The grass pokes through the holes in my crocs as I walk along the fenceline. A sigh escapes my lips. I've been feeling the weight lately. I'm going through a slump in my health. It's bad enough as it is normally. But now, I can't even go in for work, and my writing progress has halted. I find myself unable to even focus. The words turn into a kaleidoscope every time I try to read, let alone write or edit. I've always felt that finishing this book, which is my only shot at making any real money in life, and where God has called me to serve him, will be the final thing to tip her over the edge, and make her fall for me.
But I know that's a delusion, one which is rooted in my desire for a loving girlfriend, and then later down the line—a wife. She's the only person to believe in my passion for writing. She believed before she read that I would make something come of it. But I never thought it would be anything more than her support and eagerness to read my novel. She's my coworker, and the best proofreader I could ever ask for. I hold off from love, and I avoid catching feelings, especially in workplaces, yet somehow I've fallen in love with her. Oh what a helpless man I am.
Worse, there is something that severs us: My poor health and the fact that she's a world-class athlete. She races Cross-Country Mountain Biking for the country, while I can't even make it to work for a simple three-hour shift. I worry that her standard in a man is someone who can go on rides with her, and help her train, and be the motivation in the moment, there with her, to help her push her limits.
I can't do that.
God won't allow it. I'm not sure why. But I do know that his will is the best option. But even still, considering that this might be true brings forth emotions that really are not good for me.
I hear pedal strokes behind me, the subtle whine of a chain whirring against gears, then a clang as the gears change. My mind jumps to conclusions; I know who it wants this person to be. But she never rides out here.
"Aw shit," the rider says, unclipping one foot from a pedal.
I turn around and look down the road. She stops only a few meters away from me on the side of the road. Her blonde hair, the sides and bottom half of the back dyed magenta, is done in a single braid, white helmet, blue sponsored Lycra, and a crazy expensive full-carbon road bike.
A shaky exhale escapes my lips. I don't move, I don't make a sound. Only the sound of a car driving along the road further down, the rustling of the trees in the slight evening breeze, and her breathing.
She looks down, inspecting her bike. I can't see what's wrong with it, though I wouldn't have a clue, only she would.
What should I do? Do I say anything?
She lets out a frustrated sigh and looks around, as though searching for help. Her eyes look further down the road, away from me, instead towards my driveway. Of course, we are close enough that she knows where I live, we are coworkers, and I've had the staff over to see my garden for a work-do once. But other than that, she hasn't comeover or anything of the sort. She holds a grimace on her face, and begins walking back down the road towards my driveway.
My eyes fall on her soft jawline, her skin, the nape of her neck, and lastly her eyes, as she walks past. Having still not found the words to make my existence known, I scuff my shoe in the dirt.
Her head jerks up. A slightly shocked expression takes over her face, replacing her frustration. "Oh, hello."
"Hi," I smile fondly.
She pauses, searching awkwardly in her mind for words. I know this side of her, the side of her that looks cold and distant, but is really just shy. Though she's always comfortable, she struggles to talk first.
"So what's wrong?" I say quickly, scooping her away from the anxiety of having to say the first word.
Her blue eyes, I could lose myself in them, look down at the pedals of her bike, "I think I've bent my front derailleur somehow."
"Oh, well that's uh, sub-optimal…" I joke, nervously.
"Yeah." She takes her sunglasses out of the grooves in her helmet and puts them on. Though I don't know why, the sun is behind us.
"So what can you do to fix it?" I ask.
"Nothing now. I'll need to bend it back with the right tools at home."
"Oh, that sucks…"
"You have a full license now, right? I see you driving your sister around."
"No, I'm only on my restricted. I can only drive my sister because she's on a special government allowance due to her condition."
"Darn." She clicks her tongue.
"Yeah, sorry, I would drive you if I could, legally," I clarify.
She only sighs again, a look of hurt on her face from her bike crapping out on her. "One of my flatmates can probably pick me up, but not until they're done at work."
"Yeah, well I don't exactly see you walking fifteen K back into town, aha." I scratch the side of my face.
She laughs. She always laughs at my jokes, and that always makes my heart skip a beat.
"Definitely not," she says, the breeze blowing strands of her hair across her face.
