by Adams, Sarah
Later, back at the apartment, I’m lying on the couch like Cleopatra (if she were sweaty, bleeding, and tearful). My knee was really bleeding and stung too bad to walk, so after Nathan whipped off his shirt and used it as my new favorite bandage, he piggybacked me all the way to his place where I was laid like a delicate porcelain doll on the sofa despite my protests of soaked clothing and bloody limbs ruining his furniture.
“I’ll buy a new one. Don’t move,” he said gruffly. I didn’t argue or point out the wastefulness of his statement because I’ve seen this look on Nathan before, and it’s the one he gets when he’s worried down to his bones. I won’t tease him when he’s like that.
A few minutes later, he’s walking back into the living room carrying a first aid kit and an ice pack. He’s put on a clean white t-shirt, and I could swear I hear a choir of women around the world collectively groaning in annoyance. We all despise that opaque material.
Nathan sits down beside me on the edge of the cushion and twists his hips to face me. He takes my leg and gently pulls it into his lap. It stings as he doctors up my three-inch road burn, but I barely notice because I’m too busy staring at him. Occasionally, his fingers glide over the healthy skin of my legs, and it sparks everywhere in my body. My elbows get fixed up next, and now I look and feel like a clumsy, awkward child, wearing three ugly brown bandages with frizzy curls swelling rapidly around my head as they dry. I’m sure I have tear stains. She’s looked cuter, folks.
Once I’m completely bandaged, Nathan sits back and positions the ice pack over my wounded knee. He’s frowning down at it.
“What is it?” I ask cautiously, afraid I’m bleeding out or something and I just can’t see it.
With my leg still in his lap, his index finger traces a soft line around the bandage. I can feel the reverence in his touch. “Nothing. It’s just…seeing your knee bandaged brings back memories.”
“Of my accident?”
He nods, still not looking at me. “I’ve never felt more terrified or helpless than I did that week.” His eyes snap to me. Heavy. Serious. Aching.
We rarely ever talk about that time in life—though I’m not sure why. It’s just something we avoid for reasons I don’t think either of us really know.
“I wanted to…I don’t know. When you told me ballet was over for you and you cried over the phone…” He sounds anguished. “Bree, I would have sold my soul to be able to get your dreams back for you in that moment.”
I smile at the hard edges of his jaw. The stern set of his brows hanging over his black eyes. His shoulders are rigid like he could plow through a mountain and knock it down, but the pressure of his finger lazily moving over my skin is a feather. A tender kiss.
It makes me want to reciprocate. To be just as vulnerable as his touch.
I lightly flick the lock of hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m glad you didn’t. Because…I like your soul.”
His finger stills and he looks up at me. Our eyes collide for two twisting, drawn-out breaths. I am scorching. My skin prickles from my head to the tips of my toes. Does he know how much his nearness affects me? Does he know I’m dying to dive through those beautiful eyes and see all his hidden thoughts? I need to know if there’s a chance he will ever love me like I love him.
Are we friends?
Or are we more?
My heart pounds more and more aggressively the longer we sit staring at one another. He doesn’t say anything. WHY?! Why won’t he speak? Do you like my soul too? I’d settle for a compliment on my shirt. A casual, That’s nice, your shorts are cute. Anything! Just say something please!
But the longer he takes, the more I wonder if he’s trying to formulate the perfect response to let me down easy. Your soul is okay, I guess. I’ve seen better.
I don’t give him a chance to answer—I panic. “Instagram!”
He frowns. “Huh?”
I scramble out of his lap, feeling my cuts all sting angrily when I bend my knees and retrieve my phone off the coffee table. “We haven’t posted a cutesy photo in a while, and that was part of the contract agreement, right? They wanted us to post couple stuff with their curated hashtags?”
“Yeah…”
“Let’s get to posting, then! We could stage a photo of us playing checkers or something? Do you own a checker board? Or cards? We could play cards…I’ll let you win. Why are you smiling like that?”
He chuckles almost under his breath. “Why are you blabbering?”
