Note: I’ve had more than one person go, “Who’s Sheridan?” while reading this, so if you don’t know who that is, then you should probably re-read a couple chapters before trying to tackle this one. Or, if you don’t feel like putting in the effort, she’s the redhead kleptomaniac Emerson works with. Okay? Cool.

Nine

The next morning, I woke up from the most singularly disturbing dream I’d ever had in my life and immediately proceeded to snatch up my phone and dial Speranza’s now-familiar number. The seconds felt like ages, the images from my dream burning themselves across my mind, scorching the completely inappropriate thoughts permanently into my brain, and I nearly screamed in frustration when I was sent to voicemail. I felt dirty, irreparably tainted, and I needed either to take an icy shower or talk to Speranza, right now. I hung up and called again.

On the fourth ring, Speranza’s sleep-warmed voice answered, “Emerson? Are you – it’s four o’clock in the morning, are you all right?”

“No,” I said, shakily, and nervously clutched a fistful of my green flannel pajama top. My legs were shaking, even as I paced the length of my apartment – two, four, six times, until I forced myself to sit down on the couch, my knees knocking together. “Tell me, are there any side effects for this medication I should know about?”

“Oh.” Her voice was suddenly brightly, more alert, and I heard her clearing her throat, along with the rustling of cloth. Sheets, probably. “Well, yes, every medication invariably has potential side effects. The pharmacist should have given you information when you picked up the prescription. A handout or something, stapled to the bag, maybe?”

Shutting my eyes, I tried to picture the bag as I’d brought it home, opened it on my kitchen table and undoubtedly filed the medication handout somewhere, but after exactly three seconds, the blackness behind my eyelids gave way to a rather vivid depiction of my dream. I squeaked in terror and opened my eyes. “Yes, maybe, but I don’t know where it is,” I said, a hint of desperation coloring my voice. “Do you happen to remember anything about nightmares, maybe?”

Not that it had been a complete nightmare, but—

No, don’t even think about it.

“Oh, dear,” she said, followed by the highly recognizable beeps of a microwave. It whirred merrily in the background, much to my displeasure. I was not happy about anything sounding merry at the moment. “You’ve been having nightmares?”

I swallowed roughly. “Just tonight.”

A sigh. “You poor thing. Would you like to talk about it?”

“No!” I flushed at the mere thought of it. “That’s – no. It’s embarrassing. It was about Nicolas.”

“Ah,” said Speranza in a knowing tone that made me inexplicably angry.

“What?” I snapped.

The unmistakable clinking of a cup or mug being removed from the microwave. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset. It’s just that you’ve had an embarrassing dream about Nicolas. I think it’s fairly obvious.”

Unbidden, an uncomfortably warm blush sprang to my cheeks. Actually, my entire body was rather too hot already. I could feel light perspiration on my back and shoulders, and I needed to shower right now, but this phone call was incredibly important, so it would have to wait a few more minute. Squaring my shoulders, I ignored the fervent itch of dirtiness and resolved to see this conversation through before I indulged myself in a shower.

“What are you talking about?” I growled.

“You’ve come to care for each other,” murmured Speranza lightly. “I’ve been meaning to start a discussion on this for a while now. It seems you’ve found yourself a friend. I’m very proud of you.”

I wanted to be offended that she was proud of me, like she was my mother and I’d just done something embarrassingly basic like tie my shoes. Somehow, though, her words infused me with a sense of warmth, and I found myself lacking the annoyance I wanted to fuel my words.

“I’ve always been capable of making friends,” I pointed out.

“Of course. You’ve simply chosen not to. You’re moving on.”

I paused, contemplating that. I supposed she was right, but that didn’t make my dream—my nightmare­—any less terrifying.

“This isn’t what I called to talk about,” I said in an attempt to change the subject. “I wanted to know if my medication could cause weird dreams.” Because then I would definitely want to switch. There was absolutely no way I could handle thinking of Nicolas like that every night.

Speranza made a thoughtful, humming noise in the back of her throat. “The two subjects are related, though, and you’re avoiding it. Why is that, Emerson?”

Gripping the phone so tightly it creaked beneath my flexing fingers, I gritted my teeth and began to regret ever making this phone call. “Because,” I forced out. “It’s embarrassing.”

“There’s something else you’re not telling me,” she mused, and I silently cursed her for her excessive talent at picking up on all the things I didn’t want her to. “You’re comfortable until I bring up Nicolas. Tell me, have you had a disagreement?”

“Not since last week,” I said.

“I see.” She sighed. “Well, Emerson, until you decide to give me all the facts, here is my guess: It wasn’t a side effect. You’ve been going through a lot lately, and Nicolas has been a big part of that, so it’s completely natural to dream about him. You had an argument, and it’s still been on your mind.”

