by Kylie Scott
Leif’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Since the way I approached life didn’t wind up working out for me so well, maybe altering my view of things or previous tastes is a good idea.”
“Maybe it is.”
“I could date someone outside of my immediate experience without the world ending. Someone with tattoos might be fun.”
“If you wanted to,” he says, sounding a bit tense. “Sure.”
“It might even be good for me to try new things.”
A nod. “Yeah. I just didn’t . . .”
“You just didn’t what?” I prod.
His gaze slides over me, assessing. Lines furrow his forehead and his lips are thin. “I’m not trying to cage you in, Anna. Do what you like. I was just looking out for you is all.”
Clem and Ed share a look. No idea what it means.
A small smile lights Leif’s face as he steps closer. “That felt weird. Hug it out with me.”
“It was just a small disagreement.”
His arms open, enveloping me in heaven. There’s no other word for it as he rocks me gently from side to side. “You’re right and I’m wrong. There. Done.”
I wrap my arms around his waist. How can I resist?
“You’re very cuddly,” he says. “This is nice.”
“It is.”
“Now that we live together, we can do this all the time. Isn’t that great?” he asks.
“Very.”
Clem makes a noise in her throat.
Leif turns his head. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says with a smile in her voice. “Nothing at all.”
And she’s got a point. I step back, covering my chest by crossing my arms for various secret reasons. Fine. Because of hard nipples. Ye Lords, the embarrassment. Leif is a consummate flirt. I’ve already seen it many times. It doesn’t mean anything when he acts sweet and I’d be a fool to lose touch with that fact. A fool with a hopeless crush on her roommate. A silly individual whose lady parts need to cease and desist. Surely I know better than that?
I do not know better than that. This is made clear in no time at all.
It’s about one in the morning on my first night of sharing the condo. I don’t know what woke me. A disturbance in the force, maybe. Either that or some small noise caused by Leif doing push-ups on the living room floor like his life depends on it. That he’s doing them in only a pair of gray sweatpants is something I’m just going to ignore. The way they adhere to his butt is a thing of beauty, though. How the dim lighting and sheen of sweat on his bare back accentuates the long, lean slabs of muscle and dips of his spine. This really is something.
Being sexually aware of other men in my life is no big deal now (mostly). The rush of guilt and longing to hide it all away is fading. Since I’m no longer attached to Ryan, save for some paperwork that’s in the process of being filed, I’m making my peace with the situation. I’m done with any and all forms of suffering due to my ex’s bad choices. Feelings and hormones and all of those things can come back on line. Weird how it only seems to happen around my new roommate, though.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. The muscles in his arms tremble with strain. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No.” I don’t actually know what woke me, so it’s not exactly a lie. “Can’t you sleep?”
“Nightmare.” His voice is clipped. All ease, he climbs to his feet and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. His hair is tied back from his face, his cheekbones stark. There’s something raw and real about him. Like with the flirtatious behavior and his usual joie de vivre stripped away, the bare bones of the man are exposed. “Want a drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Was it about the accident?”
A nod.
“So you wear yourself out physically to get back to sleep?”
One shoulder lifts a little. It’s a half shrug. As much as he can manage, apparently. And it’s the arm that wasn’t injured in the accident, so lord only knows how bad the other is hurting. “The idea is to keep pushing until exhaustion and lactic acid burn crowd out everything else. Sometimes it works.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I don’t think he does, given his body language, but it seems only polite to ask.
A brief shake of the head as expected.
“Okay.” And I just stand there in the living room doorway not sure what to do. The overexertion can’t be good for his arm, but I’m neither his mother nor his keeper. I know what it’s like to have people getting in my face about issues relating to the accident, so I’m not about to do the same to him. Though it’s tempting.
Worrying about him also means that my mind is now wide the fuck awake and going at about a billion miles an hour. Poor Leif. Poor hot, half-naked Leif. It basically just goes on and on like that. Sex thoughts inundating my mind. All of the inappropriate in all of the land is mine.
Since I won’t be sleeping anytime soon, I figure I might as well do something constructive with the time. Also, there’s the happiness I’m feeling, yet again, that I’m in a space that’s fifty percent my own. Within reason, I can do whatever the heck I like without Mom butting in and asking what I’m doing, and getting anxious about me using her things and making a mess in her perfect house. Getting a glass of water was enough to make her run for the kitchen to check on things. I come by my neurosis honestly.
“I think I might bake something,” I say.
“You’re going to bake?” He tilts his head. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. What are you thinking of making?” He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his still very much bare chest. Leif has a little more chest hair than Ryan. I don’t think I ever had strong opinions on chest hair before, but let’s take a moment here and get introspective. There’s not a ’70s porn star excessive amount of chest hair going on, just enough to make things interesting. Enough to make me want to stroke my fingers over his pecs and flat nipples. To curl my fingers around his firm biceps and lean in for a sniff.
Is it wrong to want to smell your roommate? It is. I know it is.
