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Natalie has beat me back to the couch. She’s sitting with her hair tucked into a knot on the top of her head and an oversized sweatshirt covering her upper body. Her legs are tucked under a blanket and she has the TV controller in her hand.
“Have you heard of that docu-series about CRISPR on Netflix?”
“CRISPR as in the tool for editing genomes?”
“Yeah, I heard it was good, but if you wanted to—”
“No, let’s watch it.”
She smiles and pulls it up on the TV as I round the couch and take the seat beside her. She holds up the edge of her blanket.
“Want to share?”
I’m not cold, but of course I say yes, and she scoots closer and lays the blanket over me with gentle consideration for my well-being. It’s sweet and totally unnecessary.
“If it’s boring, we can find something else.”
It’s not boring. Natalie and I both work in a teaching hospital that has a large focus on research—this series was basically made for us. We watch the first episode with rapt attention and then immediately launch into episode two. It’s late and we should be getting to bed, but Natalie takes one of the couch pillows, fluffs it, and then drops down to lie with her head on the other end of the couch. Her legs are dangling off the side and I reach down to pick them up. They rest on my lap under the blanket and it’s just her bare feet for Christ’s sake, but I wrap my hand around them and it feels suddenly intimate. We’re “Netflixing” without the “chill”. I’d be worried this is a friend zone activity except for the fact that I know Natalie’s true feelings now.
My mind starts to wander during the second episode. I start debating whether I should just lean over and initiate a kiss. Having my hands on her feet isn’t enough for me. This isn’t the 1800s and I feel like a dying man over here, but when I glance at Natalie again, her eyes are closed. She’s asleep.
I chuckle and shake my head, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV.
I’m gentle with her when I stand and scoop her up.
She’s half-awake when I lead us up the stairs.
“I was still watching,” she swears, nuzzling her face against my chest.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you taking me to your bed?”
“I’d like to.”
She doesn’t respond as I reach the landing on the second story and head toward my room. The door is ajar and I carry her past the threshold, realizing I’ve never done this with a woman. Maybe with other relationships I would have kissed her awake downstairs and turned our night into something more devious. With Natalie, I err on the side of caution. I don’t think I can handle another rejection, so I drop her on my bed, draw back the sheet and comforter, and cover her up. I look down at her for a second, wondering how asleep she really is.
Then her hand reaches out and she holds up the edge of the covers, keeping her eyes closed.
The invitation is clear: Get in, stupid.
I tug off my T-shirt and my pants, not because I’m trying to push her, but because I can’t sleep in clothes. Besides, I still have my boxer briefs on.
I lie down beside her and she scoots into me, draping her arm over my chest.
“Good night,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
“Night,” I say, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how soon is too soon to tell Natalie I’m hopelessly in love with her.Chapter NineteenNatalieIt’s been two weeks since that night in the bar, the night I fell asleep in Connor’s arms and woke up with my leg thrown over him and my arm wrapped around his chest like a baby koala hugging a tree. I was gripping him with all my might, like even in my sleep I was afraid he might get away.
It’s been two weeks of sleeping together where we actually sleep. Two weeks of working long hours with schedules that don’t overlap. Had we known we would want to spend so much time together, we would have requested to take call on the same weekends, but as it is, our schedules are essentially flipped. He takes call the weekend I’m off and vice versa, not to mention we’ve had an influx of patients in the BICU demanding our attention. There’ve been a few nights Connor doesn’t even get home until I’m already asleep. Once, after a particularly long shift, I dragged myself through the front door at 10:00 PM and found him on the couch, still in his scrubs, fast asleep. Our dinner sat cold on the kitchen island. Apparently, he was waiting for me.
Don’t get me wrong though, we have “done stuff” in the high school locker room euphemism sense.