“He also came to my birthday party,” I offered, and then immediately regretted it. I hadn’t particularly wanted to share that bit of information. It was early and my brain was still rubbing figurative sleep out of its traumatized eyes from the dream.

“Oh, did he,” she drawled.

I knew exactly what expression she was wearing: high eyebrows arched, one fractionally higher than the other, sunny eyes bright with a million new theories and ideas, the corner of her mouth curled ever-so-slightly, twitching, wanting to smile but knowing it was inappropriate. I hated that look. It usually meant something like dragging me to the grocery store to pay entirely with pennies.

It was an evil look.

“Yes, but it didn’t mean anything,” I explained quickly. “I didn’t even invite him. My sister did.”

“Your sister knows about him?”

I briefly contemplated throwing the phone at the wall but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the ensuing mess. “Yes. He’s my friend, like you said. I’m just saying, I’ve been hanging out with him a lot, that’s all.”

“I see,” she said in a tone that implied she did not actually see. “Well, maybe we can work this into our next session. But for tonight, let me get back to my theory. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Nicolas lately and you’re having some negative reactions when I bring him up, so there’s some kind of correlation there. What I’m going to have you do is a little bit different. Have you ever heard of opposite-to-emotion techniques?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, but the name seems obvious.”

Chuckling, she continued, “Yes, it does, doesn’t it. Well, it’s pretty self-explanatory. Thoughts follow actions. Do something nice and neighborly for him, and you might find yourself feeling a little less hostile, or whatever it is you’re feeling. Do you understand?”

A nod. “I’m not stupid.”

“Oh, Emerson, always so prickly. Do you want some help coming up with something to do for him?”

My heart spasmed in my chest, and I shook my head fervently even though she couldn’t see it. “No! I mean, uh, no, that’s okay. I’ll – I’ll think of something myself.”

Speranza hesitated, her breath coming in little puffs against the receiver for a long time. “I really want to drag whatever you’re hiding out into the open, but I don’t think this is the right time.”

Glancing at the clock on my microwave, I noticed that it was nearly four-thirty and nodded in silent agreement. “We can talk about it at our appointment,” I suggested softly, knowing she would jump at the freely given chance to grill me without complaint.

“Lovely,” she chirped, as though she’d known I would offer it. “Is there anything else bothering you, or shall we hang up ‘til then?”

Dangerous, crafty woman, that Speranza.

“I think I’m good for now,” I muttered, watching as Mistoffelees poked his tiny black head into the kitchen and yawned, stretching luxuriously, before he trotted up to me and began weaving through my ankles. Absently, I reached down to scratch his head and said, “I’ll see you later this week.”

“Goodbye, Emerson. Take care,” she replied, and hung up.

I followed suit, frowning and scratching my chin as I replaced the phone in its cradle. Now I just had to figure out what to do.

-

The plan was to go over later once it was more of an acceptable time of morning, like eight, and thank Nicolas again for the watch, because it had a square face and little black contrasting numbers, and it had instantly become my favorite. It was as though he'd somehow known I preferred gold over silver and squares over circles without even asking. Or maybe he was just observant, because I rather appreciated even numbers and nice, symmetrical shapes, and circles were associated with that nasty 3.1415926... well, best not to get started on the entire thing. It was an uneven number, anyway. I was not a fan.

My venture into the hallway began like any other: with twenty-six slams and my hand tucked inside my shirt, stretching out the sleeve. Somewhere around slam number nineteen, Nicolas popped into the hallway, smirking as he leaned against the wall in a suspiciously pristine-looking white shirt and tossed his wavy black hair out of his eyes.

He waited politely until I had finished and then asked, "So, where are you headed?"

"About five feet in your direction," I said, sidling up beside him. "I just wanted to say thanks."

"No problem. Happy birthday again," he replied, and then he unexpectedly leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks, pulling away with a smile that quickly faded when he saw my face.

"You." I was at a loss for words. The dream slammed its way to the forefront of my thoughts with brute force, and I flushed. "Did you just--?"

"It's an Italian thing," he instantly explained, holding up his hands. "And most of Europe. It was just reflex. I wasn't thinking about--" He grimaced. "You're probably freaked out now."

"Um," I said, feeling rather stunned. My cheeks were tingling, and I took two giant steps back, my hand already outstretched for my door. Nicolas's expression was, in a word, crushed, and I wanted to tell him that it had nothing to do with him and everything to do – okay, so it had a lot to do with him, but it wasn’t his fault. It was my crazy subconscious’s fault, and all I could think about was washing my face, but I suddenly lacked the breath to explain exactly what the hell was going on in my brain. I mumbled out a hurried, "Sorry," and then slammed the door to my apartment and raced to my bathroom sink to wash my face ten times -- no more, no less.

