by James, Ella
“Hmm…” I hear nails clicking on some surface. “Earliest? Some time next week. Latest, the week or two after.”
My fingers clench the phone. “Thank you.”
“How is the house?”
“It’s great. I hope you’re doing well,” I add.
“I am.” I can tell she’s going to say more, so I beat her to the punch. “I’ll be in touch.”
When the call is dead, I slam my fist against the countertop. I close my eyes and I can feel her hands in my hair. Her arms around me. I can hear her voice, her pretty, sultry voice that gets into my dick and makes me want her.
I dry off quickly. Roughly. My head feels hollow. My skin hums. My cock presses against my lower belly. Gwenna dances in and out of my mind.
Not okay.
I go to the bed and pull up some porn on my phone. Even as I watch big tits and a gleaming, pink pussy, I feel her palm cupping my face. I imagine her fingers stroking the inside of my thigh. I watch some porn star suck a dick and I imagine Gwenna’s lips, my dick.
I squeeze the phone as tightly as I can, then hurl it at the wall.
It’s because I’m tired. That’s all.
I go downstairs and make some coffee, waiting for my dick to deflate as the Keurig coughs and chokes.
* * *
Gwenna
Two nights. Two times sparring by myself next to the porch. I rang his doorbell yesterday at 5:30 p.m., but nothing.
I worry. I think anybody would. I clean, and sing, and talk to Mom and Jamie and, once, Rett. Jamie tells me I should use my key if I want to. I don’t. I don’t have a reason to invade his space. After what happened at my house the other night, he’s avoiding me. I wish he wasn’t, but I understand. So much more than most people would.
I dress for my lone fight tonight in some brown leggings and a long-sleeved blue shirt featuring the creatures on the children’s show Yo Gabba-Gabba. Inspired, I go to YouTube and find “Don’t Bite Your Friends,” a favorite song of the kids I babysit twice a month. I sing it as I lace up my hot pink sneaks.
It’s getting dark sooner. Working out at night seems even more depressing than it should. I tell myself if he doesn’t show up tonight, I’ll start working out in the daytime again, up in the clearing.
As it is, I can’t seem to make myself go out. A little after 5:30, I call Jamie and ask if she wants to go to the local hospital tomorrow in the bear suits.
“When do I not want to be a bear?”
I laugh. She’s weird. It’s why we’re friends.
“You hanging in there?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about him. It’s not your responsibility. You’ve done everything you can to be a good friend. He won’t hide forever. Give him another few days.”
“Yeah.” I chew my lip, then cut our conversation short and go outside and start to stretch.
And there he comes. I see him at a distance as he walks from his long yard into the woods between our houses, and my heart leaps so high, I swear I feel it get hung in my throat.
Barrett!
He’s wearing a green shirt. The sight of him makes me feel like I’m vibrating just a little. I try to gauge his mood from just his movements, but it’s impossible, even as he nears me.
I’m straightening up from touching my toes when he steps into my yard, and holy shit. How many times am I going to forget and re-remember how gorgeous this man is?
He steps slowly over to me, stops in front of me, and looks into my eyes for a long moment. Then he runs one of his big hands gently over my hair. I hold my breath while his fingers blaze warm trails atop my scalp, and just when my eyelids droop from the pleasure of this simple touch, he holds a battered-looking leaf in front of my face.
“Thanks.” I take it, my fingertips brushing his.
He nods, expressionless although his eyes are still on mine. My spirits plummet.
So this is how it’s going to be.
Be patient, I tell myself. I’m reminded, strangely, of Papa Bear—and all the work I’ve done with him.
You’re a patient person.
Still, I’m disappointed when he starts stretching without another word to me. During our workout, he teaches me more about the vulnerable places on the head. He has his fingers threaded through my hair half of the time, rubbing lightly on various pressure points and making my entire body burn. The rest of the time, I’m focused on getting my hands around his neck, or finding the best angle for gouging his overly perfect eyes out.
