I've Seen You Naked and Didn't Laugh: A Geeky Love Story

by Eden Butler

  “You’re good at this, Pinkie.” He tried mimicking me, following my half-attempted instruction as I dipped and swayed and moved my hands to the music.

  “You’re good at this,” I told him, snagging the bottle from him, something he found immensely amusing.

  I tried not to look too hard at his bare chest or the way his jeans dipped lower toward the thick line of hair beneath his navel, the more quickly he moved. Instead, I closed my eyes tight, guzzling the tequila to tamp down the raging need to do a body shot from Will’s flat stomach.

  “Give me, woman.” Will took back his bottle, finishing it off as the song died. I followed him into the kitchen, watching the way he swayed, ignoring how there seemed to be two Wills reaching for my upper cabinet stash of Patron.

  “That’s for specssshal…occasions,” I told him suddenly exhausted just trying to make the words leave my mouth. And then another sway moved my body and I blinked long and slow, laughing when Will missed the island stool and landed flat on his ass.

  This I found immensely amusing, so much so that I crawled to him, trying to catch my breath between fits of laughter until Will finally jerked me to the floor next to him, fitting me on his chest as we passed the bottle of Patron between the two of us.

  “Not…not funny, Pinkie.” He burped, slapping his chest as I took the bottle from him.

  “Very funny, Callahan.” Another swig and more fits of laughter, and I swear something fuzzy went right into my brain. Time seemed to jump around with vague flashes moving around my head as though I couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening in that room or why we said and did the things we did.

  “And I told him to back off. I swear I did…” Will’s head reminded me of the fishing bobbers my dad made us use as kids to catch bass off the dock. The hooks were too dangerous for his little girl, an excuse I’d never bought and blatantly ignored by the time I was ten.

  Will muttered on and on about the same fanboy he’d caught digging through his garbage last week, but I couldn’t focus on the story, or how annoyed Will still seemed by it. He moved closer to me on the floor, animated his little tale by waving the bottle left and right, dripping more tequila on his bare chest and because I was nearly as lit as Will, my inhibitions flew right out of my head and rubbed my fingers against the sliding liquid, running my nails against his chest, across his nipple and brought my wet, tequila drenched fingertip right into my mouth. It tasted more like Will than liquor. That was my first clear thought, not why the room had suddenly gotten quiet or why Will watched me licking two fingers and sucking on the tips to get all the tequila off.

  “Wh…what?” I asked, body moving into a sway as I climbed up the stool to rest against the island.

  Will watched me move, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand as he shook his head, using his free hand to launch himself off the floor. “Noth…” he cleared his throat, rattling away the high squeak that left his mouth before he spoke again, this time his voice went deep and clear. “Nothing, Pinkie.”

  The music hadn’t ended and during our giggle fest and my weird finger touching to free Will’s fine chest from tequila. In the background Prince played like a soundtrack to our night and we’d occasionally sing along with him, our drunken words and rhythm subconscious. It wasn’t until the building refrain of a lone guitar started up that Will and I grew alert enough to pay attention to what song had begun.

  The sadness we’d dulled with tequila and laughter crowded around us once again and we moved together silently. It was habit. It was ritual any time Purple Rain started.

  Will forgot the bottle and though he continued to sway and wobble and his movements were labored and sloppy, I let him lead, let him fix me under his chin as we danced together.

  His skin was hot and smelled sweet and tempting and though I was supremely drunk, I recalled feeling so warm, so safe right there in the cradle of Will’s arms. We danced, letting the sadness of our loss move around us until that drunk flash and slip of memory had me realizing that I was touching Will, stroking the thick muscle of his chest, the fine, soft curl of hair around his nipple, followed by the realization that his body had gone still and rigid.

  “What’s that you’re doing there, Pinkie?” He spoke with his eyes closed, purring a little when I kept stroking his chest. “That’s nice.”