The phone rang in the middle of it, but my face was wet and soapy, and I would have had to start it all over again if I'd stopped now. The watch from Nicolas lay carefully on the sink counter, far away from the faucet, where I'd placed it to avoid getting it wet.

"Hell," I muttered to myself, wiping my face on a clean, white towel. I had to discard it in the laundry and hang a new one before I could set about wiping down the sink with Clorox, and then I had to clean the kitchen sink to ensure a matching state of cleanliness. By the time my tasks were complete and I had made my way into the hall again, my neighbor had quite understandably vacated the area and presumably retreated into his apartment.

After the ritualistic twenty-six slams, I knocked on his door and hesitantly called, "Nicolas?" but there was no answer, even though I could see a yellow wash of light underneath the door. Frowning, I pulled back and jiggled my wrist, the watch sliding down my arm to rest heavily on my wrist.

"Nicolas," I said again, almost desperately. It had only been a week since the last time I've offended him to the point of social withdrawal on his part. If he didn't answer, then that meant he was really, truly hurt, and this time I hadn't even taken the opportunity to apologize or offer food.

This had definitely not been the plan.

Feeling miserable, I once again retreated into my abysmally white and boring apartment and reached for my phone. There was only one person I really wanted to call right now, but he didn't seem to want to speak to me, so I would have to settle for Speranza.

"Emerson," she greeted me with a tone of great surprise after the third ring.

"Hi," I said, biting my lip. Now that I had her on the line, I wasn't really sure what to say. Pinning the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I began fidgeting with my hands, fingernails tracing my almost raw knuckles.

Speranza blissfully did not comment on the fact that I'd called her home number and then gone dismally quiet. Instead, I heard the soft shuffling of pages and a dull thud in the background before she murmured, "What's wrong?"

After a brief moment of indecision, I decided to forego the Nicolas topic and press forward on another issue that had been bothering me lately. "I hate my medication," I confessed.

"Ah," she hummed. "All right, let's talk about that, then. What don't you like about it?"

"Well, first of all, it's not working," I snapped, suddenly annoyed. This was not exactly an enjoyable topic for me. "Secondly, I don't need it."

"You don't need it?" she repeated, and I noticed that she had tactfully overstepped my comment about the medication's ineffectiveness. "Then why did you come to see me in the first place?"

I fumbled for a response. "Well. Because I need help."

She gave a soft sigh. "Then please, take my advice. And take your medication." She paused. "It doesn't take effect right away. Give it time, Emerson. Is this about the side effects again? Did you have another nightmare?"

I shook my head violently. "No, that’s not it. Just – if my medication doesn't work soon, I'm not going to be able to enjoy a normal life when I finally have it."

She hesitated. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Neither was I, actually. Frowning, I absently shook my wrist to feel the watch move against my skin and mumbled, "Never mind."

"Emerson," she said seriously. "You know you can tell me anything and I'll keep it confidential, don't you? I'm here for you."

"Yeah," I replied, although I didn't really know or trust any of that. Maybe I should have called Sheridan instead. I didn't have her number, though.

"Okay," she sighed, and it didn't sound like she believed me at all. I didn't blame her. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?"

"No," I lied, and inched my thumb over to the 'end' button. "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

"It's quite all right."

"Have a good night," I told her before she could say anything else, or worse, pick up on the uncertainty in my voice. "I'll see you—" I quickly stole a glance at my calendar to see when my next appointment was "—in a few days.”

"Take care, Emerson," she softly replied, and I hung up.

"Hell," I said, dropping the phone back into its cradle, and sat on the couch to put my face in my hands. I forced myself to breathe. It was time to get off my ass, make my lunch, and force myself to go to work.

-

Now that Sheridan had basically pledged undying friendship to me in the form of awkward gestures and returning previously stolen desk items, she had started a rather annoying yet endearing tradition of taking up half my desk space at lunchtime. At noon exactly, I pulled my saran-wrapped salad out of the fridge from the break room and returned to my desk where, predictably, Sheridan had pulled up a chair and was waiting with a turkey sandwich. She grinned and waved when she saw me, and I sighed, plopping into my chair, and mustered up a weak smile in return.