"Do you want to come inside?"
"Yeah, that would be nice, thanks."
"You sure? The side of the road looks enticing…" I tease.
She laughs and begins walking down the road. I meet her at the gate.
"Welcome," I say proudly.
"Very nice," she says.
We walk in silence up the drive and around the bend towards the garage. Gravel crunches under my Crocs, and her cleats click. Her bike makes a much more subtle, continuous bumbling sound as the wheels roll over bumps. My eyes rest comfortably on her as she walks ahead. I stuff my hands in my pockets, unsure of what to do with them. The garage door is already up, as I had come out of it for my walk.
"You can just lean it against mine," I flick a look at her bike and then at mine sitting in its wheel stand along the wall of the garage.
She does so and inspects my bike. "How do you even fit this?"
"I don't really, but I only go around the garden, or down the road a little bit. So it doesn't really make a difference. I can't be bothered spending money on a new one." I say, my eyes resting on the Black Giant OCR Zero.
"Carbon forks?" She asks, tracing delicate fingers over the frame. If only I could enamour her as much as bikes do.
"Yeah, and carbon rear-subframe, and the rest is alloy."
She nods her head approvingly, "Very nice," she says again, before going silent.
"It's real old, though. I haven't taken it for a proper ride in nearly three years now. Because of… Well, life, and my health." I look away, out the garage door at the garden and farmland sprawling towards the horizon. I don't think I can meet her eyes when admitting that. I had the same dream as her when I was younger. Though back when I had that dream, we hadn't yet met. I always wonder how different things would be if I hadn't gotten sick. If I hadn't lost my passion for cycling. Would she then be more likely to seeme? Would I feel more satisfied with my life? I know that even as God calls me into being an author, that the desires of my heart yearn to be fulfilled by past dreams and goals. Winning the Tour De France was one of them. Though I know that all that remains of those past dreams: the desire to revive them, is just a lie. Still, it leaves an aching sting in my heart.
I only want it so she'll notice me.
But that in itself is wishful thinking. She's two years older than me, and I've only just finished High School. I doubt I've ever been in the cards in her eyes. And that cruel truth makes my heart ache, despite the fact that God told me, through the power of the Holy Spirit, that I was allowed to fall for her. It was never an outright promise that she'd be mine, and I'd be hers. It was simply a promise that these feelings I normally push away when it comes to romance, because I don't want the trouble, or a repeat of how my previous relationship ended, it was a promise that I don't need to suppress these feelings thistime.
I am safe to fall for her.
But at the same time, it's not a given that anything will come from it. There is always a constant battle in my mind between what I want and the detachment between it and reality.
But whatever, proximity, and being me is all I can do; anything more will just come off as weird. Her pace is the only pace that will bring us closer.
"You want some water? Or food?" I ask her, looking back as I lead the way through the laundry, towards the lounge.
She lifts her water bottle, indicating she doesn't need more. "Are your parents going to be okay with me being here… And eating food?" She asks nervously, following a safe distance behind.
I frown inside, it's unlike her to ask a question like that. She normally only worries about things that will directly impact her. "They won't know, so it's fine, they're on a trip up north, and my siblings are at friends' houses for the week. So it's just me home for a while."
"Oh." There's a stark change in the tone of her voice, it suddenly turns very meek and shy.
I raise an eyebrow at her, not failing to notice the slight pink tinge of blush on her cheeks. She averts her eyes quickly, and as we enter the main part of the house, she lets out a satisfied sigh, "It's so cool in here."
"Yeah, Eco house," I say.
She unzips her top a little more and fans the hem, inviting in the cool air.
It's my turn to look away, feeling bashful. "Anyway," I say, "Wanna go through some stuff in my book? I have a lot of little details that I've been wanting to double-check with you since I've been going through the editing process."
She looks down at her Lycra. I realise she's not exactly dressed comfortably for the occasion, and her skin is shiny with sweat.
"You can use the shower if you want," I say nonchalantly. But inside, my heart feels like it's waiting to fall from a great height. Something akin to the tension as you jump out, but aren't yet going down. I avoid looking at her face, afraid to catch her gaze. That would make this awkward, to say the least.
