by M. J. Fields
“Okay, I won’t, you know.”
She guzzles the water, climbs in on my side of the bed, and pats the spot beside her. “Come on.”
As I climb in beside her, she tosses the pillow and lays her head on my chest. “Night.”
I kiss the top of her head and inhale. “Night.”
I wake up smelling her on my arm, but the bed is empty. I hear the shower running in the bathroom and smell something else sweet.
I don’t feel like dog shit, so I must have slept well. She’s still here, so I didn’t poke her in the ass with a hard-on or grab a tit. Or I did, and that’s why she’s still here.
When the shower turns off, I sit up. She walks out in my sweatshirt, her leggings, barefoot, toweling her hair dry.
She smiles. “Good morning.”
“Getting better every second.” I smile back as I get up off the bed.
I hug her. She feels good. She feels so fucking good, and she smells like me.
“I’m gonna shower, and we’ll go get breakfast.”
“I made breakfast.”
“You made breakfast?”
Wonder what Logan thought of that …
She nods. “I miss cooking. It was nice to use a stove.”
“I was gonna shower first, but damn if I don’t want whatever you’ve cooked up in my mouth.”
“Might wanna pee or something first.” She steps back and looks down.
I can’t help laughing. “Yeah, well, can’t help how the good Lord made me.”
Her eyes and smile simultaneously widen.
When I walk into the kitchen, Jamie is standing on the opposite side of the island, behind a plate that looks like it came out of a Martha Stewart magazine, not that I’ve ever read or, hell even saw one, but I imagine this is exactly what it would look like.
In the center is a pile of the thickest French toast I’ve ever seen, sprinkled with sugar, cinnamon, and with what appears to be an apple pie type filling dripped across it. There’s bacon beside it, and apple slices fanned out on one side.
“Damn, girl, when did you go to the store?”
“Just used some things in the fridge. Hope it’s okay.”
“Okay? It’s perfect.”
She smiles. “Then, eat up.”
“Where’s your plate?”
“When I cook, I graze.” She looks at the plate. “That’s all you.”
“You tryin’ to fatten me up?” I ask.
“Yeah, right. You? Fat?” She laughs.
“Secret?” I ask, sinking my fork in.
She nods.
“I was a fat kid.”
“We all go through a chubby—”
“Jamie, I was a spam-eating, box mac and cheese gobbling, two servings of everything kind of kid. No joke. I was a porker.”
“And I’m sure you were still handsome.”
I shake my head. “You know what eating shit food does to a kid’s complexion?”
“No way the girls couldn’t still see you beneath twenty pounds or a face full of pimples.
“See me?” I laugh.
She clears her throat, face reddening. “Yeah.”
“Jamie, I—”
“Eat before it gets any colder.”
I take a big bite and smile with my mouth full. “Fucking delicious.”
She turns and starts doing the dishes.
“House rules: you cook, you don’t clean.”
“Didn’t you know I don’t follow house rules when I’m here in Syracuse?”
“Let me know what other rules you plan on breaking while you’re here. I’d love to assist.”
Her shoulders sag slightly.
“Hey, Jamie?”
“Yeah?” she says from over her shoulder.
“I see you, too.”
Her back straightens, and I see a smile start to form as she turns around.
I continue eating the delicious breakfast she made as she hums something while doing the dishes.
“What’s that smell?” Downs walks out of his room, stretching.
“When did you get in?” I ask. Aside from Logan, I thought we were alone.
“Real fucking early morning.” He nods toward my plate. “What’s this?”
“Jamie made breakfast.” I stand and take my empty plate to the sink.
“There’s enough for y’all, too.” Her southern twang is a little stronger.
I hip-check her and start washing my plate, even though we have a dishwasher.
“You serious?” Downs asks.
She opens the oven and pulls out a plate. “Still warm.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re an angel.” Downs plops down, and she hands him silverware. “Can we keep her?”
I try to hide the dislike for him saying we and tell him, “I can.”
“Dude, don’t fuck this up. This is awesome,” he says, shoveling a bite in his mouth. “Fucking awesome.”
“You really going to make me do this?”
I can’t help laughing.
“In front of all these people?” She lowers her voice. “It’s gonna get ugly.”
I kneel down and tie a skate as she ties the other.
“Not possible. If I can do it, so can you.” I stand and smile at her, thankful it’s not bitterly cold, grateful she’s wearing the white scarf and hat and that she’s layered in my clothes.
“You can also stand up and pee,” she says as she stands, legs wobbling like an hour-old foal.
Laughing, I step back on the ice and hold out my hands. “We can do this.”
“You–” She stops when she begins to fall. “Suck.”
Laughing, I catch her before she hits the ice. “No one likes a bruised peach.”
She grips my shoulders like a terrified kitten but laughs out loud.
I bend my knees and begin to skate backward.
“Show off,” she screeches.
“Bend your knees for balance. Think center of gravity.”