I stare right at him and blurt my truth in one long word vomit. “Because I told you I like your soul and you didn’t respond.”
Half of his mouth tilts into a smile. “I was going to, but you didn’t give me a chance.”
“You were taking too long. If we were on Jeopardy, the buzzer would have sounded way before I interjected.”
“I didn’t realize there was a time limit.”
“There is. There’s always a time limit. And now I know you hate my soul.”
He takes my phone from my hand, fiddles with it, and sets it carefully back onto the coffee table. “Some people need more time to get their answer right. It’s not fair to give a time limit.”
“Sorry, but that’s life, buddy. You can’t wait forever.” I realize now that he’s angled the phone on the coffee table, setting it up so that it’s facing us.
He looks at me again. “I disagree. I think some things are worth waiting for, no matter how long it takes.”
Nathan leans over and punches the button on the side of my phone, and a light starts flashing for the ten-second timer. Before I have a moment to grasp what’s happening, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me over so that my back falls flush with the couch cushion. This is new. Nathan hovers over me, pinning me in as the subtle countdown flashes continue to spark beside us.
“Bree, I want to kiss you. Is that okay?”
All I can do is nod.
He bends down, slowly, and drops one soft lingering kiss to my mouth. Fire explodes in my belly. We are not in public. And the camera is still counting down. This kiss isn’t for anyone but me and him. That was when it was just fake. His lips are warm, soft, vulnerable caresses. They end far too soon.
“Your soul is my favorite in this entire world,” he replies quietly, just as the camera sends the final bright flash signaling the photo.
I’m shocked. So scared I’m dreaming I could cry. It wasn’t exactly a declaration, but it felt like it. My heart beats: Hope. Hope. Hope.
I take his jaw in my hand. “Hold still.”
“Why?” Nathan says on a chuckle, because if I can be counted on for anything, it’s making a moment weird.
“Because you don’t have a good poker face, and I want to see if I can find the answer to something.”
His smile fades into something more serious, and as I tilt his face slightly to the side, he complies easily. His jaw is scratchy beneath my fingers. I tilt his head the opposite way, sizing him up from all angles. He indulges me like he has every day of our friendship. No squirming or averting his eyes. He lets me swim through those deep, dark irises, and just when I’m almost to the glowing answer at the end of the tunnel, his phone blares an alarm.
He expels a breath and drops his head into my neck, and I’m able to register his full glorious weight pressing down on me before he pushes off the couch to get his phone. The alarm is silenced. He looks at his phone like he’d enjoy crushing it in his palm and tossing the debris out the window. “That’s my alarm telling me it’s time to go to work.”
“Okay,” I say, my breathy voice barely punctuating the air. But seriously, how am I supposed to respond after a moment like the one we just shared? We’re on the brink of everything changing, but we’re not able to jump quite yet.
He and I stare at each other for one long moment, and then he groans and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Can we talk later? About…everything?”
I smile. “Yes.”
You know what’s strange about being a
normal person and not living inside a Netflix movie? After significant moments, you don’t get a scene jump. After your best friend whom you’ve been secretly pining after for years and years maybe-sort-of-did-he? admits to liking you too, you don’t get to flash forward.
Nope. My life goes on, painfully slow and full of uncertainty. I get to live in the grey for three whole days. You’d think with how often I wear grey, I’d like living in it, but NO! I don’t. I want to take everything grey I own and burn it in a pile in the parking lot. I’ll do some sort of ritual dance around it to cleanse myself of its hold on my life. I’ll lift signs and chant, “WHAT DO WE WANT? NO MORE GREY!”
So anyway, Tuesday was rough. After Nathan left for practice, I had to go teach my new toddler class with a banged-up knee and elbows that felt like someone was scraping shards of glass over them every time they bent. And guess what? You bend a lot in ballet. It’s practically all we do. Bend all over the place.