“You seem grumpy today,” she mused, biting into her sandwich, and I quickly pulled out two Clorox wipes and put them down in front of her to catch any crumbs or tomato guts. To her credit, instead of giving me an offended glare like most people would have, she merely graced me with a sheepish look and mumbled, “Sorry.” Pausing to wipe at a smudge of mayo on her cheek, she raised her eyebrows at me and continued, “So what’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” I lied, wanting nothing more than to push the subject of Nicolas as far out of my mind as possible and feeling somewhat irritable that she’d brought it up. Nodding approvingly as she took another Clorox wipe and spread it on her lap like a napkin, I began unwrapping the saran wrap from my bowl and tried to change the subject. “How are things with Dr. Demitrav?” I asked, smirking privately to myself as I finally finagled the last of the saran wrap off and picked up the meticulous plastic fork that was packaged in with the lettuce and a tiny container of dressing. We’d see how she liked people prying into her business. Not that she had known about the dream, but I needed something to distract myself from the vine-like tendrils of memories creeping into my consciousness.

“Oh, erm.” Sheridan looked down and to the side at the wheels of my chair, shrugging. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s a lot of hard work, you know?” She laughed abruptly. “What am I saying, of course you know. Look at you.” Gesturing with her half-eaten sandwich, she smiled wryly and said, “You’re like, permitting me to eat at your desk and stuff. It’s crazy.”

Frowning, I dropped my gaze to the desk, half-covered in wipes, and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “It’s not much progress, really.”

She lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug, the gesture at odds with her brilliant grin. “But it is progress. You get it? You wouldn’t even talk to people before because they would breathe their germs on you.” Her grin softened into something more sentimental. “It’s really nice, Emerson. I’m proud of you.”

Suddenly feeling rather embarrassed, I fumbled with my plastic fork and stabbed a few pieces of lettuce and contemplated eating them. “Yeah, thanks,” I murmured, ignoring the blush I could feel creeping up my neck. I’d only ever been told that by Speranza before. It was nice if I ignored how much like a child it made me feel. “You’ve improved, too,” I added after a moment’s hesitation, lifting my eyes to catch Sheridan’s. She looked stunned, but ultimately pleased.

“Thanks, I’ve been trying really hard.” Pausing to set down her sandwich, she leaned across the desk, way too far into my personal bubble, and whispered conspiratorially, “I haven’t stolen anything in like a week and a half, which is a new record for me. I’ve got a date tonight, so I hope I don’t steal the silverware or anything.”

I was probably more surprised than I should have been. To hide my reaction, I quickly stuffed the lettuce in my mouth, stupidly sans dressing, and chewed longer than strictly necessary so I could pull myself together. Sheridan seemed to be waiting for a reaction, looking at me steadily, expectantly. Clearing my throat, I set down my fork and picked up the Tupperware with the dressing, taking off the lid and drizzling light ranch over my rather bare salad. I’d only had time to wash the lettuce that morning, since washing the lettuce meant rinsing it generously no less than six times, and by the time I was satisfied, it was already eight thirty.

“Well, good luck. It’s, er—it’s a little strange to think of you dating.”

She pouted a little. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, feeling uncomfortable, and swiped a Clorox wipe over an invisible crumb. I had no idea how to put this without sounding like a complete asshat, so I was probably going to have to take the plunge straight into bastardliness. “It’s just strange. I mean, I’ve never thought of you doing that sort of thing before. Are you even—” and here came the bastardliness “—you know, stable enough for that?”

Sheridan, to her credit, looked a lot less offended than I was expecting. She only flinched minimally and miraculously followed it up with a smirk. “Well, I was stable enough to have a giant crush on you.”

“Buhhh,” I said rather unintelligently, too blindsided to come up with a proper response. Looking back, I could recall suspecting once that she was going to do—something, something stupid like kiss me—but I’d been wrong. I’d simply put it out of my mind since then. “Well, that’s, er. I’m not. Uh. You see…”

She merely laughed, bracing both elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. “It’s okay, I’m over it now. I get it. You’re gay, right?”

That just sent me into further verbal fumbling. Flustered, I removed my glasses and began wiping them on my pristine undershirt, meanwhile stuttering out, “Nnnno? I don’t, er—I have no idea what you’re talking about. That is absolutely not it. Where would you even get that idea?”

“Oh, you’re not? Oh, God, I’m sorry, Emerson.” Sitting back in her chair, she covered her mouth with her hands and looked like she was going to laugh again. “You’re just so clean and well-groomed and then there’s Nico—”

Oh, God, of all things to bring up.

“What about Nico?” I snapped, jamming my glasses back onto my face, and prepared to fight this conversation every step of the way.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied in a tone that belied it was actually a very big something, especially if the smirk she wore was any indication. However, as much as I wanted to know exactly what inappropriate things were going on inside her head, I would have much preferred to end the conversation there, so I chose not to pursue it.