She does and still looks nervous but not terrified. “Now what?”
“Now, we glide.”
One time around the rink, and I let go of her hands and turn, moving behind her.
“Hey! How do I stop?”
I grab her hips from behind. “Why stop when we just started?”
Two more turns and she’s beside me, still holding my hand, but not because she has to.
“You’re a natural.” Flower. “Haven’t fallen once.” I let go of her hand. “One more time. Show me what you got.”
Her light brown eyes light up, and, like everything I assume she attempts, she gives it all she has. And she fucking nails it, just like she does on stage at Sound, and just like I assume she does on any stage she graces. And yeah, just like I have imagined her in my bed when she’s on top of me.
I watch her as she moves around gracefully, heat rising, but not in my balls; in my heart.
As she approaches, two kids whip in front of her, and she tries to slow down. She starts to flail her arms, I’m going to guess for balance, but she looks like a damn chicken trying to fly.
Laughing, I go against the crowd to get to her, not sure why she bends her knees, having explained that makes you go faster, and because of that, she moves and flails faster.
“I got you.” I can’t help laughing harder.
“Mitch!” she cries as she crashes into me.
“It was fun until—”
She laughs. “How about we try to forget about that?”
“But, did you like it?”
She grins over the cup of hot chocolate she’s holding just under her nose. “So much that I’m gonna do it again.”
When she blows on the cup, I press my lips together and try not to laugh.
She rolls her eyes. “What?”
“Apparently, you’re not big on blow—”
“Pft, whatever. Liked that, too, just …” She shrugs and doesn’t finish.
So, I do. “Just don’t trust me.”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s
not it. I trust you, just …” She stops again, and her face flushes.
“Lay it out for me, Jamie.”
She squints her eyes shut. “You already mean enough to me?” She opens one eye and peeks at me.
I smile one of understanding. “All right.” I toss my empty cup in the trash bin next to the bench. “Let’s not let this get any more awkward for either of us, because we tend to get into arguments for no good reason. Let’s just, you know …” I stand and reach out my hand.
She nods firmly. “Cuddle season.”
“Fuck,” I grumble.
“What’s fuck mean, Mitch?”
“Easier to show than describe, Jamie G.” I wink. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”
“Har, har.” She rolls her eyes, tosses her cup, and then firmly plants her hand in mine. I pull her up. “Now, what did fuck mean?”
“You sure you wanna know? Might put you in an awkward situation with your squad.”
“Pretty sure we’ve already established, we share more with each other, secrets and such.”
“And such.” I wink.
She elbows me gently.
I tell her about Logan last night, and she shocks the shit out of me when she admits she heard him, which is also why she made breakfast, minus one plate, hoping he would starve.
“So, me admitting that I may have withheld that information so you’d hang with me today doesn’t piss you off?”
She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Then I’d have to be pissed at myself for doing the same.”
I let go of her and wrap my arm around her, resting my hand on her hip.
“It’s gonna make this thing difficult. I mean, I’ve gotta have her back, and you’ve gotta have his, right?” she asks.
I shrug. “How close am I to being the in-between again?”
She wraps her arm around me. “How close are you to trusting me enough to know more?”
I look down into soft brown, non judging, beautiful eyes. “You saying you want us to be like legit?”
“I’m saying I want to know you, Moore.”
“Good.”
“Which means you need to give me more.”
“I’ll give you—”
She places her glove over my face. “Don’t play player with me.”
I pull her hand away and nod. “Go slow with me?”
She nods.
“Go easy?”
She smiles.
“And be gentle?”
She laughs, and I bring her into a hug.
“I have lube.”
“Jesus, Jamie, if I trusted in love, that would have sealed the deal way past cuddle season.” I take her face in my hands and kiss her.
Flower.
Jamie
“You made me breakfast, and now you’re insisting on making dinner, too?”
“I have Ramen, and I have Mac—”
He laughs. “No fucking way am I eating that shit.”
“It’s college food, part of the experience. Plus, we lowly Musical Theatre majors don’t have a condo in South Campus with a kitchen.”
He smirks. “I have a kitchen.”
“You also have a Logan, whose balls I’d like to knee, so—”
“Yeah, he’s had a rough year.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s not had it easy, either.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps on it a few times before looking up. “What makes you assume that?”
“Not assuming anything. I feel it.” I shrug, watching as he stays glued to his phone.
Jersey Chasers, I spew inwardly.
He looks up at me as he shoves his phone into his pocket.
“Business?”
He smirks and steps toward me.
I step back.
“Ordered dinner. With football over, I need to watch my figure.”
I feel stupid for assuming he was trolling when I told him that I was over it and accepted responsibility for the part I played.
“You spend too much money on food when we have perfectly good food right here.” I hold up the mac and cheese cups.
“Gotta spend it while I have it.”
“Please, you have ten thousand more subscribers than when the semester …”
When he grins, I realize I just outed my super stalking skills … again.
