love him.
Jesus. Did my brain ever turn off?
I was trying to have a lazy Saturday afternoon at my apartment with my boyfriend, and the crazy bitch wouldn’t shut up about loving him and shit. For the love of unicorns, I chanted to my brain in response, let both of us work on our columns while music and reruns of The Office play in the background in peace.
I already had enough interruptions in the form of playing merry-go-round via text conversation with Annie. I glanced at the screen of my phone and saw her reply.
Annie: His appointment is at 1 p.m. So, I’d probably drop them off around noon and pick them up around 2.
Me: Yeah. I can do that. Just remind me Thursday.
Annie: Fantastic. Thank you from me and Dr. Kindrick. Last time I brought all three to his office, they broke a fucking chair and managed to squirt fluoride onto the ceiling tiles.
Me: LOL. Let me guess…Lucy’s appointment. Henry and Emma were the havoc-wreakers?
Annie: Bingo. Those little assholes are crafty.
Sure, it could come across as cold and the opposite of motherly when my sister called her children assholes, but I knew she meant it in the most affectionate way.
They were her little assholes.
Annie: Which dentist does Reed go to?
See what I mean?
And it was like she wasn’t even trying at this point.
Her conversational segues toward Reed weren’t even creative anymore. I mean, she was now inquiring about his dental health. What was next? Accountants and car mechanics?
Me: 415-555-1345
Annie: Is that his dentist?
Me: No, Ms. Nosypants. That’s his number. So now, every time you have the urge to ask me about Reed, just text him instead.
Annie: You’re going to regret that…
Me: At this point, if it stops your Reed questions, I’m willing to take the gamble.
Annie: :D
Me: Anyway, it’s probably fair. I mean, Brian and I text all the time.
Annie: You and Brian text?
Me: Uh-huh. You’re our number one topic.
Annie: You guys talk about me??? What the fuck, Lola? What do you say???
The absurd thing was, I actually did text with Brian. Usually, I just teased him about asking the president for approval for something random, but every once in a while, the topic would turn toward my sister.
Me: Umm…this week Brian and I discussed your obsession with being Team Logan. We both think you’re crazy. Rory should totally be with Jess.
Annie: Liar. Brian doesn’t even watch the Gilmore Girls.
Me: When you’re at Pilates on Thursday nights he does.
Annie: That bastard.
Reed’s soft chuckles pulled my attention away from Annie’s messages, and oddly enough, I found him buried in his phone and grinning like a loon.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your sister.”
I quirked a questioning brow. “What about my sister?”
“She’s texting me pictures of you,” he responded as his fingers tapped across the screen of his phone.
“Pictures of me?”
“Oh, yeah,” he answered with a wink. “Middle school. Homecoming. Prom. I gotta say, you should probably reconsider bringing back the bubblegum-pink taffeta, Roller Skates.”
“I fucking rocked that dress,” I muttered as I typed out a text to Annie.
Me: You’re a bigger asshole than all three of your kids put together.
Annie: Where do you think they got it? :)
Instead of humoring her with a response, I chose to ignore her texts for the rest of the day and redirect my focus back toward next week’s column. Served her right for being such a quick trigger with my embarrassing pictures. Plus, I knew nothing made Annie crazier than the silent treatment. No doubt, she’d be demon dialing me by seven p.m.
A new song started to play from my laptop speakers, and Reed’s brow rose in curiosity. “What band is this?”
I stared at him in absolute horror. “Excuse me?”
“I said…What. Band. Is. This?” he repeated, only ten times louder than before.
“I heard you the first time,” I retorted and shoved my toe into his stomach. He feigned a groan and I grinned. “I can’t believe you don’t know this band.”
“Well, I don’t.” He moved his fingers gently across the bottom of my foot, and I immediately pulled away with a giggle. He smirked. “Mind enlightening me?”
“It’s actually not a band. It’s a musical genius who goes by the name BØRNS. And you’re currently hearing his latest album called Dopamine.”
He nodded, and one of my favorite songs, “Holy Ghost,” continued to serenade us.
“I’m addicted to the ethereal sound he’s got going on.” I sighed dreamily and watched Reed type something on his laptop.
He chuckled. “I can tell.”
I quirked a brow, and he nodded toward my toes, which were tapping happily against his side. “Well, I can’t help it. This album is genius!” I exclaimed. “I mean, I’ve always been a fan of this guy’s dreamy, indie-style pop, but this album is different. It’s like some kind of psychedelic disco vibe with a sixties glam pop undertone. It’s brilliant, and I’ve yet to hear a song I haven’t loved.”