"Yeah. But I don't have a change of clothes…"
"Do you want some of mine?" I offer nervously, turning to look at her.
She nods, both of us evidently feeling equally as shy as each other.
"Come," I say, leading the way through the house. She hasn't been inside it before. "The toilet's that door." I point to it. I imagine her nodding, pursing her lips in the anxious way that she does. "That one's the bathroom, we don't have a bath, sorry, just a shower, and I'll get you a towel in a moment." I continue past the bathroom, leading her to my bedroom. "And here," I walk inside and do a spin, "Is my room."
A queen-sized bed in the corner opposite the door. A closet outcropping the wall on the left side, and two desks, one placed oddly in front of two bookshelves in the close right corner of the room, at the foot of my bed.
"Very nice… I was expecting something much more messy." She draws her eyes to mine, looking up through her eyelashes.
I laugh lightly. "Ah, well, I cleaned it the other week, so you're lucky. I almost never do, aside from washing every Saturday or Sunday."
She nods slowly. I know she likes things perfectly tidy and can't deal with clutter. That had been part of the delusion that compelled me to clean it in the first place.
"And clothes…" I open the closet, "Come pick what you want. Though I don't have anything particularly girly, sorry."
"It would be a concern if you did," she jokes.
I chuckle and raise my eyebrows at her in amusement. She stands so close. All of me is aware of all of her, making my skin crawl. There isn't much space for us both to be looking in the closet like this, so her shoulders are as close to mine as they've ever been. Well, aside from the few times we've accidentally run into each other in the past.
"We seem to have similar fashion sense anyway." She side-eyes me, turning her head a little closer. "So that's not a problem."
I resist the urge to recoil, but I know I'd hit my head on the door frame. She's so close, and she's doing things like that. I look away, hiding my blush.
"Hurry up, or else I'll pick for you," I threaten jokingly.
"Okay, let's do that," she says quickly. Almost too quickly.
"Huh?" I look back at her again. She's dead serious, a slight smile plays at her lips, and she holds back a laugh. Cheeky. "O-Okay." I turn to the cubed clothing shelf in my closet. What do I pick? "Do you want shorts or long pants?" I ask.
"Shorts. I'm hot."
That checks out… "Alrighty." I pick out a pair of shorts that I rarely wear because they're too small for me, so they'll fit her shorter legs just fine. They're slightly faded on the back, they were black some time ago. Now, they're black on the front and tinged purple on the back. I pair it with one of my favourite baggy shirts, it's grey and has a blue and black graphic on the front. It's loose on me, and I'm a head and a bit taller than her. I can imagine how cutely oversized it would look on her delicate frame.
Never in a million years did I think I'd be dressing up my proofreader. I chuck the shorts and shirt over her face. "Hah!" I say triumphantly.
She gives me a look before hiding the embarrassment on her face with her hands and saying, "I need underwear too."
I don't question it. Any cyclist at a high level doesn't wear underwear with their lycra, otherwise the ramification is severe chaffing. The girls do wear bras, though. I can see the groove of a thin shoulder strap of a sports bra on the tops of her shoulders. "Yeah, I think my sister has a new packet. "Hold up, I'll be back."
I come back with a brand new pair of undies from my sister's room and hand them to her. Her face is plain and unbothered, and she adds them to the handful of clothes she clutches.
"You can just keep them," I say, before adding, "And you can borrow a bra of hers, though I know nothing about them, so you're better off picking yourself."
"It's fine, I'm not comfortable with borrowing someone else's bra, and this shirt isn't thin… You said these are new?" She flicks her eyes at the pair of undies.
"The packet wasn't even opened," I confirm.
She nods her head trustingly.
I lead her to the shower and get her a fresh towel from the cupboard, too. I get everything running before saying, "The lock works. Don't worry." I smile at her.
She smiles back, "It's okay. I trust you."
My heart does somersaults.
"Do you want a hot chocolate to be ready for you once you're done?" I offer.
She laughs. Steam rises from the shower behind me. "You and your hot chocolates…"
"What can I say?" I shrug. This isn't my first time offering her a hot chocolate. She does like them, but normally avoids a lot of sugary treats because of her training.
"Sure, since you're offering." Her tone is subtle, and her curious smile tells me my hot chocolates are irresistible.
