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I thank him and say good night. Then I glance over to Caleb. He’s got his granite-statue expression going again.
I sigh. I really liked how he was as we ate in the car earlier today.
“Sorry it woke you up,” he says.
“I wasn’t sleeping. I was just reading.” I glance down at myself, for the first time realizing I’m in fleece pajama pants and a tank top. The top does little to hide my body.
My breasts are nothing special, but the outline of my nipples is clearly visible beneath the fabric. And a strip of skin is exposed between the hem and the top of my pants.
When I glance up, I see that Caleb’s eyes are on my body too.
They are. I’m sure of it. They run up and down the length of me before he looks away with a jerky move of his head.
A wave of heat slams into me. Excitement and interest and a physicality I’m not used to experiencing. But I suddenly am conscious of nothing except my body.
And his body.
In his casual clothes, he seems less guarded. Easier to get to. I could reach out and run my hands along the width of his chest. His shoulders. Down the contours of his arms.
Even lower.
My breath catches, and I take a ragged gasp to clear it.
His eyes shoot up to my face.
We stare at each other, and I swear the air is suddenly hot and thick between us.
Then he makes a guttural sound and turns away. “All right. Good night.”
I sigh as he walks away.
Well, that answers the question of whether he has any interest in me at all. He at least has noticed my body.
But that doesn’t really mean anything. Any guy might have noticed.
Attraction is simply that. A physical pull that usually goes no deeper.
I’m really not interested in surface-level lust. I had enough of that in my past, and I always came away from those encounters feeling nothing but dirty and used.
And even if I wanted something purely physical, I could still never have it with Caleb.
Because it doesn’t change the absolute fact that he will never, ever act on it.
4
The following evening,I go out for drinks with my friends.
Usually my version of drinks nowadays is one margarita or cosmo and then several glasses of sparkling water with lime. I still have a good time. In fact, I enjoy myself much more than I ever did when I was binge drinking and popping every designer pill I was offered.
But tonight I’m still feeling restless and vaguely dissatisfied, so I end up having two drinks.
Just two.
If I tried to drink more, my friends would intervene, which is something I appreciate about them. As it is, they each individually ask me if everything is okay.
It is. I’m really fine.
But for three years I’ve been perfectly satisfied with my safe, healthy, quiet, drama-free existence.
