AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Wanna watch a movie?” Liam asks, grabbing his laptop from his desk.
Another fuzzy kind of warmth spreads through my chest, almost like I’m outside and feeling the warmth of the sun on the first perfectly warm Spring day after a cold, dreary winter. I can’t keep the edges of my lips from pulling up into a smile.
I know I shouldn’t even let myself pretend that Liam and I have a normal relationship. But, then again, I shouldn’t be doing anything with him in the first place. If I already broke a major rule, I guess I can break a much smaller one, right?
I can sink into his arms and watch something with him in the darkness of his room, pretending that this is more than it ever really could be.
“Actually, I’ve been in the mood to rewatch Downton Abbey. Have you seen it?” I ask as he sidles next to me on the bed.
“Downtown Abby?” he asks. “Is that like, some kind of Sex and the City spin-off or something?”
I arch an eyebrow disbelievingly. “You’ve never heard of Downton Abbey? Where have you been for the last ten years? Under a rock.”
He shrugs. “On a hockey rink, for the most part.”
Fair enough, but I still sigh in disappointment. “We’re definitely watching the first episode, then.”
Liam gets up to flick off the lights and then comes back to the bed. He wraps his arm around me, and I let my head fall onto his shoulder as he brings up Netflix on his computer and starts the first episode.
We’re alone in his room, the dim light of his laptop the only illumination.
I’m ensconced in his warmth, wrapped up in his muscular body, breathing in his masculine scent as I watch one of my favorite shows with him. Every now and then, I let my eyes flit towards him excitedly, wondering if he’s enjoying it as much as I did when I first watched it.
It’s only now and then that a sour taste rises in my mouth when my stupid conscience reminds me that this is something we can’t let happen again.
“Damn, that Thomas is a real bastard,” Liam says when the first episode ends.
“You want to watch the next one? We can watch something else if you didn’t like it …”
“Are you kidding?” he asks, incredulous. “I’m hooked.” Without hesitation, he presses the button to watch the next episode.
I curl up even closer against him. The voice in the back of my head telling me to keep some distance between our hearts, even if not our bodies, is growing quieter and quieter.
After the second episode ends, I blurt out a question that I wasn’t even intending to ask. “Can I see some of your drawings?”
He stills, and I feel him tense up. I know from what he told me in the library that day that this is a side of himself he doesn’t share with anyone. What right do I have to ask him to share it with me?
But, then again, he already has shared it with me.
And it’s something he shouldn’t keep from everyone else. I want him to learn to be open about his talent, because he’s insanely talented. I want him to be able to get beyond the complex he has about this thanks to the shitty way his dad treated him while he was growing up.
“I’d really like to see some more of your work,” I say, prodding him gently.
I feel his taut muscles relax. “Okay,” he says, the answer heavy on his breath.
And I feel the weight of the answer, too. It’s not easy to open yourself up to someone. The couple drawings he made for me were just a tiny glimpse into this side of him, like peeking through the keyhole of a locked door. What I’m asking is for him to throw the door open and let me look around, my eyes roaming over the nooks and crannies that he’s studiously guarded for years.
I smile at him, and my heart warms when he returns it with one of his own.
He gets up from the bed and turns the light back on. He reaches into his closet and gathers a couple notebooks and sketchpads and carries them back to the bed. We both sit crossed legged on the mattress while he opens a sketchpad.
“Wow,” I marvel immediately at the pencil landscape drawing of a forest.
“This is just a scene from the woods behind my house. I drew it when I went back home for summer break after freshman year.”
He turns the next page, and I gasp while my jaw falls open. “Woah!” I exclaim, trying to keep from laughing too hard.
It’s a cartoon drawing of the Hot Shots guys together. They’ve all got exaggerated, humorous features. Grant’s two-times the size of the rest of them, his hands looking like bear paws. Hunter’s hair is messier than a bird’s nest, and he’s wearing the backwards cap that he often sports. Tristan is tall and lean, his angular, model-like features accentuated. All the other guys are easy to recognize, too.