“You’re a little romantic at heart.”
“I am not,” I scoffed.
“Oh, yes, you are,” he refuted. “And this album is a perfect example of that.”
“Do tell how you came to that conclusion.”
“Every song I’ve heard so far has this poetic whimsy about it. Not to mention, the lyrics revolve around his muse and him being in love with her,” Reed explained. “This is right up sugary-sweet Lola’s alley.”
“Sugary-sweet?” I questioned in disbelief. “I’m not sugary-sweet.”
“If you were a wine, you’d be fucking pink Moscato,” he added with a knowing grin. “Believe me, you’re sugary-sweet.”
I scoffed, but I didn’t argue any further. Mostly because I knew he was right, and well, I wasn’t exactly a fan of admitting when Reed was right.
“Well, do you like the album?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. I’d have to listen to it a few more times before I decide.”
“You’re selective and picky with music.”
“I know. And you’re impulsive.”
I giggled. “I am impulsive when it comes to music. Even if there is one little lyric in a song that I love, but the rest of the song is just kind of meh, I will download it and listen to it for that one lyric alone.”
“And you’re a mood listener,” he added with a grin.
“No, I’m not.”
He flashed a knowing look. “Yeah, you are.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you flit around between genres solely depending on your mood and emotions,” he explained. “The other day you were playing Rage Against the Machine’s ‘Bulls on Parade’ because you were irritated you had to clean your apartment.”
“So, I occasionally like to listen to Rage. Big deal.”
“When you’re angry.”
“That’s not true.”
“Name one time you listened to Rage Against the Machine when you were happy.”
I dug my toes into his ribs. “Shut. Up.”
He chuckled softly. “Exactly my point.” He reached under my left leg and tickled behind my knee. I yanked my leg away with fake self-righteous indignation. Really, I was just trying to avoid peeing myself when the tickling became too much.
“Stop it. I’m ignoring you, Mr. Know-It-All.”
He flashed a smirk in my direction, but that was the last one he gave me before buckling down and getting back to work. His fingers moved in fluid motion across the keys and teased me with the words I knew they were forming.
So, I did the same.
At least, I acted like it. In reality, I had fallen into the BuzzFeed black hole of puppy pictures and quizzes that told me when I would get married based off of my preferences in chocolate.
While I was trying to decide which was cuter, a corgi puppy or a dachshund puppy, my laptop pinged with a new email notification.
Corgi. Definitely, corgi.
Wait…no, dachshund.
Shit. I can’t decide.
I settled on a tie and opened up my Gmail account in the browser.
An email from Reed stared back at me. It had no subject line, and in some sort of bout of reverse psychology, I was immediately curious as to what waited inside.
“What is this?” I asked, and he smiled softly. “Are you sending me dick pics?”
I couldn’t deny I hoped his answer would be yes to that question.
Reed Luca had a beautiful penis.
Yeah, I know, that was a weird thing to say, but Reed Luca’s penis is beautiful.
Just trust me on this, okay?
I’m not the type of girl who walks around just complimenting dicks on a whim.
It takes a real special dick to tickle my fancy.
His smile grew wider. “It’s my next column.”
My eyebrow rose of its own accord. Aside from the beginning, he’d never let me read his columns before they published. I had a feeling that was more for his safety, and certainly the health of our budding relationship, than anything else. It was his job to disagree with me, but that didn’t stop me from taking a few poorly executed swings at him each time I read it for myself.
“Just read it, LoLo.”
I stared at him for a few seconds, searching his eyes for answers, but his expression remained irritatingly neutral.
I slid my finger across the mouse pad and clicked to open his email. “Do I need to, like, lie down while reading this?” I asked before I let my eyes move down to the contents of his mail.
His gaze mocked my already sedentary position on the couch beside him—I was completely sprawled out like a lazy bum, my feet in his lap.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I meant by that. Is it going to piss me off?”
“Read. It.”
“God, you’re bossy,” I muttered. His chuckles mirrored the same soft volume.
Finally ready to engage with his words, I read each one with full focus.
A Picture of Intimacy & Why You Need the Right Partner to Paint It
By Reed Luca
Intimacy.
Whether your mind works in stages or milestones, the most important part of intimacy, as with many other things, is the process.
But it’s not one you can follow with instruction from anyone but yourself.
“Intimacy isn’t just sex. Intimacy isn’t just sharing your body with someone else.