  “Just touching you.” I smiled at his expression, loving how easy it was to make a drunk Will feel good. The smile he wore lit up his entire face. It had been so long since I saw any genuine joy from him. The year had been hard with our schedules keeping us from each other, and Lana, Will’s mother, fighting a losing battle with cancer. There hadn’t been many moments of real pleasure, and just then Will, my Will, who was funny and carefree and easy to laugh with, was back.

  It went on that way for several moments; Will leading me in our dance, me touching and teasing his skin because I’d wanted to do that for so long. Because I was drunk and he was and neither of us would remember it in the morning. It was okay to love him. I knew that. It might not be right to touch him or let him touch me, not while we were so sad, so totally blitzed from the tequila. But I did it anyway. And then, I kissed his neck.

  “Rainey…” he swayed more, movements jerkier, sloppier than they had been just minutes before.

  “Yeah, Will?”

  Nothing was clear to me after I asked that question. Nothing but the slip of memory, the realization that he must have answered. Maybe he asked a question and my tequila addled brain just couldn’t supply what that question was. I only know that one moment Will was watching me, holding my face so still that I held my breath for fear even an inhale would fracture the moment. In the next breath, Will was kissing me, his hot, wet tongue that tasted of tequila filling my senses, invading my mind. I don't think I remember everything. The details are fuzzy, weird. There was a lot of kissing, a lot of touching that was sloppy and rough. Neither of us knew what we were doing, not just then. Then there were other images, things I knew hadn’t been made up by my lust-crazed mind. Like Will picking me up, Clark Gable style and whisking me to my bedroom. And then, there was the recall of his mouth on the flat of my stomach, his tongue slipping slowly down my ribs, over my hip until I shuddered and jerked and screamed something pathetic and nonsensical like “That’s the bull’s eye, Captain!”

  Mortifying. Utterly.

  “You fit me, baby.” That I’d remembered that because he spoke it the moment he slipped inside me, filling my body. “You fit me everywhere.”

  We moved like waves, fierce and violent, like a storm dipping into the ocean and tussling everything beneath the surface upward, exposing what lay hidden beneath, laughing and moaning despite the sloppy drunk filling our heads. Our grief was forgotten, or perhaps it had morphed into celebration. All I know is I’d never wanted anything more than what I had right that moment. I’d never wished harder that a night would last forever.

  The next morning Will shot from his makeshift wrap festooned with Harry Potter images. Ron Weasley’s ginger head covered his dick and he struggled to keep the fringed hem around his butt as he sidestepped around me standing in the kitchen with a bloody Mary in one hand and a black coffee in the other, trying to decide which would best dull the throbbing anvil that bounced around my head.

  “Oh, God, Rainey, what did we do?”

  Horror. Disbelief, abject mortification—all of it shone from his eyes and spilled out of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils told just how disgusted he was with this new possibility we’d created for ourselves. “What did we do?” he asked again, plaintively. We’d been drunk, no denying that. But I still remembered what had happened. Will, who never could take much tequila and who hadn’t even recalled what happened when he did, looked at me scared, disappointed, so afraid of having ruined everything that we had been to each other just a few hours ago—the best of friends. I loved him. I knew, right there and right then, without even having to stop to think about it, that I would protect him, no matter what. I couldn�
��t let him go on thinking we’d ruined everything. Even if it meant that voicing the lie that would ruin the dream I had been harboring for years. I would do this for him.

  “Relax, Captain Hot Pants, you just got drunk and hot and stripped down,” I told him, deciding on the coffee and downing a gulp to keep myself from saying anything more. But he hadn’t stopped desperately gripping that Potter throw, and the disgusted, weak frown was still plastered across his face, so I went to my go-to move: deflection. “Please, like I’d let you even get a whiff.”