"How long will you be then? So I can get the timing right."
"Fifteen minutes, tops."
She appears beside me as I'm pouring boiling water into our mugs, her shoulder brushing against mine, making me jump in my skin. Hot water flicks onto my hand. I shake it off quickly and grit my teeth at the pain, but say nothing.
"Sorry," she says gingerly, her eyes following my hand. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Now that I think about it, you're always like that at work..."
"What? A bit jumpy?"
"Yeah." She stands beside me, her skin is soft, tender from the steam of the shower, and she seems to have claimed one of my hoodies. Which is also big on her, it reaches down as far as the shorts do.
I smile, resisting the urge to make a comment on the cute look. Her eyes linger on my lips before she turns around, taking in the expanse of the lavish kitchen, living and dining room.
"This one's yours," I say, "And I already got out some Farmbake cookies." I point with my face to the kitchen island, where two small plates with biscuits on them sit.
"And the gingernuts?" She gives me a testing look.
"Those are mine, I know you don't like them… I remember."
She smiles. Before reaching for her cup.
"Careful, it's hot."
"Yeah, I figured."
We move carefully, with full mugs, to the tall seats at the island.
"So, how's your day been?" I ask awkwardly.
"Good. I had some stuff to sort out in town, so I went and did that. Then I met up with one of my friends who was passing through the city, and we talked for ages. Then went back home for lunch and made some progress on the course I'm doing for work. But it was doing my head in, so I started my training ride early."
I nod along, recalling that her only friends from high school moved to the southern part of the country for university. So she's been left here on her own. And the course, well, we work together. She's trying to move to a slightly higher position so she can get more pay, even as a part-timer.
"I got partway through my ride, broke down, and now I'm here." She shrugs, then takes a tentative sip of her drink, testing its temperature.
"How much did you bike before you got out here?" I ask.
"Forty K."
I almost spit out my drink. "That's so much."
She smiles. "I probably should have said this earlier," Her face becomes slightly more nervous, "But… My flatmate works really late, so I'm kind of stuck here for a while."
"How late?" I ask out of curiosity.
"Till eleven PM at the earliest."
"So I'll get to make you dinner then," I say without a second thought.
She looks away, remaining silent. I hope she's enamoured.
"It's fine…" I say, calling her by name.
She looks back at me, her eyes meeting mine, unyielding. Slowly, she raises her hand and takes a bite of the Farmbake cookie in her grasp.
I lead her to my room, pushing a spare office chair in front of me. I sit down at the larger of my two desks, and have the other chair next to me for her. I turn to my desk, spinning on the chair. The desk is littered with several large notebooks and sheets of A3 paper, and my laptop sits in the centre. I've already finished the first draft, so now it's a matter of editing and sharpening.
"I use the A3 paper to plot out my progress, payoff, and other things that shift the readers' motivations and emotions. This is so that I can see the bigger picture of how it all affects the reader, meaning I can identify and tie up the loose ends. And also fix things that don't quite work, or fail to have the desired or a strong enough effect."
"You're such a nerd," she teases, her voice behind me somewhere.
I spin around on my chair again. She still stands, leaning against the doorframe.
"This deodorant?" She asks, picking up the bottle of Dove Men+Care spray deodorant off my other desk.
"Yeah."
"Can I use it?"
"Sure," I nod.
She takes off the cap and slides the hand holding the can under her (technically, my) shirt, revealing her smooth, athletic waistline. She begins hesitantly spraying it in light, nervous bursts. "~Ah! It's so cold!" She exclaims with slight panic.
"Have you never used spray deodorant before?" I ask, surprised.
She shakes her head shyly, "Only roll-on."
I laugh a little, making her pout. So cute. "You're just holding it too close. Hold it like fifteen centimetres out, then it won't sting."
"Oh." Scccht Sccccht. "Yeah, that's much nicer." She does the other side. Scccht Sccccht.
"Mmhmmm." I watch her with calm eyes, and she doesn't seem perturbed by it.
Then she comes and sits down next to me, using the back of my chair to lower herself onto her own. I shiver at the proximity of her face as she sits down, her breath against my neck in that short moment. Her trimmed fingernails had poked into my back when she gripped the back of the chair.
