A Risk Worth Taking

by Jessica Joyce

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he says silkily, standing.

Hey, he mouths.

“I’m about to be intensely forward,” I warn him. Connor’s eyes light up. “The answer is yes.”

He grins, leaning down to kiss the tip of my nose, and the softness of it startles me, then heats my blood. His expression straightens as his gaze roams over my face. “I could be so fucking reckless with this, but I want to be careful.” My heart drops. “No—” “No, I mean…” He shakes his head. “I want to be careful with the time we have. I don’t want to blaze through it just because I’m fucking desperate for you. I want to…” His body betrays him, hips pushing forward as he groans. “I want to take care, I guess. Of you, and this.”

I’m so used to thinking of the word careful in how it relates to the way I view the world, historically—with caution, aware of every angle of risk. I never thought of it the way Connor means right now: to literally be full of care. To be thoughtful and attentive. Diligent. When he says it, his eyes on fire, it’s a good thing, not something I have to fix.

but my blood goes molten when he whispers in my ear, “Show me how to be careful with this. I want it so fucking bad.”

“Yeah,” he says, “That’s what you like.”

“Fuck, I feel you coming,”

“My flight’s canceled.” I say it as evenly as I can, but my mouth betrays my words, pulling up into the goofiest smile that’s ever existed. An easy entry into The Guinness Book of World Records.

tells me he’ll take care of me and then does, fingers circling just above where he moves inside me. He whispers how much he wants this, how unreal it is, then feeds me his sounds as he comes.

and confetti on the ground, which Connor will no doubt be vacuuming up for months to come. But I like that he’ll have a lingering, tangible memory of me. If I dropped extra handfuls behind his bookshelf, who could blame me?

“And holy shit am I glad I got to be the last few pages in your Portland chapter.”

I’ve learned that every month in San Francisco requires a complex layer system. The weather here is like a sandwich: chilly in the morning with a several-hour window graciously allowing you to remove a specified number of layers, then cold again as soon as the sun sets.

“You can’t walk six feet without tripping over a handsome white guy with brown hair. There are a million of them.”

Behind my back, the clink of glass echoes—the wine bottle hitting the logo buckle on my purse—and for a beat I’m transported back to the alley that December night back in Portland, when I was surrounded by bottles and grinning up at Connor.

I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck so tightly that he lets out a strangled laugh. “Oh, my god,” I whisper against his cheek. “You got your dream job.” “I got it,” he says, pressing his face into the curve of my shoulder. He inhales, then lets loose a sigh that’s steeped in relief, his hands moving up and down my back in slow sweeps.

“I’ve spent the last six months texting you pictures of random men, wanting it to be you.” “That was an occasionally offensive game,” he says behind my hand.

“Now it’s your adventure, too,” I say quietly. His smile echoes my tone. “Yeah.” “I’m really good at sharing,” I promise.