A Risk Worth Taking

by Jessica Joyce

the intro to Doja Cat’s “Paint The Town Red” leaking around his broad shoulders.

The curved line of his thigh is indecent, the square cap of his knee damn near spiritual.

“But it’s not as natural for us to think about the risks associated with not changing. What are you missing out on if you don’t take the job or move across the country? What are you missing out on, Claireful, if you don’t get out of a relationship you know isn’t working for you?”

His hunger feeds mine, stripping away any coyness. “Slow and careful isn’t really what I want to be tonight.”

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

Taking his hand feels like the riskiest thing I’ve done in years and somehow also the safest.

“I don’t want a drink,” I say quietly. “Okay,” he says, voice dipped low, too. “Whatever you do want, maybe you should start it.”

I like the way he says that, with a weight of familiarity, like he knows me already. I like how he puts me in the driver’s seat, how he stills as I close the meager distance between us, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. I like the way the breath escapes from between his parted lips, soft and unsteady, as I draw his hand around to the small of my back.

“This is going to be a one-night stand on a technicality, just so you know. If you weren’t leaving tomorrow, I’d keep you until you got sick of me.”

As if on cue, freezing rain starts pelting down. From somewhere far away, I think, I hope my flight doesn’t get delayed. But when Connor parts my shirt, kissing down my chest until his breath is hot against my nipple through the lace of my bra, I think, holy hell. Yes I do.

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.

“Why’d it take you so long to get to me, Claire Ashford?” he murmurs, pushing a strand of damp hair off my cheek. My heart soars into my throat. “I could ask you the same thing.”

amazing things in San Francisco.” His voice dips. “And holy shit am I glad I got to be the last few pages in your Portland chapter.”

His mouth on mine is the period at the end of that sentence, but it also feels the beginning of some sort of promise.

“I guess I was nervous about what your response would be. I didn’t want to encroach on your space, you know? This is your adventure, Claireful.” I love the way he says it, like that name makes up all of the things I am now and what I haven’t become yet. Like he wants all of it. I may be a reformed careful girl, but the safety in that knowledge does something irrevocable to my heart.