I flick my eyes over her, finding myself ensnared by a girl in my own clothes, and none other than my proofreader, whom I've fallen in love with. The baggy grey shirt of mine that she wears, it sinks into every petite curve of her body and the sharp juts of her collarbones. She'd taken off my jersey while we were having our hot drinks. I think it's still in the lounge somewhere. I let my eyes linger on the way the fabric moulds over her soft chest. The sleeves rest just below her elbows, and the hem extends almost past the shorts she wears.
"So," she slides a hand under the loose collar of the shirt, itching her shoulder. "What are we looking through?" Her hair is loose, curled slightly from being in a braid. It's still damp from the shower, and hangs down her front, a mix of loose strands of magenta and pure blonde.
It rests on her shoulders and only a little way down her chest, darkening the fabric with moisture.
I blink my eyes away, meeting hers for a moment. "Well…" I look over a few papers atop of the pile, before picking out the sheet on the bottom, and turning to the start of one of the notebooks. "Let's start at the beginning." I boot up my laptop and open the document of the version of the book that I'm editing. "Actually, how much have you read? I wanna hear your thoughts…"
She yawns before jolting. "Oh my gosh! I totally forgot. I actually finished it late last night."
'Did she forget because of this situation?' I think to myself, hoping the fact that she's even here, or in my family's house, gave her as much of a surprise as it did to me.
"Oh my gosh, everything from the last six, maybe seven chapters, I could not put it down, it was that good. Literally, even if there was a fire in the house, I would still be reading it while escaping," she uses her hands for emphasis as she exclaims. Something I've never seen her do before, it catches me off guard. She continues, "Like the way everything came together in their different moments was insane. And I know I said I don't ever for books, but I did cry when she died at the end. Your story is amazing, but it makes me so sad that you ended it a tragedy. Like, I was hollow when I finished!"
"Did you not read past the acknowledgements page?" I ask smugly.
"What?!! Is there more?" She calls me by name, ravaging my heart with butterflies. She almost tries to grab me, I see her hands flinch as she jolts towards me.
My brain short-circuits. My mouth moves to speak, but there are no words, my eyes only flick over her hurriedly, and my cheeks go bright red.
Oh, I'm a fool.
She snatches my computer from my hands and scrolls down the tabs on the document, moving to the twenty-fifth chapter, which I had, quite mischievously, placed after an empty acknowledgements page. Remaining silent, my cute little proofreader immerses herself in the world she thought she lost last night.
Finishing a book that turns out to be a tragedy is the worst kind of feeling ever. So, as part of the psychology required in pulling off the ending—relative to making the plot work—I needed to make the reader think they lost it all, and that it's all over. Only for them to get it all back after the false acknowledgements page.
It makes my heart swell to see it have the desired effect on my first reader.
I read along with her, and don't fail to notice her lips twitching and the shift in her breathing when the lovers reunite. And the way she shifts on her seat when they remember each other and have a sappy, wholesome kiss overlooking the city. An archetype which all romance readers absolutely swoon for, it's irresistible, and works especially well with how tied in the plot of the book is to the moment, the characters' arcs, and how far they've come to make this moment possible. I don't fail to notice her eyes flick at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
She meets the next chapter and gasps. "That's why that was in there!!!"
I can't hold in my smile.
"Awwww," she calls me by name again, "This is so wholesoomee! Arrhhh!" She cups her face with her hands, squeezing her cheeks for a moment, before delving back into the book.
I laugh silently, my eyes not leaving the sight of the excitement lacing her face as she reads.
"I always thought the castle and their secret meetings felt out of place, since it's a Contemporary Romance, but now it makes sense."
I nod enthusiastically, brimming with excitement, not just at this moment in the book. But at this moment between her and me. Never before have I seen her this excited, and for it to be over a book that I have worked so hard to even get the first draft complete… It means the world to me.
"I mean, who wouldn't use a castle as a wedding venue? And one with so many adolescent memories at that."
But if only she'd fall for me. The book isn't good enough to have that kind of effect on her yet. It needs polishing. Hence why I'm going through this gruelling editing process—It's so tedious.
But it's all for her.