I taught the rest of my classes that day and then was hoping I’d get to see Nathan that evening, but he had an event at the children’s hospital and I wasn’t about to be that girl who asked him to skip making tiny children’s dreams come true, so we texted a little (texting inside the grey is super awkward, in case you were wondering), and then I went to bed early.
Wednesday, my scrapes were scabs and I could remove my bandages. Why am I telling you this piece of unimportant information? Because it was the only interesting thing that happened that day. Oh, and I found the match to my favorite leg warmers that I’d been looking for for months. They were somehow behind a jug of milk in my fridge. Woohoo for buried treasure!
Nathan’s practice ran long that day and then he had another meeting about another thing that I can’t keep up with. Life during the playoffs is incredibly hectic, and it seems like somehow, Nathan’s days are only getting MORE full. I’m not sure how it’s possible when they were already stuffed to the brim to begin with. I’m worried about him. When I ask if he’s tired or if he’s slept at all, he just brushes it off. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Right, sure, I’ll just turn that switch off then. Easy-peasy.
This morning (Thursday), I finally did a big thing! I submitted my application to The Good Factory. It’s done and out of my hands, and that thought is as thrilling as it is terrifying. I still find myself trying to temper my expectations, but for the most part, I’m forcing myself to hope. To think about how wonderful it will be if my studio is granted the space. I even went by the factory and toured it just so I could be able to more accurately dream of how I would arrange everything—which wall I would have the mirror installed on, which one would get the barre. I took pictures for Nathan of every nook and cranny in the place, and he dreamed with me through text. It has felt unbelievably freeing.
It’s 9:30 PM now, and just as I’m crawling into bed for the night, I see Nathan’s name lighting up my screen. I lunge across my bed to grab it so hard I pull a muscle and accidentally fly over the edge and crumple on the floor.
“HI! HEY! I’ve missed you!” I say, rubbing my sore neck and completely forgetting that I’m supposed to be playing it cool.
His low chuckle races across the line and tickles the little receptors in my ears. “Hi, I’ve missed you too,” he says, not bothering to play it cool either. Chill bumps flood my arms. I wish I were there with him right now more than anything.
I climb back up into my bed and scoot against my headboard, pressing my phone between my ear and shoulder so I can pull my comforter up. It’s worth noting that I have a disgustingly dreamy smile on my face as well. I’ve completely sunk into la-la land where everything is beautiful and sadness is only a mythical idea. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He sighs heavily, and somehow I know he’s also lying in his bed. I hear him take a deep breath and imagine his hand resting above his head. If I were there, I’d run my fingers across his scalp until his eyes shut and he groaned with delight.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.” He doesn’t say this in the way most people do—where it’s sort of flippant and really you hear, I’m not actually sorry and I haven’t thought about you once before now. He says it in a pained and guttural way, and I know he means it. He’s spread thinner than butter on toast, and my worry for him ratchets up again.
“No, Nathan, it’s okay! I understand what the playoffs are like.”
“But I don’t want to be too busy for you.”
My fragile little paper airplane heart gets launched into the sky. “I’ll still be here when playoffs are done.”
I hear rustling on his end and imagine he’s turning over onto his side. “I know we need to talk about the other day on the couch…I haven’t meant to leave it this long. I’ve just barely had time to even look at my phone for the last few days. Do you want to talk about it now?”
Imagine the Michael Scott gif of him yelling NOOO. That’s what my brain says. In no way do I want to potentially have a DTR with my best friend over the phone when he’s half asleep. Or…oh gosh, even worse, what if he’s had time to think it over and realizes he never should have hinted at anything? He doesn’t like me like that. He doesn’t.
“Bree?” Nathan’s voice cuts into my terrified thoughts.
Let yourself hope.
“Sorry, I’m here. But no, I’d rather talk about it in person.”
“Good. That’s how I feel too. So we agree to stick a pin in it for now?”
“That sounds painful.”
“It will be for me.”
My smile stretches so wide the corners of my mouth touch my earlobes. If ever there was a reason to let myself hope for something, that statement was it.
“What are you doing tomorrow night? Maybe I can slip out of practice a little early and we have dinner?”