“Good,” I grumbled, and moved a few pieces of lettuce around in my salad, trying to mix it with the dressing.

After a blessed few moments of silence, she piped back up with, “But, you know,” and I sighed, knowing it had been too good to be true, and she continued, “it’s really nice to have someone. I’m excited about my date. You should give it a try.”

I stabbed my salad and thought about how lucky she was she hadn’t included ‘with Nico’ at the end of that sentence, or my fork possibly would have been in her eye. That dream still made me squeamish and thinking about it usually ended with crossing my legs too tightly and counting backwards from one thousand.

At my cranky silence, she prompted, “Well?”

“I’ll give it a try,” I lied, entirely to get her off my back, and absolutely did not think about Nicolas for the rest of the day.

-

My appointment with Speranza dutifully rolled around three days later, regardless of whether I wanted it to. Dreading the inevitable moment when she would flay me flesh from bone in search of answers that would undoubtedly involve Nicolas in some way, I hugged my messenger bag to my chest and counted the tiles on the ceiling in the waiting room. They were big tiles. Five columns, six rows. It should have been easy to just multiply the two together for thirty, but there were irritating halves and fourths by the walls, and I was just about to ask Carol the receptionist for a ruler when Speranza glided breezily out of an office and smiled at me.

“Hello, Emerson,” she greeted me, her flashing yellow eyes raking over my appearance contemplatively. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, I pushed myself out of my seat and followed behind the sound of her high heels, already well-acquainted with the path to the room used for our sessions. My hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically as a tight, nervous feeling settled in my chest, and I eyed critically the two chairs in the room before I chose the cleaner-looking of the two.

Speranza shut the door and gracefully seated herself across from me, a folder spilling papers onto the ground at her feet, which she nudged under her chair with her toe. She had a pen tucked behind her ear, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned with taking notes yet. Instead, she kept scrutinizing me with her bright gaze, trying to glean god only knew what from my posture or the way I kept biting my lip.

“Had a rough week?” she guessed eventually.

Letting out a soft breath that I hadn’t even been aware I was holding, I nodded and allowed my messenger bag to slide a little lower on my lap. “Yes. Nicolas, um. He kissed me.”

Speranza blinked very slowly, her face carefully void of shock, and unhurriedly reached up to pluck her pen from behind her ear. Bending over in her chair, she plucked the overflowing file from behind her feet and flipped to a fresh page. After pausing to scribble something down, she cleared her throat, blinked again, and looked at me. “Okay, well. That’s a pretty big change. Tell me about it.”

I felt my face slowly growing hot, spreading from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. “It wasn’t like that. I mean, it wasn’t a real kiss. “

“Okay,” she said, smiling encouragingly. “Why don’t you tell me what it was, then?”

“Um.” Frowning, I bit my lip and squinted at the memory. “Well, I was doing that technique you told me to try. Opposite-to-emotion, you know. I went to thank him for the watch and the party and all that, and then he did this double cheek kiss that Europeans do. You know what I’m talking about?” She nodded appropriately, and I felt myself blushing a little. “So then he looked at me and said, ‘You’re going to freak out now, aren’t you?’ And then I freaked out.”

Speranza nodded and looked at me sympathetically. “And why did you freak out?”

My flush darkened as the dream rocketed through my mind yet again. “Well,” I said, pulling at my collar delicately, “I had to wash my face, of course.”

Up went one of Speranza’s perfectly arched eyebrows. “Is that the only reason?”

“Yes,” I snapped defensively, undoubtedly cementing her disbelief.

Seeming to bite back a sigh or some other equally put-upon gesture, Speranza crossed her legs and absently clicked her pen. “I can’t force you to tell me anything you don’t want to, Emerson, but I want you to know I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s bothering you. I encourage you to remember all of this is strictly confidential and tell me what’s on your mind.”

With a defeated groan, I shut my eyes and squeezed my bag, just to have something to hold onto. “I had a sex dream about Nicolas,” I confessed, cringing with shame. I couldn’t even bear to look at Speranza’s face.

“And how does that make you feel?” she questioned, voice carefully devoid of any judgment.

I frowned and kept my eyes closed. “Dirty?” Like that was anything new. “Confused. And angry. It’s – it’s wrong. I don’t want to think about him like that.”

“Why not?” she pressed.

I shrugged helplessly and shook my head. “He’s my friend,” I answered simply.

“Ah, okay,” she said, her chair creaking. “Now, I know we’ve never talked about this before, but I feel like it’s a good time to bring it up. Have you ever been in a relationship before?”

My eyes flew open, and I scowled. “No.”

“You seem upset. Why?” she asked softly.

