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Why is it so much easier to smile in the dark? Why is it so much easier to be myself when no one’s looking?
How the hell am I going to pull off doing this play?
I close my eyes and ignore the less-than-gentle pit-pat of my eager heart. I can only pray whatever I dream up in the night is something that won’t result in me waking up with a huge boner making a teepee out of my pants.
Morning comes in the form of a harsh light in my eyes. It cuts a path straight across the pillow from the narrow window above his desk. I lift a hand to shield my face, annoyed. I seem to be in the exact position I fell asleep: on my back, a leg half-hanging off the bed, my head on a sliver of pillow. Toby, however, is curled up and facing the wall, his back to me. I watch him for a while as his back gently expands and contracts with his every breath. A sleepy smile slowly spills over my face, watching him. Not a bad sight to behold first thing in the morning, all things considered. I shift my weight carefully, so as to stretch my stiff back and neck.
I fall off the bed instead.
Toby shoots up like a bomb just went off. He turns and peers over the edge of the bed, alarmed. “You alright??” he asks, groggy and deep-voiced. “Did I push you off the bed? I kick sometimes in my sleep. Ugh, I was worried about that.”
“No. Not your fault.” I sit up and rub my elbow. “Got punished by gravity for turning over, I guess.”
“Lemme help you up.” Toby reaches for my hand.
“Nah, it’s fine,” I insist as I start to push myself off the floor.
“C’mon, I insist.” He takes hold of my hand before I’m ready.
Instead of the floor, my foot finds a baseball that materializes out of nowhere. It slips right out from under me, flying into the wall. My hand—still gripped by Toby—pulls me right back to the bed where I land with unexpected grace on top of Toby.
I do half a push-up, looking down on his bewildered face.
Toby looks up at mine, holding his breath, eyes wide.
Our lips are inches from each other’s.
His beautiful eyes are on mine—afraid, curious, dreamy.
Then something flexes between our bodies right at my crotch.
Both our eyes go down, confused for only half a second before we realize what it is: Toby’s got morning wood—and little amount of material in those shorts to contain it.
Are we going to ignore it? Are we going to acknowledge it?
Ignore it. “Thanks for getting me up,” I tell him. Getting me up? “I mean off the hard floor,” I quickly add. Hard? Why did I say hard? “Off the floor,” I amend. “Thanks for getting me up off the floor.”
That was unnecessarily difficult to say.
Then I feel it flex again, this time twice as hard.
And twice as urgently.
Toby rolls his eyes back and clenches them shut, mortified.
“I’d better get you off,” I realize.
Toby’s eyes flash open.
What the hell did I just—? “I’d better get off of you,” I stammer, then shut my own eyes in mortification as I roll right off of him and get to my feet. Also, maybe I should try not talking ever again. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull on my boots. Then I go for my shirt and thrust my head and arms into it, yanking it on.
“Are you leaving?”
I feel like I’m a cheap overnight date suddenly, except without the after-dinner sex. Or the dinner. “Gotta take a leak. I remember where your bathroom is.” I rise from the bed and make for the door.
“Oh. It’s just, uh … I mean, my family might—”
“They don’t scare me,” I throw over my back on my way out.
I couldn’t get out of there or away from that awkward wakeup situation fast enough. With the morning sun over my head, I make a beeline for the house. This sexual chemistry and frustration has my head spinning. Didn’t I warn myself this would happen? It’s a bad idea, twisting myself up with that boy. And now here I am, spending the night in his shed and humping his morning wood. On accident. Who the hell humps their chemistry partner’s morning wood on accident? How does that even happen?
I slip in through the sliding back door, and despite the noise of someone moving around in the kitchen, I go right for the hall, into the bathroom, and shut the door. The cluttered bathroom has a fruity potpourri scent hovering thickly in the air like steam from a shower, but I endure it. The mirror hangs at an odd angle, giving me a perfect head-to-knee-ish view of myself and my bedhead as I relieve myself.