The few times he demonstrates a move on his own, I let my hungry eyes rove over him. I sift my feelings through the filter of “just friends.” How long has it been since I had a guy friend? (College). I feel this warm swell concern for him, this proprietary feeling that he’s mine to take care of. And yeah, I also kind of want his body. Is this what it’s like to have a male friend?
We touch and talk and orbit each other—acting like nothing happened the other night, like nothing’s ever happened between us except just sparring in my yard—and I tell myself that I can be his friend. I’d take that in a heartbeat if it was that or nothing. And it is. It’s that or nothing, I tell myself sternly.
Entertaining any other option—even for a millisecond—is proof that I’m losing my grip on reality.
We end our workout with some free-form sparring. I can tell he’s letting me “win”; I take it anyway, and bow theatrically when we’re finished.
As soon as he starts stretching, I feel heat prickle my cheeks. I stretch alongside him until he’s bending down toward his toes, and then, when he can’t see my face, I say, “I made three different types of cookies. Peanut butter the one night, M&M last night, and chocolate chip today. You want to come in, or want me to run go get them?”
He rises to his full height and spreads his legs, then bends over to the left side. “You don’t have to.” His voice is soft and low. I have to run his words through my mind twice to convince myself he said them.
Then I smack a hand over my heart. “You don’t want my cookies?”
I swear, I think the asshole rolls his eyes.
I sigh and wag a finger at him. “You’re grumpy. I had a sense of it, but I couldn’t tell for sure while we were sparring. You’re pretty good at hiding your emotions, Secret Agent Ranger Guy.”
Rising up again to roll his shoulders, he blinks at me.
I nod. “Like that.” I shrug, determined not to sink into a sea of insecurity. I whirl around. “I’m going to get the cookies,” I call over my shoulder. “Don’t run off on me.”
I didn’t mean to reference the other night, but apparently my big mouth has a mind of its own. Typical me. Typical pre me. I feel a rush of warmth at the realization.
He makes me feel like me, I imagine telling Helga. I’m not sure if she’d be glad or appalled. Possibly appalled.
I pile three Ziplock freezer bags full of cookies into my arms and walk back out onto the front porch. I’m surprised to find Barrett sitting on the top step, leaning over his lap with his head in his hands. I drop down beside him on the stair and put the three bags at our feet.
When he shifts his wary eyes to me, I wait for him to say something. Instead he looks back down.
What should I do?
I wish I knew him better.
After a minute staring at the bags of cookies, wondering why I feel such a compulsion to take care of him, I decide it doesn’t really matter. I do—and that’s the thing. Sometimes people just connect, and this is how I feel toward him. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. In that spirit, I pony up and throw an arm around his shoulders.
They’re harder, wider than I realized they would be, and once my arm is resting on his strong back, I feel tingles spread through me. I still my body, feeling for movement, but he is frozen too. It’s your move. I take a deep, slow breath and spread my hand out on a ridge of muscle.
Then I lean my head against his shoulder.
I’m not thinking about our height difference, so
I think my cheek will press against his shoulder. Instead my forehead bumps against the hard swell of his bicep. It’s unyielding. No more receptive to my attempt at comfort than the man himself.
Without meaning to, I laugh, and all the tension in me ebbs. I rub my forehead against his arm, feeling ridiculous.
Eventually, I guess even Barrett gets curious; he lifts his head so he can see my face. “What are you doing?” His face is twisted in a look of total incredulity.
I giggle. “Forehead-humping your arm. Can’t you tell?”
“Yeah.” He makes this husky, half-breath-half-laugh sound, and I feel a zing of victory.
“I’m trying to un-grouch you through osmosis.”
When he cuts his eyes sideways at me, I find his handsome face skeptical. I grin and rub against his arm some more.
Finally—a real laugh from him. “I don’t know about you, Gwen.”
“I don’t know about you either. Who refuses homemade cookies?” I arch my brows accusingly.
“Someone who’s not hungry.”