It isn’t a to-do list you can check off as you reach each milestone. There isn’t a manual on it, no paperback you can purchase at Target to give a step-by-step guide on how to achieve it.” –Lola Sexton, Sex Says
You may have gotten used to Ms. Sexton saying one thing, followed by my explanation of its lack of validity for some subset of the population.
But these words ring too true, their message is too insightful, and their validity on a broad scale is perhaps the most expansive view Ms. Sexton has ever written.
I blinked several times in absolute shock. Holy hell. Am I reading this right?
Real intimacy is a sacred experience. It comes from the soul, and like many matters of true spiritual satisfaction, the key to finding it, the route to get there, and the signs of its existence aren’t concrete. It comes from a place within you, and despite your best efforts to decode its composition, it never exposes that deep, secret trust. It is willingly, naturally, and without doubt or worry, reserving your soul for someone else blind of the consequences and willing to absorb them no matter how big the impact. It is giving all of yourself to that person, no matter how vulnerable and fragile it may make you feel.
There is no timeline, and it can’t be forced. It will happen naturally and without restraint.
I continued to read, expecting to eventually reach the part in the column where Reed Luca disagreed with me.
But it never came.
It. Never. Came.
Physical attraction is often craved by humans above all things, but it is fleeting. When you can find someone who slips under your skin, who can embrace the dusty and dark corners of your soul and dance with your mind into a powerful connection, you’ll look to your canvas to find it full.
Full of contentment and safety and full of something so delicate, you’d consider changing yourself to keep it.
Sex Says that intimacy’s foundation is trust.
And Reed This, America: Sex Says is right.
To my absolute horror, tears soaked the collar of my no-frills T-shirt, the beauty of his words and the imprint each one left on my soul nearly shattering.
“You agree with me?” I whispered, voice shaky.
Reed looked up from his screen at the sound of my raw emotion. It wasn’t a long trip from noticing my voice to the tears on my face, and he wasted even less time before acting. He set his computer on the coffee table and pulled me into his lap.
Each word had been written carefully and concisely to me. I felt it as sure as I felt the hard flesh of his stomach under my hand and the beating heart in my chest. His take on intimacy traced mine precisely, and I knew why—because we shared it with one another.
His fingers softly moved a few loose strands of hair out of my eyes. “I agree with you.”
“You agree with me?” I repeated like a moron, still trying to process it all. In a couple of months, we’d gone from hating one another to this. Though, maybe there really hadn’t been so much hate there, after all.
A smile crested his lips, and he nodded. “I agree with you,” he said, humoring me and my psychosis, and pressed a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. “And more than that, I loved what you wrote.”
“I think I need a moment to let my brain process this.”
His smile grew wider just before he shoved his face into my neck.
“This makes me hate you even less now,” I teased.
“You don’t hate me.” The words were slightly muffled by my skin. He tickled my rib cage, and I giggled.
“This makes me dislike you even less now.”
“You don’t dislike me.” He tickled me again. Thanks to my squirming in an attempt to get away from his persistent fingers, my computer started to fall off my lap. But Reed, quick as a cat, caught it before it hit the ground. He started to set it on the coffee table beside his, but he stopped when his gaze caught my screensaver.
“Wait…” Little laughter lines folded the skin at the corners of his eyes as he squinted at the photo. “Is that a picture of an old lady in a park with a puppet?”
“Yep,” I said proudly. I’d found this picture somewhere on the internet and knew instantly that I had to keep it. I might even say I’d found a certain intimacy with it. I mean, it was the cutest fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life.
He examined it closely. “That puppet looks exactly like her.”
“It’s a marionette. And yes, it does.”
He shook his head minutely, his lips curving up like maybe, just maybe, he thought I was the cutest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his life. “And her marionette is literally feeding squirrels.”
“I know.” I smiled wide and nodded my head excitedly. “I want to be exactly like her when I grow up.”
“Exactly like her?” he questioned in amusement. “With the look-alike marionette and all?”
“You bet your sweet ass, I do. I want to take it to the park and feed squirrels with it, too.” I took in his befuddled expression. “Wait…is that weird?”
“It’s probably the weirdest life aspiration I’ve ever heard anyone speak,” Reed said through a quiet laugh. “But it’s weird in an eccentrically adorable, Lola kind of way.”
“Reed Luca, are you sweet on me?” I whispered and placed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He smirked. “You bet your sweet ass I am.”
Ditto.