I want this book to bring her closer to God. It's every churchboy's dream for the woman you love to also love Christ. And she believes, but she doesn't seek him. But this book. Despite it being almost entirely heathen, if you think about the themes, and why things happened, it all points to God. It's the kind of book that doesn't seem to have any 'religious' themes, aside from the odd reference, but by the time it's over, when you're left fulfilled and thinking about everything you've just read… The world you've just left, the people left behind as you turn the last page. It leaves you thinking, and points you towards the truth, but only in a way that respects your free will and ability to choose whether to accept it or not.
But whatever. The point is. I want her love, but I also want our love to last.
She reads the last line out loud, "The score is 9-9. But I'm willing to concede a point if it means you'll love me back."
My heart leaps out of my chest. I quickly slide the laptop away from her and switch back to the chapter one tab, not wanting to give her any more time to stew over the implications of those words… That line, despite being the final sentence of the book, has nothing to do with the story and everything to do with her and me. I hadn't put it in the file I sent to her to read, so I had totally forgotten that she might ever read it.
She frowns, as though not understanding it.
I hold in a sigh of relief.
I watch her in silence, as she slowly processes the ending, the way everything collided, she reflects, thinking back through all the things my characters experienced. I enjoy the better part of a few minutes, watching all the subtle ways her expression and demeanor changes as she relives it all.
Eventually, she sits up and yawns. "You know how the other week, I was talking about how I left my friend on seen because she made a good point that went against my argument for what I think love is."
"Yeah, I remember…" I say, trying not to grit my teeth, I can't let anything else slip. At work, only a few minutes after she had brought that up, I had confidently said, 'I'm writing a romance novel, surely I'll have a good counter to your friend's point.' I didn't mean it to come across this way, but it totally sounded like I was assuming it involved me and my views on love.
"You wanna hear what it was about? You seemed interested at the time."
My heart jumps out of my chest, and my fingers grip the desk for support as my mind sways. "Sure…"
"Well, originally I was talking to her about this guy I like," My heart drops. "And I wanted her advice on whether I should 'go for him' or not. But her image of love is different to mine. So the debate became more about 'what love is', than whether or not I make a move on this guy." She looks at me to make sure I'm following.
I'm not even sure if I'm breathing. "So?"
"Ugh, well, it was a mess. My biggest thing was, I really like this guy, right, but I struggle to be physically attracted to him. He's not fat or anything, just isn't a complete hotty or cutie. My friend was all like, if you're a Christian, then whether he's hot or not shouldn't matter. Keep in mind, she doesn't believe. And so I left her on seen, because she's right, in that regard, but wrong in terms of how I feel."
"Oh. well that's interesting, huh?" I say flatly, biting my tongue. I have no idea what else to say.
She only nods, an awkward expression forming on her face. "But anyway, it all got fixed when I got a flash of what's under his shirt, and realised I was completely wrong about him. Plus, he's working hard on his body, and although it's not perfect, it is attractive and will only be getting more so. So I mean, crisis averted… The guy I like is actually good-looking. Though he has a bit of a soft face. But I suppose it's cute in its own way." Her examining eyes find mine, and I try not to flinch out of nervousness.
It hurts my heart to hear her talking about another man like this.
She snickers before saying, "Don't look so worried, Hun." I'd forgotten that she's two years older than me. I jolt when her soft hand rests on my shoulder, and her small fingers dig into the crevice of my collarbone.
It's dipping into the evening now. "Should I get started on dinner?" I ask, hidden dejection in my tone.
She smiles and nods.
I made my signature wedges and homemade burgers with homekill beef patties. A decent-sized meal. But I skipped lunch, so it's fine for me, and she's had more than enough exercise today for the calories not to be an issue.
"Damn, these wedges are good," she says, already digging in.
"Hah, whoever eats first has to say grace." I give her a teasing look.
"Fine," she says, rolling her eyes and finishing her mouthful. "We holding hands like our parents taught us, too?" She teases, holding hers out across the table.
I laugh and slide mine into hers, my body shivers at the touch of her skin. I hold in my body's attempt to flinch as she squeezes them.
"Dear God, we thank you for this food, 'pray you bless it to our use and bless the hands that prepared it. And I thank you that we got to hang out together today, it's been quite fun."