I snorted. “Why do I seem upset, or why haven’t I been in a relationship?”

“Whatever you feel comfortable answering,” she replied, vague as always.

Frown deepening, I crossed my arms and shrugged. “I haven’t been in one because I haven’t wanted to.”

“All right. Tell me about that. What makes it unappealing?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, distinctly uncomfortable.

“The emotional aspect, or the physical aspect?”

“The physical,” I said with a sigh, unfolding my arms. “I guess.” Even though I knew, emphatically, that it was.

“Uh huh.” She hid a tiny smile. “And does this all come down to thinking other people are unclean?”

“Well, partially. Yes. Entirely. People – there are fluids exchanged. Other people’s spit would be in my mouth, and that’s keeping things G-rated. I don’t even want to think about anything else – it’s disgusting!”

“Have you considered,” she began carefully, “perhaps engaging in a relationship with someone once your symptoms have subsided?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” I lied, mentally cursing Sheridan and her meddlesome ways.

“I think you should.” She uncrossed her legs and set down her notepad on her lap, smiling patiently at me. “You know, Emerson. I’ve suspected Nicolas was special to you for a while. He’s the only one you talk about.”

“Oh?” That was actually kind of a surprise, but I didn’t want her to know it. She’d probably pick it up anyway with her near-preternatural perception as always, though.

“Yes. I’m not going to tell you what you feel, but I will tell you what I think. I think you like Nicolas, are interested in him romantically, but are intimidated by a relationship. I think the physical aspect legitimately scares you not only because of germs, but because of intimacy. From what I’ve heard, he sounds like a very good match for you.”

“I guess,” I said, shrugging, and forced myself not to think about it. I needed to focus on something else. Like— “Well, what about Sheridan?”

Tilting her head, Speranza looked briefly and uncharacteristically confused before she asked, “Who is Sheridan?”

“A girl I work with. Who likes me.” I paused, guiltily remembering her date, and amended, “Or liked me. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Speranza said smoothly, pen poised above her notes, and scribbled a few lines. “Well, what about her?”

“Isn’t she a good match?” I asked, ignoring how desperate and hopeless it sounded.

“You’re changing the subject, Emerson.”

Damn. I lowered my gaze to the floor and nearly sulked. “I thought I was doing a pretty good job.”

She hid a smile behind her hand. “You were, but I’m pretty good at catching you, too.”

“I noticed.” Despondent, I sighed and pillowed my cheek on my fist, propping it up with my elbow on my knee. “I don’t actually like Sheridan,” I admitted miserably.

“I know.”

Hesitantly, I raised my eyes to meet her. “You and Sheridan think I like Nicolas.”

“I can’t tell you who you do and don’t like, Emerson, and neither can Sheridan, but I do think you should keep an open mind.” Sensing my building disagreement, she held up one hand and smiled indulgently. “That said, I can tell you don’t want to talk about this, so we’ll set it aside for later. Keeping with the subject of Nicolas, though—” she swiftly ignored my frown “—how did it go with opposite to emotion?”

“That’s when he kissed me,” I said dully.

“Oh.” Seeming to rally herself, she shifted in her chair, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and cleared her throat. “Have you spoken to him since then?”

“No.”

Up went an eyebrow. “And it’s been how long?”

“Er.” I flushed with shame. Poor Nicolas. I’d been avoiding him for so long. “A few days,” I confessed.

“Ah.” Nodding, she made another mark in her notes and then set them aside, leaning forward, her long neck stretched out towards me. She smiled. “Do you think maybe it’s time to talk to him again?”

How the hell did she always make me feel like a child? Pouting (I hated to admit it, but there was no other word for what I was doing), I sank into my chair and muttered, “Yes.”

“Lovely.” Looking supremely pleased with her progress, she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and graced me with a warm grin, her eyes straying momentarily to the clock on the wall. “Well, our time is up for today. Will you think about what I said? It’s okay if you’re not ready to explore that yet, but I’d like to get to it eventually.”

“Maybe,” I said, glad to be done with this conversation, and stood, gathering my bag protectively to my chest. At the bare minimum, I would go talk to Nicolas. I at least owed him that.

-

Predictably, Nicolas didn’t answer the door when I knocked the first time, or the second time, or even the third time. I think he sensed that I was going to knock all ritualistic twenty-six times, because on the fourth try, his door abruptly swung open and his tall form was outlined by the doorframe.

“Hey, Nicolas,” I greeted weakly.

He frowned. “Back to regular old Nicolas, now?”

“Huh?” I asked, confused, and took a step forward, subtly wedging my foot into the apartment so he couldn’t shut the door on me.

“You called me Nico last week,” he pointed out.

