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And there he comes. I see him at a distance as he walks from his long yard into the woods between our houses, and my heart leaps so high, I swear I feel it get hung in my throat.
Barrett!
He’s wearing a green shirt. The sight of him makes me feel like I’m vibrating just a little. I try to gauge his mood from just his movements, but it’s impossible, even as he nears me.
I’m straightening up from touching my toes when he steps into my yard, and holy shit. How many times am I going to forget and re-remember how gorgeous this man is?
He steps slowly over to me, stops in front of me, and looks into my eyes for a long moment. Then he runs one of his big hands gently over my hair. I hold my breath while his fingers blaze warm trails atop my scalp, and just when my eyelids droop from the pleasure of this simple touch, he holds a battered-looking leaf in front of my face.
“Thanks.” I take it, my fingertips brushing his.
He nods, expressionless although his eyes are still on mine. My spirits plummet.
So this is how it’s going to be.
Be patient, I tell myself. I’m reminded, strangely, of Papa Bear—and all the work I’ve done with him.
You’re a patient person.
Still, I’m disappointed when he starts stretching without another word to me. During our workout, he teaches me more about the vulnerable places on the head. He has his fingers threaded through my hair half of the time, rubbing lightly on various pressure points and making my entire body burn. The rest of the time, I’m focused on getting my hands around his neck, or finding the best angle for gouging his overly perfect eyes out.
The few times he demonstrates a move on his own, I let my hungry eyes rove over him. I sift my feelings through the filter of “just friends.” How long has it been since I had a guy friend? (College). I feel this warm swell concern for him, this proprietary feeling that he’s mine to take care of. And yeah, I also kind of want his body. Is this what it’s like to have a male friend?
We touch and talk and orbit each other—acting like nothing happened the other night, like nothing’s ever happened between us except just sparring in my yard—and I tell myself that I can be his friend. I’d take that in a heartbeat if it was that or nothing. And it is. It’s that or nothing, I tell myself sternly.
Entertaining any other option—even for a millisecond—is proof that I’m losing my grip on reality.
We end our workout with some free-form sparring. I can tell he’s letting me “win”; I take it anyway, and bow theatrically when we’re finished.
As soon as he starts stretching, I feel heat prickle my cheeks. I stretch alongside him until he’s bending down toward his toes, and then, when he can’t see my face, I say, “I made three different types of cookies. Peanut butter the one night, M&M last night, and chocolate chip today. You want to come in, or want me to run go get them?”
He rises to his full height and spreads his legs, then bends over to the left side. “You don’t have to.” His voice is soft and low. I have to run his words through my mind twice to convince myself he said them.
Then I smack a hand over my heart. “You don’t want my cookies?”
I swear, I think the asshole rolls his eyes.
I sigh and wag a finger at him. “You’re grumpy. I had a sense of it, but I couldn’t tell for sure while we were sparring. You’re pretty good at hiding your emotions, Secret Agent Ranger Guy.”
Rising up again to roll his shoulders, he blinks at me.
I nod. “Like that.” I shrug, determined not to sink into a sea of insecurity. I whirl around. “I’m going to get the cookies,” I call over my shoulder. “Don’t run off on me.”
I didn’t mean to reference the other night, but apparently my big mouth has a mind of its own. Typical me. Typical pre me. I feel a rush of warmth at the realization.
He makes me feel like me, I imagine telling Helga. I’m not sure if she’d be glad or appalled. Possibly appalled.
I pile three Ziplock freezer bags full of cookies into my arms and walk back out onto the front porch. I’m surprised to find Barrett sitting on the top step, leaning over his lap with his head in his hands. I drop down beside him on the stair and put the three bags at our feet.
When he shifts his wary eyes to me, I wait for him to say something. Instead he looks back down.
What should I do?
I wish I knew him better.
After a minute staring at the bags of cookies, wondering why I feel such a compulsion to take care of him, I decide it doesn’t really matter. I do—and that’s the thing. Sometimes people just connect, and this is how I feel toward him. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. In that spirit, I pony up and throw an arm around his shoulders.
They’re harder, wider than I realized they would be, and once my arm is resting on his strong back, I feel tingles spread through me. I still my body, feeling for movement, but he is frozen too. It’s your move. I take a deep, slow breath and spread my hand out on a ridge of muscle.
