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Slowly, I help him get up, throwing my entire body against his to support his weight, his arm hanging over my shoulder. The scent of deodorant and soap hits me in the strangest way. I recognize it as Calvin’s scent. One that’s become familiar in the same way that Matt’s once was.
That realization spirals out of control. My throat begins to close up and the dampness in my eyes threatens to turn into full on tears. Biting the inside of my cheek, I try desperately to keep that from happening. While Cal stretches out on the couch, I run upstairs to grab his pillow and blanket, and take the time to collect myself.
I’m momentarily stunned when I step into his bedroom for the very first time ever. It’s pristine. Everything is either white or beige, the furniture expensive, sheets that look like the King of England would sleep on are ironed perfectly. I grab a pillow and a cashmere blanket off the bed––yes, cashmere––and run downstairs.
“I got your fancy shmancy blanket and a pillow.”
After I place the pillow behind his head and hand him the blanket, I glance his way and notice the very serious expression he’s wearing.
“The first time I ever slept on a mattress off the ground was in college.” His tone is unmistakably defensive…and now I feel like a complete and total jerk for teasing him. Good grief. If he keeps offering hard luck stories, I’m going to have to start a collection plate for him.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean––I was just being a smart ass. I like your fancy schmancy blanket.”
Those gray orbs are still peering intently. I stand there awkwardly for what feels like an eternity, waiting for him to say something, anything. He’s so handsome it’s a frigging crime against womankind. I can say that as a matter of fact. Talk about hitting the DNA Powerball. It seems inconceivable that someone could be this beautiful and ridiculously talented as well.
“Thank you,” he says super seriously.
“You’re welcome.”
He keeps staring as if he wants to say something else…until it starts to get weird.
“Good night.”
The expectant look in his eyes dissipates. “Night.”
When I step into the living room the next morning, I find him watching the same game tape we’d watched together. He turns to look at me and the expression I find does not bode well.
“You’re right,” he mutters. Then his gaze returns to the television. For the sake of peace, I bite back the urge to say ‘I know.’
“How’s your back?”
“Better.”
“I suggest you relax today. Can I bring you some stuff to keep you busy? Books or anything?”
“Na, I’m good,” he grumbles like a sullen teenager.
“Vege omelet?”
Tearing his eyes away from the game footage one more time, he pins me with an intense gaze. I have no clue what this means and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. I give him a ‘well?’ look and he nods.
In between my lessons with Sam, I spend the better part of the day shuttling back and forth from the living room, to the kitchen where Sam and I work on reading comprehension, addition and subtraction. Cal seems to get progressively grumpier as the day wears on. I had no idea how many different ways my name could be yelled until this very moment.
Mercedes wanders into the kitchen around lunchtime. I give her my most pitiful look, which goes nowhere. “Don’t look at me. He’s calling you,” she bluntly states, no sympathy for my plight.
As soon as I’m done with Sam, I walk into the living room to see if he needs anything and find him on the carpeted floor stretching.
“How does it feel?”
“Much better.”
“Yeah, well, you need to take it easy for the next two days. Are you going to get an MRI to see if there’s a tear?”
“Made an appointment already.” I get another indecipherable look.
“Turn around and I’ll massage it.”
I don’t have to ask twice. I almost laugh at how quickly he gets into place. Lifting his shirt, I palpate the area. And after I determine that there’s no heat, which tells me he should be on the mend in no time, I grab the heating pad and apply it. He lets out a deep sigh as I begin to work the balm into his skin. His eyes flutter shut, his long black lashes sitting on high cheekbones.
“Lower,” he orders. “Pull my pants down.”
“Excuse me?” I chuckle.
“What’s the big deal?” he grunts out.
“I get it that you like getting nude in front of strangers, however, I’m not one of your many admirers. Believe it or not, I can live my whole life without seeing your bare ass and be just fine.” As I say this, I yank the elastic of his track pants down to his crack (no underwear, obvs) exposing two back dimples…I think they just winked at me.