Instantly, I pursed my lips and denied, “No, I didn’t,” without even thinking about whether I had, because quite frankly, if I had called him something that intimate without even noticing—well, maybe Speranza was right. And I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.

“Yes, you did,” he countered, crossing his arms irritably.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Fine,” huffed Nicolas, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “So why are you here? You haven’t talked to me since you ran off. I thought you made it pretty clear that I overstepped some boundaries.”

“I freaked out,” I admitted bluntly, because I didn’t really know any other way to go about this.

“I noticed,” Nicolas replied, dark eyebrows arched, his closed off expression now poorly disguising lingering amusement beneath.

Wincing, I bunched my hands in the overly-large sleeves of my blazer that flopped over my knuckles, looking at the floor in embarrassment and shame. “Um, yeah, it was pretty bad. I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” said Nicolas, sounding uncharacteristically dejected.

My head immediately snapped up. “No,” I rushed to correct him, blushing furiously, “it wasn’t—I mean, what you did, that was okay. That was fine. It was just, you know. Had you even brushed your teeth?”

When he looked at me, his blue eyes were full of something bright and hopeful, and he licked his lips before saying, “What?”

“I know, it’s terrible. It’s not that I think you’re dirty or anything, I just…” Do, I finished mentally, but I couldn’t say that to him. I thought everyone was dirty. It was nothing personal. “I had to go wash my face,” I finished eventually.

“Oh,” he said, softly, and took a step closer. He licked his lips again and leaned down, peering at my face. “Hey, are you blushing?”

“No,” I snapped, scowling. “I’m—it’s warm in here, shut up, why are you standing so close?”

“I’m not.” His mouth slowly curved into a grin, and he tilted his head. “So, what I did—when I kissed your cheek, you said that was okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, not quite following.

“Then what about this?” he asked, and suddenly he had leaned down all the way and was kissing me.

Warmth burned in my chest as his lips touched mine, and I told myself I was simply too shell-shocked to stop him or push him away. Nicolas kissed like he meant it, tenderly without scaring me off, slow and careful. His hands hovered reverently by my face, respectfully not touching, the pads of his fingertips barely ghosting over the shine of my hair. His mouth was hot, warmer than I’d expected, and my eyes closed without my registering it, as I was too focused on the scorch of his lips on my skin. With my brain still eerily yet also blissfully silent, I surprised myself by kissing back, leaning into him, my arms tucked between us against our chests. I still refused to accept that Speranza was right, that maybe I had wanted this but been afraid to act, but I supposed she wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

And then my brain started working again.

“This isn’t going to work,” I gasped eventually and pulled away with no small amount of effort, keeping Nicolas' hands at bay with my elbows, my hands curled defensively against my chest.

“Oh.” His expression was instantly pained – eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open with just the barest hint of white teeth. His gaze quickly fell to the floor, a disappointed blue blaze, and then flickered back up to me almost instantly. And back down. And up again. Indecisively. Eventually, his lips quirked in a wry smile. “Sorry. I guess I misread that whole ‘take me now, Nico’ look you had going on there and thought that meant you wanted something to happen between us.”

Flushing immediately, I snapped, “I had no such look!” And then, if possible, blushed even deeper as I corrected him, “And I didn’t mean it like that.” I lifted my hand to touch my lips in memory but remembered just in time that they were tainted and I needed to gargle as soon as possible. “That was, uh. Very nice. I meant, well. Your spit is… And our hands are… Oh, just come with me.”

“Huh?”

Ignoring his feeble protest, I pulled my sleeve over my hand and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of his apartment, into my own, and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us in case Mr. Mistoffelees got curious and decided to, erm, investigate. “I’ve got gloves,” I explained, stooping to open the cabinet underneath the sink, where I had a box of latex gloves. I picked it up, pulled out two for myself, and then held it out for Nicolas to do the same.

He just stared at me. “What is this for?” he asked dubiously.

I shook the box in annoyance. “Cleanliness!” I snapped. “I’m not letting you touch my face with your hands the way they are now.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I could wash them,” he offered.

“You could. Or, we could skip the exorbitant amount of time it would take for me to supervise until you’re suitably clean, and you could just wear the damn gloves.”

A grin. “Or we could do that,” he conceded, pulling out two gloves, and snapped them on with a wink. “Hey, these look kind of—”

“Don’t even say it,” I warned with a murderous glare as I pulled on my own pair. “I don’t know what you’re going to say, but it’s going to kill the mood, and then I will kill you.”

He wiggled his latex-clad fingers and laughed. “What, like this isn’t ruining it already?”

