Still Beating

by Jennifer Hartmann

You can’t tiptoe around your heart in fear of pissing people off or hurting their feelings. Sometimes we need to be a little selfish in order to avoid a life of complacency.”

“Um, did you land feet first in the boneyard?” I spit out my wine. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds depraved.” “Are you doing the mattress mambo?” “Just stop.” “Is he throwing the hotdog down?” “I literally hate you.”

Lily: I need your baloney pony. “Lily! Damn you!” I curse, glaring at the message, then watching as my friend doubles over with laughter. “I hate you so much.” A zing comes through and I force myself to open the message. Dean: Hi Lily

An hour later, Dean has me bent over the kitchen table, pounding into me from behind as my fingernails scratch along the wood.

It’s still beating. You’re still okay. And I still love you. - Dean

“Do you want to go to dinner tonight?” Oh, hello, word vomit. There you are. I inch backwards just a step, my face heating up from the bold request. Dean’s eyes flash with something playful, something almost wicked. “Are you asking me out on a date?” “Ew, no. Never.” I look away, pursing my lips, before glancing right back at him. “But do you?” “Yes.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Those breathing exercises were garbage.

“Ah, yes,” I agree, pretending to conjure up the memory, even though it has never left my mind. “You fell in love with me when I walked into Mr. Adilman’s class looking like a deer in headlights, wearing a hideous purple blazer that I may have burned.” My eyes narrow. “Then you showed your love by hiding Terrance the Tarantula in my gym shoe.”

“Okay…” I avert my eyes, rolling a thin button on my coat between my thumb and forefinger. My heart rate increases when I meet his gaze again, and I whisper softly, “I haven’t been with anyone else.” Dean studies me, unblinking, and replies, “Neither have I.”

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Cora lifts her head with a grin. “You know Shakespeare?” “We’ve never met. But I do know a sexy English teacher who often quotes him.”

“How many books are you bringing?” “Five.” “Jesus…” I huff. “It’s a series, Dean.”

Aiden, our six-year-old son, holds up the cup as hot liquid splashes over the rim. “We got your coffee ready. It’s already after eight o’clock, and I know how you get.”