“Can I tell you another secret?”
I nod.
“We’re selling the site.”
“Can I tell you one?”
He nods. “I’m so glad you are.”
“Won’t be glad when I can’t buy hot chocolate and am begging to drink your homemade hot as fuck ch—”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
Lying in my bed, smelling the pillow he slept on and daydreaming of the past two days we spent doing things together that I only dreamed of and two nights being held, I refuse to listen to the instinctual warnings in my head. Why? Because, quite frankly, I’m going to trust my heart, because it’s obvious to me that we’ve moved from lust to possibly something stronger.
It’s also painfully obvious that he holds his hurt and pain so tightly that, instead of strangling the life out of it, it’s almost like he’s imbedded it into his person.
I can’t go beyond kissing and cuddling for now, and I so want to.
When he said, “If I trusted in love, that would have sealed the deal way past cuddle season,” that’s a huge leap from it being a fairytale.
His eyes show a lust still, but it’s not all the time. There are times when I see the warmth in his gaze that mirrors how my heart feels.
I’ve also been extremely surprised by how romantic he is—the sledding, the ice skating, the dinners, and the Christmas movie marathon we watched yesterday. Miracle on 34th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life—the classics—he’d never seen them. He did however have a favorite. Mitch’s favorite classic is Die Hard. I told him Die Hard was NOT a classic, and he argued, rather convincingly that it was.
We plan to watch more over the next couple of weeks before the month-long Christmas break.
And let’s not forget, he’s selling the site.
He’s calling me Flower again, which I admit, I missed, and it all started after our first kiss since, well, let’s just call it the pause in the in-between.
This afternoon, he and I ate leftovers from the dinner that he ordered from Pastabilities, and before we said goodbye.
My girls will be back soon, and he wanted to see what was going on at the house, which I encouraged because Logan needs his ass kicked hard enough for his head to pop out of its dark and disgraceful depths.
An hour after he got home, he messaged me that there was a party in progress and asked me what I wanted him to do. When it took too long for me to figure out how to reply in a more mature fashion than burn the house down, he FaceTimed me.
“Don’t be pissed.”
“Hi.”
“Wasn’t my idea.” He flops back on his bed.
“How are you?”
“You say you’re fine, and I’m gonna say fuck the in-between and let you torture me with more Christmas movies now.”
I laugh, and he sits up, smiling.
“You believe me, right?”
“It’s fine,” I deadpan.
“Yeah, no.” He stands. “Fuck this. I’m on my—”
“I’m joking.”
He looks immediately relieved.
“I don’t own you.”
“You sure about that?” He runs his hand through his hair and flops back down. “I’ve never asked a chick if she was okay with me hanging out at a party. Come to think about it, I never even asked my old man’s permission for a damn thing.” He leans into the camera. “How fucked up is that?”
“Well—”
“It’s fucked up, Jamie G., Flower, Hot Choc—”
I laugh, “Really though?”
He smiles. Stunning. Simply stunning.
“You do know I’d rather be there, right?”
“You do
know we have a deal, and that includes squad time.”
“Yeah, well, that sounds better than sitting here watching Logan get dry-humped by a bunch of fucking—”
“How about I come over there and beat his ass?”
“Hey.” He shakes his head. “Think about it this way; she’s still got her V-card and—”
“You take anatomy class, Giddy-up?”
He cocks his head in confusion.
“You do know that the heart and vagina aren’t the same thing, right?”
He smirks.
I shake my head. “This is twice. I will be damned if I let her give him a third time to make a fool out of her.”
“Just for clarification’s sake, how many times have I fucked up?”
“Player, you won’t get but one.”
He looks confused again, like he’s trying to figure out if the first one counts.
“I’m not a diva. I own my part in that.”
“Lube.”
“What?” I laugh.
He shakes his head, obviously wondering why lube popped out of his mouth. “Nothing.”
I hear yelling in the background.
“Is that …?”
He shakes his head. “I need to go deal with this.”
“Mitch.”
“Trust me?”
I nod.
“I’ll message you later.”
The fact that Elle forgave Logan for fucking up is beyond me. Mitch feels the same. But she stayed that night.
Christy and Lisa have asked me what I think. The word co-dependent got thrown in, and I simply told them the truth—we aren’t Elle—and secretly wondered if they felt the same way about me.
Don’t get me wrong; they’re my girls, but it’s Elle I feel closest to, probably because we’re both stupid happy when we’re with the boys and secretly waiting for the other shoe or, in my case, boot to drop.
We still do Sound on Thursday nights, but both Elle and I discussed privately that since Tuesdays have been becoming date nights with our cuddle season companions, that Thursdays was all about squad.
Our weekends are spent at the South Campus condo, watching Christmas movies, cooking, playing Cards Against Humanity with squad and team. We laugh, we sometimes drink but never too much, and we have amazing times.