I’m objectifying him again, dammit. I am the actual worst. Leif is just a friend. That’s all he wants and I’m going to respect his decision, if it’s the last thing I do. This may involve me donning a chastity belt, or something, but such is life. My hormones will have to calm the fuck down. Because having him for a friend is pretty damn awesome all on its own. Think I might have to pluck my eyes out to stop with the staring, though. Nothing less will do. Me and my surprisingly dirty one-track mind are an issue.
“Um . . .”
He waits.
Right, baking. We were talking about baking.
“Well, what have we got?” I head over to check out the pantry and fridge. Given Leif keeps scotch, beer, ketchup, and not much else, I’d brought groceries with me. Just the basics. Enough to get started. “No bananas, so we can’t make banana bread. No blueberries, so we can’t make pie or muffins. I know, how about brownies?”
“Brownies would be amazing.”
“Okay. Done.”
“It’s weird having someone in this space,” he says.
“Weird bad or weird good?”
“The latter.”
I smile.
First, we both wash our hands. Next, out come the butter and eggs from the fridge. Then the flour, sugar, baking powder, and cocoa from the pantry. Excellent. We’ve got everything we need for a chocolate fix in the wee hours of the morning while sleep has left us high and dry. Though maybe not dry in my case, because he still hasn’t put a shirt on and he is right there and his sweat is apparently a beckoning call to my overactive hormones and lady parts.
Meanwhile, Leif starts rifling through cabinets, searching for something. “I’m sure I had a bowl somewhere. Not sure about a big spoon.”
“I didn’t see any while I was unpacking. My mixing bowl is in the bottom right cabinet.”
I tie on my apron. “Could you please preheat the oven to 350 degrees?”
“On it.” He does as told, casting me a curious look over his shoulder. “Anna, does everything you own match?”
“No. Not everything. Though I do kind of stick to a color scheme. And I like things to look a certain way.” Oh dear. It’s a little odd seeing my French navy-and-white-colored cooking set in a new space. But since Leif only owns a bed and one cool black linen sofa, everything basically coordinates. I’d cope if it didn’t. But my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, inherited thanks to Mom, are happy. “So the real answer there I guess is maybe a yes?”
“Right,” he says. “Are you going to freak out if I’m being messy and leave something lying around?”
“That depends. What sort of something?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You probably should have thought of this issue before inviting me to move in, by the way.”
He sighs. “What if my laptop is lying around?”
I shrug. Care factor nil.
“Okay.” He taps a finger against his lips in thought. “How about an item of dirty laundry?”
“I’d probably just throw it back in your room so I don’t have to look at it.”
He contemplates this answer. “Fair enough. I think the cushions and throw you put on the couch are nice.”
“Great!” I smile. “You know, I’m not as anal as I used to be. But I do like things the way I like them. I’m going to survive if they’re not perfect, however.”
“Perfect is hard.”
“Perfect is impossible and unattainable,” I correct him with a smile. “Life isn’t perfect, Leif. Neither of us are perfect either. Nor do I expect us to be. It’s hard enough just figuring out who you are and being yourself in this world. Why heap on the expectations and make the whole thing that much harder for yourself and everyone around you?”
“Good point.”
“Thank you. I’ve got a bit more perspective these days. Having your life upended gives you a certain kind of wisdom, apparently.”
“Well, I for one no longer live in fear of clashing with your color scheme,” he says.
“Excellent.”
“I did, however, expect something more like silk for your nightwear.” His amber gaze runs over me from top to toe. It’s quite thrilling. He’s never really shown anything beyond a casual interest in my appearance before. “Something . . . flowy,” he says. “You know?”
“Something flowy?” I look over my pale blue men’s pajamas. “These are flowy.”
“No, they’re baggy. There’s a difference.”
“Yes. Well. They’re comfortable. Thanks for the feedback, and I’m sorry I let you down on the risqué lingerie front.”
“That’s okay,” he says, all magnanimous like. The idiot.
But if he was having horny thoughts about what I wear to bed then I don’t feel quite so bad about my continued and ongoing objectification of the man. So there.
While I never asked Leif if he wanted to bake with me, we just kind of fall into sync in the small kitchen. His energy is back. His happy vibe. Guess distraction can work wonders for dark moods and thoughts. Same goes for the promise of chocolate and sugar. While he doesn’t seem to have much experience, he is eager to learn. Something I heartily approve of. Mom liked the idea of me learning to cook, just not the actual me-being-in-her-kitchen part of things. Mostly my grandma taught me. She didn’t get as cranky if I dropped flour on the floor. She used to make the best Mexican wedding cakes I ever tasted.
“What next?” he asks.
“Would you mind greasing the pan while I melt the butter?”
“Sure.” First he picks up his cell, putting on some music. An old Nina Simone song about feeling good. Perfect for kitchen shenanigans at odd hours of the morning. While I’m a great believer in kitchen safety, a bit of hip swaying in time to the beat never hurt anybody. Probably. I’m not actually much of a dancer. It requires a level of coordination I never quite managed to achieve. Nor was I blessed with a decent singing voice. But I do love music. The way it sweeps you up and fills you with emotions. The way it tells a story and takes you on a journey. The art of it all.