  “Whew!” That came out a little too loud and the sick, anxious look on his face morphed into amusement a bit too quickly, causing me to hide my frown behind my mug. “Thank God. Can you imagine?” Will laughed louder, clapping his hands together as he moved around the room and into the hallway to pick up his clothes. I winced at the sound, because of my aching head and my breaking heart. “I must have given you a show though, right?” he called, his voice muted as he dressed in my room. “Sorry, Pinkie.” Will pulled his Henley over his head, making his knotted hair stand up in the back. “I’m sure my bare ass was the last thing you wanted to see.”

  Already, as he moved into my kitchen, sifting around inside my fridge, Will had dropped his worry. Nothing phased him. Nothing got under his skin. He fixed himself breakfast, frying up an egg, toasting bread as he chatted about the most mundane things. His fanboy stalker. His new Mustang. The cat he thought of getting for the times I was off on location somewhere and J.J. and Erik were doing their own thing, just so he would have something warm and breathing to keep him company.

  Just…talking, as though everything hadn’t changed only a few hours before. I’d gone ten years wanting him, and ten years of protecting our friendship from that wanting. I’d gone a solid decade dating men I wasn’t really interested in because if I didn’t, the rumors about us would be believed. The fans and the gossip sites would assume the rumors were true—Will and Raine were more than just friends. We’d be endlessly hounded every time we were together. So I deflected by dating men, plenty of them, though I’d never come close to matching Will’s ever growing number of partners.

  “You wanna go to Zuma this afternoon? It’s warming up and I’m off for a week. I…” He talked about the upcoming week and the next month as though nothing had happened. Of course he did. To him nothing had happened. Nothing ever would.

  Not as long as he believed we hadn’t changed. Not as long as I kept the truth to myself. To do that, I had to keep my distance. To do that, I had to let Will go. It was too painful to be so close to him, to know what could be, and not reach out to touch it.

  We head out to Zuma. He was right, it was a beautiful day, despite it being the dead of winter. Is it ever really winter in Southern California? I watched his hair riffling in the breeze from the window which was open just a few inches to let in the fresh air. His hands were large and beautiful in the sunlight as they casually gripped the steering wheel, those hands that only a few hours ago had been gripping my body, not nearly so casually. I looked at his face in profile, and he smiled at his own jokes, and my heart jumped in my chest, an electricity that arced low in my body. I couldn’t live like this, with him so close and yet so out of bounds. I didn’t want to leave him, but oh my God, I wasn’t strong enough to stay.

  My cell was on and I dialed the number as we pulled into the long drive that led to Coop and JoJo’s private mansion. The text was short, quiet, like I needed it at that moment. Hey, sweetie. I wrote. Let’s talk about London.

  INTERVAL

  Will: Pick up the phone, Raine. Please.

  Will: You can’t ignore me forever. Who are you going to get to pull your Christmas tree down from the attic?

  Will: That ladder is broken.

  Will: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about everything.

  Will: Please, Pinkie. You’re my best damn friend. You have to forgive me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My brother Riley had two boys, only eighteen months apart. They were turning four and five and, though it shocked the hell out of my mother, I was finally in attendance when the whole neighborhood showed up to celebrate with Drew and Romo getting another year older. Yeah. Drew and Romo. My brother was obsessed with football and his poor kids suffered for it.

  “I just don’t know why you won’t answer the phone. Poor Will has called at least a half dozen times.” My mother placed another mug of apple cider in front of me, patting my wrist and reaching over to scratch Ripper’s floppy ears when joined us on the sofa. Outside, around the patio there were at least twenty four and five year olds taking advantage of the mild winter weather as they bounced in some weird inflatable thing that was supposed to look like a big pirate ship complete with a slide. The slide, however, for some reason, was blocked by two thick vertical flaps through which the kids had to squeeze in order to gain access to it.

  “It’s a vagina.”