I hold his gaze as mine softens. My arm around him squeezes. I don’t know what to say, so I just sit beside him, looking at his somber face, into his striking eyes, and try to send good vibes.
“You know…” I let my arm slide down his back, so it’s looser around him. “After my wreck, I had some terrible nightmares. I don’t have them as much now, but I had some in the last week. I find that if I’m stressed out or something shifts in my day-to-day life, sometimes they crop up again. I have this journal where I write them out. And then I go back in and like…re-script them. Change what happens. I know it probably sounds kind of stupid, but it really does help.”
With my arm still up against his back, I feel him exhale. After a second during which his body feels completely inert, he turns to me with raised brows and twisted lips.
“Is there a reason you told me that?” His tone is surprisingly sharp.
My pulse pounds in irritation. I give him my best oh really look.
“I’m fine,” he says. I swear, I think he grits his teeth.
I feel his back knot up under my hand. Riiight.
“Okay,” I say airily. “You seem tired, that’s all.”
He looks at me strangely, almost angrily. “Yes, we have established that. I don’t see why you give a fuck.”
My heart squeezes, making my head feel light and spinny. I move my arm from him and hug myself. “Because we’re friends.”
“Are we?”
Chapter Sixteen
Gwenna
I’m not aware of what I do, or what kind of look I give him. I just know it takes a couple of seconds to draw my next breath, and when I do, my pulse gallops and my cheeks feel hot. I jump up and turn around, toward my door.
I feel Barrett’s fingers wrap around my arm. “Dammit.” This time, it’s his eyes seeking mine. I train mine on his green shirt.
“I’m sorry, Gwenna. I’m just…” He scrubs his forehead with his right hand, then lets out a loud sigh. “I’m an asshole.”
He looks so contrite, so worried and—indeed—so tired, my anger melts in a few seconds.
I press my lips together, not quite willing to let him know that yet. I sink back down onto the porch step. If he doesn’t want to be here anymore tonight, this is his chance to go.
Just go.
Instead he sits beside me, searching my face with his gray-blue eyes. “Gwen…” He tilts his head. “I’m sorry.” With no warning, his arm wraps around my back. He pulls me gently to him, so my shoulder and right side come up against his warm chest.
“It’s okay.” I try to stay still, so I won’t touch him more than I have to, and keep my eyes trained on the Ziplock bags. I cut my eyes toward him, so he believes me when I say, “Forgiven.”
I wait for him to move his heavy arm. He doesn’t. I might not be angry with him, but I’m still embarrassed. I debate wriggling out of his grasp and going into my house, but I’m supposed to be his friend, so I just sit there, wondering what made me think I should put myself out there. What made me even think he wanted that.
Friends? We’re neighbors. The only reason we know each other is that I kicked him in the head.
As if he hears my thoughts, his hand flattens on my back and he says, “You’re a good friend, Gwenna. Better than I am.”
I let a long breath out. I tip my head back, looking at the sky through bare limbs and crinkling leaves.
He shifts his weight a little, moving closer to me, so I’m almost underneath his arm. I still feel the weight of his hand just under my bra strap on the left side of my back.
My throat aches. I just…can’t look at him. I keep my head tipped back.
A moment later, his voice rumbles near my ear. “See something up there?”
“Stars.” The word is smaller, tighter than intended. It seems, for better or for worse, all I want now is to go inside. I don’t understand this weird pseudo-friendship we have, and now I’m not so sure I want to.
“You like the stars?” he asks.
I like his sexy, raspy voice—damn it all. I exhale slowly, so he can’t feel it. “Who doesn’t?”
There’s a beat of silence, in which crackling leaves chase each other across my brownish grass. Then he moves his arm off me and steps down off the porch. He holds a hand out. “C’mon.”
“Huh?”
He reaches down and wraps his hands around my waist, under my arms. “C’mon, Gwenna.” He lifts me up. “You ever get called Gwen?” He sets me on my feet, then seems to re-evaluate and throws me over his shoulder. The motion is surprisingly controlled and gentle.
