Girl Most Likely To by Poonam Sharma Read Free Book Online Page B

I admitted to myself then that I had decided to give in. It was one of those moments you wanted to savor, almost more so than the act, especially when you find yourself back in the arms that used to hold you. And that was how it went…as we wrapped ourselves around each other. As we pressed ourselves together, trying to merge. As his arms resettled among the familiar curves of my back, and his hands dove in and out of my hair, grabbing a clump firmly, and yanking backward to expose my neck for him. As we consumed each other, we took our time because there was nowhere else we would rather have been. He rose to his feet and I tightened the grip of my legs around his waist and allowed him to carry me toward my bed. And lay me down. And climb on top of me. And take me.
    He crawled in through my eyes while repeating how much he had missed me. How glad he was that we were together again. This was how it was supposed to be, and he told me that I knew it. As we tumbled around fighting for control and for more of each other, I felt adored and completely, totally open. And even though it was my first, I kept thinking best blackout ever.

7
    A t the end of our second date so many moons before, Jon had invited me to his apartment.
    “For a cup of coffee,” he had explained, “or maybe a glass of port.”
    “Sorry.” I shrugged. “I can’t do it.” I avoided his eyes while my heels dodged the cracks in Prince Street.
    “Why not?” He stopped, took my hands in his and smiled down at me. “You got another date comin’ over at midnight?”
    “No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that I barely know you.”
    “Well, if you come back to my place,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “then I might let you get to know me. ”
    “And also perhaps find three heads in your freezer,” I completed his sentence.
    He smirked and raised an eyebrow at me.
    “I’m sorry, but I mean, you could be a cannibal…or a Republican. And my instincts are to trust you, but it’s too soon. This is New York,” I concluded. “I don’t make the rules.”
    “Who does make the rules, then?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “Why can’t you make your own rules?” he asked, tucking my hand into his elbow as we continued walking.
    “Because that’s not how it works. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not a woman.” I leaned my head on his shoulder as we turned a corner onto West Broadway.
    “You got that right.” He tilted his head upward toward the moon. “And I like it that you’ve got morals. It’s a good thing. It’s refreshing.”
    “Besides,” I added, “think of it this way—maybe I’m the crazy one. Maybe I’ve saved you the trouble of waking up alone, tied to your bed, feeling used, trying to decide whether you’re more insulted by the fact that you’re covered in raspberry jam, or that your f lat-screen TV is missing.”
    When he arrived to pick me up for brunch two days later, Jon brought along a bouquet of white lilies. Pinned to the cellophane was a Polaroid of the inside of his freezer, containing only two frozen lasagnas and a copy of that morning’s New York Times. This was a man I had every reason to believe I could trust.
     
    It was the morning after the blackout, and I nearly tumbled out of bed to grab my cell phone. I often slept closer to the window than to the bedside table, but since Jon had already slipped into the shower, the ringing jolted me out of my comfortable state of goofy-grinned, postcoital malaise. He had sprung out of bed muttering about how the lack of electricity for the alarm had caused him to sleep late. As he scrambled around the apartment in search of his clothes, I grabbed his watch off the bedside table, squinted and announced that it was eleven a.m. Since the city was still shut down, I told him, there probably wouldn’t be any customers lined up yet for lunch outside Peccavi. Then I settled into the spot where he had been sleeping, and drifted back into my dreams. In the moment