That’s why I’m stirring him. I either tease him or climb him like a tree. Considering I have no clue how I got here, or what he thinks of me right now, the former is the safer option.
Elvis answers my question without words by nudging his head to the left. There’s a white sheet sprawled over a two-seater couch—a couch much too small to sleep a man as tall as him. Even I would struggle sleeping on it.
Grimacing, I return my eyes to Elvis. “So no sleep for you, then?”
“No.” He looks at me with twinkling eyes while popping the last piece of his kebab into his mouth. “The couch wasn’t the issue, though.” I’m about to ask what was, but he puts me out of my misery before I can. “Your snoring was.”
Spit-covered lamb flies out of my mouth when I make apfftnoise. “I donotsnore.”
My teeth rip through my kebab like I’m a savage animal, wordlessly advising Elvis what will happen to his package if he continues with his snoring accusation. His sausage is about to be cut in half for the second time in his life.
Elvis shrugs off my warning, not the least bit worried. “Your snoring is worse than a freight train.” He makes noises identical to the ones I heard when Skylar recorded me sleeping to prove her theory on my supposed “drunk snoring issue.”
“Are you sure you weren’t being kept awake by your own snoring? Scientists have proved every man on the planet snores.”
Elvis rounds the counter to prop his hip next to mine, interested to hear the theory he sees in my eyes. When he folds his thick, bulging arms in front of his chest, I enlighten him with my profound knowledge, “When men lie on their backs, their balls fall in front of their butthole, causing a vapor lock. With one hole blocked, their only remaining one has to double its production. Digestive fumes, beer gas, even weed gas is vented out of their mouths. Hence the snoring.”
I vibrate my lips together, making aneighnoise. It turns into a squeal when Elvis snags a damp tea towel from the kitchen counter and uses it to whip me. As I charge across his large, yet still homey loft apartment, I shove the last two bites of my kebab into my mouth.
He’s on my heels in under a second, the hotness of his breath causing more excitement to my stomach than his delicious culinary skills.
“YOU DON’T THINKyou should tell her mom?”
I lean back into my chair, the glass of wine I’m nursing balancing on my partially bare thigh. “I suggested it to Chelsea, but she’s adamant she doesn’t want her mom to know.”
Elvis tucks his still bare foot under his backside before swiveling to face me. Thankfully, a cool afternoon breeze forced him to put on a shirt. Unfortunately, a cool afternoon breeze forced him to put on a shirt. It’s good because the more he covers up, the smarter I appear, but bad because only an idiot wouldn’t want to ogle all he has going on.
My eyes relinquish their missile lock on Elvis’s biceps when he asks, “But is Chelsea really old enough to make that decision? She is only nine.”
“She’s ten next week,” I argue, hating that my good deed might not turn out so good.
I spent the last thirty minutes updating Elvis on the events of yesterday. He agreed with me that Chelsea should have never been excluded from ballet because she’s didn’t have the usual ballet body type, but I could see the caution in his eyes when I told him I had accepted Chelsea into my class without first gaining parental permission.
“You should have seen her face, E. The kids took her under their wings and showed her the basics before swapping numbers so they could practice during to the week to make sure she knows our routine before our next class. She fits into our group dynamic so well.”
“I get it, Will, really, I do. I’m just. . .” He fixes my low-hanging bra strap before raising his eyes to mine, letting them say the rest of his sentence. He’s worried about me.
I return his stare with both wonderment and shock. Our interactions today have been nothing like they were the night we met. We gushed over Dalton and Becca’s gorgeous baby girl when we visited them after our tea towel whipping competition this morning, then we picked up some fried chicken on our way home before vegging out on his couch the past three hours.
If you were a stranger peering in on us, you’d swear we’ve been friends for months—if not years. Electricity has been bouncing between us nonstop, even more so when Becca asked about us showing up together, but for the most part, we’ve set aside the spark to form a deeper, more tangible connection. It’s been amazing, and the fact it was done without mentioning the incident that led to me arriving at his house at midnight makes it even more phenomenal.
I swirl my wine around my glass when Elvis asks, “What’s the worst thing that could happen if this blows up?”
“For me or Chelsea?”
He stares me dead set in the eyes. “Both of you.”
My teeth rake my lower lip as I contemplate. “For me, I’d most likely get fired.”
I can handle being fired; my pay is half what Skylar gets at the bar gig she picks up each weekend to cover her “luxuries,” but I understand mine and Chelsea’s circumstances are very different. No matter how much she wishes it were true, she can’t divorce her parents and pick up a weekend job serving drunken baboons to put her through school.
“Chelsea would most likely get grounded; she’ll probably be forced back into ballet and lose internet privileges for a month.” I raise my eyes to Elvis’s, ensuring he can see the honesty in mine when I say, “But I truly believe she’d say the sacrifice was worth it. She has so much passion for dance, E. She reminds me of myself when I was her age. She doesn’t care if it is classical ballet or busting moves on the trampoline in her backyard, she just wants to dance. Have you ever had a passion so great, no matter how bad the odds are stacked against you, you’ll never stop fighting until you achieve your dreams?”
He nods without pause.
“That’s all I could see when I peered down at her tear-stained face. I couldn’t deny her the opportunity to reach her dreams because I was scared of the consequences. Fuck consequences; they’re barely a blip on the radar when you’re endeavoring for greatness.”
My eyes bounce between my wine glass and Elvis when he removes it from my hand. He places it on the coffee table before tilting closer to me.