After a second of shock at our little plot twist, I shriek and mock-beat his back. “Where are you taking me, you freaking Sasquatch?”
He laughs. “Sasquatch?”
“When I saw you, when I kicked you, I thought you were Sasquatch.”
I can feel his laughter in the movement of his shoulders. “That’s some funny shit.”
“Yeah, you’re like…part giant.”
His arm around my back tightens. “To answer you,” he says as we get into his yard, “it’s somewhere good. You’ll see.”
I think I know where he might be taking me when we start up the stairs to the third floor of his house, but I don’t know for sure until he sets me in the second floor hall outside the bedroom doors and reaches for a notch there in the ceiling. He tugs it lightly, pulling a big square of ceiling downward just a little. With his left hand, he pushes me gently back.
He turns to me and smiles, dimpled and panty-melting. “Do you trust me?”
I arch a brow. “Should I?”
He looks stricken.
“Yes.” I roll my eyes. “Why wouldn’t I? Although I will say,” I tell him as he pulls the stairs all the way down, “if you chop me into little pieces, I will haunt your shit so hard…”
He gives a low laugh. “Well, I don’t need that.”
I smile sweetly. “Then you better treat me like a BFF.”
He gives me a funny little look—a kind of long pre-smile in which he somehow, indescribably, just looks like he could smile. And then he does.
My heart skips several beats.
“I’ll go first. To test the ladder,” he says.
As I watch him climb into the attic and turn on a light, I have a strange déjà vu feeling: high school. Butterflies and flop sweat and lust, I think as he leans back down over the ladder.
“We’re good,” that low voice rumbles. “Come on up.”
He hovers near the top of the ladder as I climb. I’m watching his face as I step fully up into the attic space, so I see him opening his mouth, seemingly to protest. Then I get a peek at the room behind him and my jaw drops.
The room looks like—it is—a little library. It’s a rectangular space about the size of a school classroom, with a cedar floor, exposed rafters, and whitewashed walls. Right out in front of me, punched into the wall that forms the top line of the rectangle, there is a qu
ilted, queen-sized bed that folds out of the wall. The long wall to my right is nothing but built-in shelving, packed with books, trinkets, and even a little lantern. To my left, along that long wall, there is an antique desk, a fish-shaped floor lamp beside a cozy leather armchair, and—perhaps the room’s most awesome feature—the most giant window seat I’ve ever seen: about the size of my kitchen table. The window is three giant sheets of glass arranged like the top of a hexagon.
My eyes rove the room again as my hand covers my mouth. “Holy hell, this is beyond adorable.”
I turn a circle, noting an antique rocking chair, a circular woven rug, a random gnome statue, and tiny wind chimes hanging from the ceiling near the window seat.
The only thing I’ve ever heard about the Haywoods’ attic was something about a homemade telescope. I search the room for it, and when I don’t see it, my gaze boomerangs to Barrett.
He’s got his arms folded in front of his chest, and I’m pretty sure the look on his face is a smug one.
“This is fabulous,” I say. “I may move in.”
He smiles. “Turn to your left.”
“That window seat is awesome. I think I should sit in it.”
I’m almost to it when I notice the left sheet of glass seems to have a hole at the bottom, near the seat’s padding.
Another step and I can it’s not a hole; it’s a little electronic panel of some kind, looking at first glance like a smaller version of the black Wii U box. One more step, and the low lamplight reveals the box to be a giant, T-Rex-sized pair of goggles. I climb up onto the seat’s padding and pull them out of the window—or rather, off a little shelf I can now see they’re sitting on—and watch, confused, as they trail a small, plastic-looking tube in from outside the window.
“It’s some kind of fiber optics,” Barrett says, coming up to stand behind me. “He had it set up so the telescope is on the roof and sends the image through that little tube that runs from telescope to goggles.”
I blink down at the goggles. “How random. And cool. I want to see.”