  “What’s that, honey?” My mother waved at two of the older women on the other side of the French doors, giving them her best Oh bless your heart smile. Every Southern woman worth her salt knew that was code for “fuck off”. Supposedly we were too damn classy for the eff word. Well. They were. I’d given up on classy after Taunte Claire tried making me walk with a book on my head while sporting four inch stilettos. One trip to the emergency room with a broken ankle and my conviction that I was a lost cause had cured me of any desire to obtain any additional semblance of grace or class.

  I nodded, pointing my chin toward the inflatable when Mama pulled the fake bless your heart smile from her face. “The inflatable. It’s supposed to be a pirate ship.”

  “It is, honey.”

  “Mama, look at those kids coming down that slide. If that ain’t a vagina, I don’t know what is.”

  Next to me she shook her head, trying to cover her cheeks as though I couldn’t make out the pretty flush that moved over her skin. “It is not.”

  “Look.” I pointed, pulling on her shoulder to get her closer to my side for a clearer view out of the glass doors. We had a direct line of sight to that giant brown monstrosity these clueless kids were jumping on, around and inside of.

  It took my mother a few seconds, but once she squinted and twisted her head to the side, she finally saw it, releasing a low gasp with her eyes protruding a little. “My word, it is a hoo-ha.”

  “Told you. You might wanna warn Riley.”

  “He’s grown,” she said, pulling on her sweater as though it had suddenly gone frigid in the room. Mama was perpetually cold, a trait I’d inherited and I copied her, reaching behind me to wrap a thick cable knit throw over my shoulders and tucking the ends under Rip’s chunky body. “Not my problem,” she said, nodding at Riley and one of the parents that looked between him and the inflatable. “What is my problem is that sweet Will Callahan calling here at all hours. It’s lucky your daddy is off with his friends hunting. He wouldn’t stand all that phone ringing.” I shook my head, sliding deeper into the plush sofa while I held the mug of cider in my hands, blowing on my hot liquid as a means of not acknowledging my mother. She wanted details, I knew. I would give her a few, but I wouldn’t explain everything. It didn’t matter that I’d just hit thirty. You are never old enough to discuss your sex life, or sexual mishaps, with your old Southern mama. Ever. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just come on out here if you two have had a little figh—”

  The small strangling noise that left my throat stopped my mother from finishing her thought. “It’s more than a little fight, Mama.”

  She watched me for a moment, eyes scrutinizing, curious and I wondered if she thought I was to blame. Over the past decade Will and I had never really fought, but we had pissed each other off. Nearly every time that happened, my mother had asked what I’d done or how I could fix it. She wasn’t judging me or telling me to be a coward and apologize even when I wasn’t to blame. Mama was simply a peacemaker and expected us all to be as well. She wanted us to make amends and be settled. It was a little hard to do that wh
en you’re fussing and bickering with the people you love.

  I also suspected my mother had plans for me and Will. We were getting older and we’d “dallied around,” as she called it, for long enough. She wanted me with Will. He was successful. He was nice. She liked how animated he was about her cooking. Besides, he was awfully easy on the eyes.

  But my mother didn’t know a thing about our lives in L.A. Not really. She didn’t know what it was like to always be under the pressure of being perfect or how difficult it was to succeed when even people who are supposed to care about you, stab you in the back. Like Ellie. Like…Will.

  “I’m sure that whatever has happened…”

  “He slept with Ellie.”

  Mama’s face paled and she leaned back, looking over my features, watching, I suspected, to see if I was teasing or playing some kind of tasteless joke. I shook my head, shrugging before I sipped at my cider because I didn’t want her going on about not believing me. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Uh huh.”

  In my periphery my mother’s stare was hard and focused. She was still looking at me for a laugh, likely expecting me to tell her it didn’t mean that much to me. But my mother knew me. She’d seen how I watched Will when we were together. She’d often told me over the years how my eyes told her everything she wanted to know about my feelings for Will. I was sure, if she looked hard enough, she’d see how fractured my heart was and how desperately I was trying to pretend like it wasn’t.