I open my eyes at that, meeting her gaze as she already stares me down.
"—In Jesus' name, Amen."
"Amen," I say. And as much as I don't want us to, we let go of each other's hands. I begin eating my veggies, getting them out of the way so I can enjoy my burger. When I take the first bite of my burger, I catch her staring. She averts her eyes, looking at her food. I'm confused. I'm getting mixed signals. She makes it clear she likes someone else, but then does all these questionable things she should only be doing to him.
When we're finished eating, I walk around the table and take her plate.
"Thanks," she calls me by name again.
I stop in my tracks, turning around to look at her.
She leans over the back of her chair, ditzily watching me with her upside down.
I smile, but quickly turn around; her shirt's loose enough that I can see further down it than I'd like.
She says nothing, watching me go.
As I stack our plates into the dishwasher, I hear her feet pad behind me against the lino.
"What brings you here?" I ask, then stand up and stretch my back. She only watches me silently. "What do you want to do now? We've got a few hours still until your flatmate gets back from work."
"Hang out in your room, I suppose," she replies, a new expression on her face. One that I can't discern the meaning of, though she blushes.
"Cool. Sounds good," I say awkwardly.
As I walk past, she takes my hand.
I stop in my tracks, my eyes melting into hers again. Desire wrenches my heart one way, and guilt the other.
"Why are you stopping? Let's go." Her voice is firm, and she grips my hand tighter, making it clear she's not letting go.
I swallow my words and lead her through the lounge. Her grip becomes soft, almost affectionate. But I shake away the possibility of that, it's just in my head. After all, she has someone she likes. I lead her down the hallway and into my room. I turn around, ready to tell her I don't think this is right. But instead, find the wind knocked out of my lungs.
Something soft rams into me. I stumble, and with one final push, I fall backwards onto my bed.
I open my eyes slowly. Something sharp rests on my chest just below my collarbones. It's her chin. She smiles before breaking into held-back laughter. She shifts slightly, making my hips twinge, as her soft body presses against me.
I open my mouth to speak again, but the words escape my mind.
She snakes a hand forward, and it roams up my arm before her fingers intertwine with mine. She rises as I inhale, and falls as I exhale.
In proper her fashion, she still doesn't say a word. Too afraid, too shy. Her face is bright red, and she holds her lips in a scrunched, yet gleeful smile. I know that despite how aloof the rest of her facial features are, she isn't distancing herself; she's just shy. I mean, how can she be distancing herself, given what she's just done, and where she is right now? I feel her breath against my neck, and it shakes slightly.
"Are you—Wha-I…" I stumble over my words before saying, "Why?" I try to roll her off me.
She only sits up, still holding my hand captive, and shifts her weight onto her knees either side of me.
"Sorry," I call her by name, "But touching like this is something reserved only for a girlfriend. So, unless you're willing to take up that role—" I say doubtfully, but I'm cut off by her snickers. It pains me to say these words, to reject her touch. But I want her love, not her lust. I don't want to be a short phase she has before she pursues that guy she was talking about earlier.
She stares into my soul. Her long eyelashes, her innocent, brimming smile, her soft cheeks, and her toned body. I take in all of it, savouring the moment, savouring who she is, and my love for her. The context of it. The why. The dreams we shared in the past, that now only she continues to pursue. The dream I now pursue, which she was the only one to support. And the feelings God told me were safe to develop.
"You figured it out, didn't you?" I say.
"It was pretty obvious," she says with a cute smirk. I resist the urge to pinch her cheek or cup her face. She doesn't resist the urge. I flinch as her cool fingertips trace my jaw. She sighs in satisfaction. "You seriously think I wouldn't remember the score to our little rivalry?"
"Well…" I avert my eyes. "I just never came to the conclusion that it actually means anything to you. And what about that guy you were talking about earlier?"
"Well, it did, and it still does… And I was talking about you. So confession received," she says pointedly. Her thumb brushes my cheek. Her hair's dry now, fluffy strands of blonde and magenta cascade across my chest, exploring the inside of my shirt and tickling my skin. Her skin has a slightly sunburnt tinge to it, and the fond warmth of her body seeps into mine.
"And your answer?" I ask hesitantly.