“I didn’t think so,” I said brusquely, privately somewhat offended but not willing to completely butcher the moment by commenting. Instead, I decided to ruin it by opening my medicine cabinet, scanning down the bottom shelf on the far right where I kept my three varieties of mouthwash. One for morning, one for night, and one for when my mouth just felt dirty. I chose the latter and thrust it into Nicolas’ begloved hands. “Use this.”

He stared again. “Are you kidding?”

“Hmm, good point.” I snatched it back and unscrewed the lid, smirking. “I need to go first. I’ve already got all your mouth germs.” And that had sounded rather childish, but I didn’t particularly care – I was rather more distracted by pouring a very exact amount into the little measuring cup I kept next to the other bottles of mouthwash, and then swishing it around in my mouth for a full sixty seconds.

Nicolas spent most of that sixty seconds still staring, but eventually he laughed a little and followed suit, pouring his own portion, swishing, and leaning to spit after only fifty seconds.

“You’d better not!” I warned, wiping my mouth on a hand towel, which was then dirty and had to be set aside and replaced by a fresh one from under the sink.

“Mmmm-mm-hmm?” he asked, which I assumed meant something like ‘I’d better not what?’

“Spit,” I said, pointing, and narrowed my eyes. “Seven more seconds. And then you have to use this.” Capping the mouthwash for him, I replaced it in the medicine cabinet and pulled out the night-time bottle and waved it cheerfully in his face.

He spit and groaned. “Em, I just want you to know, if you were anyone else, there is no way I would be doing all this.”

Bristling, I unscrewed the lid and poured the proper amount, tipping the measuring cup against his lips with a snappy, “I should hope not, since it wouldn’t be me.”

He grinned at that, accepting the mouthwash and even letting me pour it into his mouth, which was oddly attractive.

Oh, God. I was actually doing this. I was planning to make out with my neighbor. This was insane.

Despite being busy gargling, Nicolas looked like he wanted to reply, so I growled, “Shut up, you’ve got thirty-four seconds left.”

Thirty-three, thirty-two… A little dribble of Cinnafresh Mint came trickling out between his lips, which was quite distracting, and I wiped it away with my thumb (well, my latex-covered thumb) before I could even think about it. Nicolas raised both eyebrows at me, making me flush; I jerked my hands away and turned my back on him, studying the door.

Roughly thirty seconds later, I heard Nicolas spitting in the sink, followed by a refreshing ‘aahhh!’ and the sound of him picking up the new hand towel.

“Don’t forget to replace it with a fresh one,” I mumbled, referring to the towel, still too embarrassed to look away from the door.

“I know.”

The scent of Cinnafresh Mint suddenly became stronger, and Nicolas’ chin settled on my shoulder mere seconds later. He nuzzled my neck, my hair, the shell of my ear – I shivered appropriately and batted him away, turning to face him and deliver some sort of divine vengeance, but I stopped short at his somehow meltingly devious expression.

“What’s that look for?” I demanded.

Nicolas merely shrugged, grin widening, and replied, “Nothing. Am I approved to kiss you yet?”

“I suppose.” A sharp spark of nerves erupted in my chest, and I drew in a sharp breath before I summoned the courage to shuffle forward a few feeble steps, my face lifted towards his, chin jutted out stubbornly.

“That’s good.” Nicolas’ eyes were warm and impossibly blue as he put his hands on my waist, kindly not making fun of the gloves as he ran his thumbs across my hipbones. His face lowered just enough that his breath ghosted across my lips, almost overpoweringly minty (which was completely my fault), and I seriously thought he was going to chicken out and back off when he finally took the last plunge, brushing a chaste kiss against the corner of my mouth.

I nearly laughed. “That’s it?”

“No,” he growled, pulling me nearer, close enough that our height difference became even more apparent, almost comical.

I stared directly at the pointed bottom of his chin and huffed, “Then you’d better get on with it before I decide we need fresh gloves.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, taking my face in one hand so that I was looking into his eyes rather than at his jaw, and smiled beautifully.

At most other points in my life, something stupid or catastrophic would have happened to ruin the moment; Mr. Mistoffelees would have come yowling or scratching at the door; I would have verbally fumbled and said the absolute wrong thing; perhaps I would have physically fumbled and taken us both crashing to the tiled bathroom floor. This time, however, I kept my mouth shut until Nicolas’ was against mine, and when I opened it, it wasn’t to talk. I held onto his waist to keep from falling, but also because it felt nice and he was hot and soft beneath my hands, and I mentally resolved to give Mr. Mistoffelees an entire can of tuna if he kept his furry butt busy for the next fifteen minutes or so.

It was probably the best moment of my life.

-

A/N: Try not to die of shock. If you manage to survive, please review. :)