“Yeah! That will be—” I grimace, suddenly remembering the plans I already have. “Ah, shoot. I can’t. I forgot I have my nephew’s birthday party tomorrow night. He’s turning six. I got him a new harmonica just to really drive Lily over the edge.”
“You’re going to a family thing tomorrow night?” His voice is doing that thing where it’s filled with longing mixed with disappointment. Not because he’s disappointed I’m going, but because he loves my family and wants to go too.
“Yeah…I know you’re busy though.”
“What time?”
I don’t know why he could possibly be asking me this. “It starts at six, I think. They’re having dinner and an outdoor movie. My parents will be coming in for it too!”
I’m really looking forward to it. I love my family, and since my parents retired, I haven’t seen much of them. They’re RVers now and spend most of the year traveling around the US. When we all get together, things get rowdy in the best of ways. My mom is also super into TikTok dances and is always begging me and Lily to do one with her. I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from seeing her dance to Cardi B though. Watching my dad dance to it was even worse.
But it’s good. After seeing them work so hard for most of their life, the day they were able to retire felt like a burst of sunlight to all of our souls. I miss them, and I can’t wait to hug their necks tomorrow.
“I’ll be there,” Nathan says, followed by the sound of a click. Must have turned off his light.
Listen, there’s nothing more I want in this world than for Nathan to come with me to a family event. My parents adore him and it’s always fun to see my mom try to mother him like she does the rest of us even though he’s eight miles taller than her, but I hear the exhaustion in his voice. In fact, I’ve heard it for the last month.
“Nathan, if you have the night off tomorrow, you should take that time at home to rest. Watch that documentary you’ve been wanting to see. Drink some hot tea in a bubble bath!”
He’s quiet for a second.
“Do you take bubble baths?” he asks, his tone changing ever so slightly.
“I do when I’m at my sister’s house. I only have a walk-in shower here.”
He makes a thinking sou
nd. “I have a bathtub here. A big one.”
I swallow. “I know…I’ve seen it.”
“You can use it any time you want.”
I laugh, feeling slightly nervous and zingy all of a sudden. “Okkaayyy, but we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and how you should use tomorrow night to rest. I think you’d love a bubble bath!” If Chandler Bing loves them, anyone will.
“I think the only way you could get me in a bubble bath is if…” His words trail off, and I’m left to fill in the blanks all by myself. My heart thumps again: Hope. Hope. Hope. “Never mind.” He clears his throat. “I’m good though. I have plenty of energy,” he says, sounding like a dehydrated man having to be carried across the finish line of a triathlon. “Let me come with you. Please.”
I can never say no to his pleases. They are made of tiny little strings that wrap around my heart and squeeze.
“Fiiiine, you can come with me. But fair warning, there’s going to be a lot of chaos. Screaming, dancing, cake flying everywhere, and that’s all just coming from me.”
He chuckles, and an image of his dimples pops into my mind. I remember the way he looked lying in his bed before I woke him up the other morning. In my mind, I go to him there in his room like I have a hundred times before, except now, I have a perfect image to accompany me. I tiptoe in quietly and gently lift the covers back. I slide in and it’s like a sauna in there because Nathan always runs at a thousand degrees. He feels me move beside him and hums a sleepy sound before wrapping his big arm around me and pulling me in tight. His breath tickles my hair and his skin is hot all around me.
“I’ve been warned,” Nathan says, puncturing my fantasy.
“Good night, Nathan.”
“Night, Bree.”
Nathan was supposed to pick me up after practice, and we were going to go together to the birthday party. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to slip out early like he hoped and texted me this afternoon saying I should go on ahead without him and he would catch up as soon as he could. The thing is, Lily’s house is not just down the street. It’s a two-hour drive, and my nephew’s sixth birthday party is a completely ridiculous reason for Nathan to drive two hours out of the way after a long day of practice. I tell him this over text with lots and lots of exclamation marks, but he just responds the same way he did last night: I’ll be there.