Which is when I realize my heart is light. Being here, doing this with him, feels right. That’s nice. It’s good. I choose to take it as a sign that I’m clearly on the right life track.
“It’s always about you,” he says out of nowhere, voice subdued and dark gaze fixed on the pan. “The nightmares, or flashbacks. I’m not sure what they are, but they come at night. You being stuck in the car and me not able to get you out in time before something worse happens. Like it catches on fire or a tree limb crushes it or another vehicle slams into you and . . . there’s not a fucking thing I can do. I just watch you die over and over again in all these fucked up violent ways and I hate it. I hate that I let you down.”
My fingers tighten around the wooden spoon.
“Hope I’m not freaking you out,” he says in a gruff voice.
“No. It’s okay. I asked.”
“Yeah, but . . . shit.”
“It’s okay, Leif. Tell me.”
And he does. He opens his mouth and lets it all out. “I’m always standing there with my stupid arm all messed up and blood leaking out of me and the pain just about bringing me to my knees. And you’re stuck. You’re trapped. And I’m fucking helpless. There’s nothing I can do and no one will stop and help. Cars keep right on streaming past. No one giving a fuck. And I just want to scream.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Leif. You did all you could do,” I say. “Mom told me, they had to cut me out of my car. There was no way you could have—”
“I know.”
I take a deep breath. “Your subconscious just needs to get the message.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
He just looks at me. “Anna, it wasn’t your fault either. That car lost control and swerved into your lane. There was nowhere you could go. Nothing you could do.”
“I don’t like that you’re still hurting.”
“Yeah, well . . . a few night terrors won’t be the end of me.” He turns away. “And here you are, safe and well and all in one piece. Life is good. Most of it.”
I don’t know what to say.
On one hand, it sucks not being able to remember the accident. Not being able to dissect it inside my skull and know for certain that I did the best I could. No one has really been able to give me the right answer about that day. The one that will set my mind at ease. But on the other hand, if I did remember, I’d probably be having nightmares about it, along with the weird ones I don’t tend to talk about. Because talking isn’t going to help me. It’s just not. Though, now that I think about it, it might help Leif.
“I haven’t told anyone else about this,” I say.
His gaze jumps to my face.
“I’ve had this dream a couple of times since I woke up where I can’t move, but the light is slowly disappearing and the dark is setting in. I know something bad is in the shadows, but there’s nothing I can do.” I take the pan off the heat and measure out and mix in the rest of the ingredients. It’s easier to confess a weakness without making eye contact. To say the words aloud and let out my messy insides without exactly listening. “It’s so frustrating and scary. I wake up in tears, trying to get my body to move, feeling something creeping closer and closer and the dread is just horrible.”
“You think it’s from when you were in a coma?”
“Who knows?” I shrug. “It’s as good a guess as any. No one can tell me what the brain does and doesn’t process in that situation. Everyone’s experience seems a little different. How awake or aware they are. If they dreamed or not. How much time passed for them, if any.”
“You read about some cases?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Doctors and nurses at the hospital and rehab t
alked to me about them sometimes too. One woman had a car accident like me and dreamed the entire three weeks she was in a coma that she was driving to work. Couldn’t figure out what was taking so long. Another man dreamed he was happily married and had this whole wonderful life. But when he woke up none of it was true. It was all just gone.”
“That must have been fucking horrible.”
“Right? It would be heartbreaking. To expect to wake up to this beautiful life, but it’s all gone.”
His face stills. “That’s a little like your situation in a way.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so. Anyway . . .”
“But you didn’t see anything in all that time you were lying there in the hospital?”
I shake my head. “No, not that I remember. I just woke up and all this time had passed. It didn’t feel real. Didn’t seem possible. It was the day of the accident and then it was seven months later. Boom. Time just disappeared on me.”
“So we’re both a little messed up,” he says.
“We went through a hell of a thing. Nearly got killed. Shouldn’t we be a bit messed up?”
He says nothing for so long that I finally look up. While I worked, he’d been stacking the dirty items in the dishwasher. I thoroughly approve. His expression isn’t haunted now, more contemplative. His gaze narrowed, and jaw set. “I think you’re right.”
I just nod. “Been meaning to ask, what did you read to me when you were coming into the hospital to visit?”
“Oh.” His cheeks brighten and he looks away. “Clem was in charge of buying the books. She didn’t want to plant any bad or dark ideas inside your head. We thought it was best to keep things reasonably light and happy. Your mom also made some suggestions.”
“Okay.”
He just nods.
“What was the book?”
He clears his throat. “I was reading you The Twilight Saga.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was worried it might be a bit dark, what with all the vampires. But Clem told me how they’re actually all sparkly and I figured it would be okay. At least, you never complained about it until now.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“How long do these need to cook for?”
