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Exactly as I did with my friends.
He said sometimes he wants more. Could he possibly have been referring to me?
Unfortunately, logic pushes into my fluttery responses. He could just as easily been referring to relationships in general. Sometimes he wants more in his life, wants a real relationship. He hasn’t had one as long as I’ve known him. Sure, he might not have told me, but there’s no possible way I can conceive of a relationship lasting with Caleb’s routine work schedule.
No. He has no relationship. But sometimes he’d like one. Anyone might.
That’s a much more likely interpretation of what I overheard than that he might be secretly yearning for me.
* * *
I can’t read. I can’t watch TV. I can’t even begin to sleep.
I change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and do my minimal skin routine. Then I brush out my hair and leave it loose and straight since I like how that looks best.
Not that it matters. Caleb has turned in for the night. He’s not going to see me again even though I’m looking pretty and almost sensual with my loose hair, clean face, and the lace straps of my camisole.
I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute or two, wondering if Caleb likes how I look or if he’d like me better if I had bigger boobs or poutier lips.
If he would, he’s out of luck—I’m not planning on getting any work done on my face or body. I used to talk about getting a breast augmentation, and for a while I was seriously considering it, but that was back when I was too immature and unfocused to actually commit to a procedure like that. I figured I’d probably do it in the future, but after rehab, I changed my mind.
Part of recovery has been learning to accept and be content with who I am, and for me that includes my appearance. Since my reasons for change would be outward focused—what I imagine men might prefer—I wouldn’t be making the physical alteration for myself.
So I’m not going to do it at all.
I hardly ever think about it anymore. I’ve been happy with my life and my appearance lately. It’s only since Caleb has become part of it again that it’s even crossed my mind.
I’m conscious of my body again because I wanthimto be conscious of it too.
Finally I leave my bathroom and walk over to my bed, determined to pick up a book and make myself read.
Or at least scroll through videos on my phone.
I last no more than ten minutes before I’m climbing out of bed again. I can’t.
I simply can’t.
I’m anxious and jittery and restless and lonely, and I need something.
If it’s not company, I’m afraid it might be getting high.
I leave my bedroom, walk down the hall, and knock on Caleb’s door.
I’m doing it before I can think through why, before I can conjure up some sort of plausible excuse.
“Come in,” he calls out, sounding surprised and alert. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I open the door and look in on him.
He’s stretched out on his bed on top of the covers, wearing his old sweats but no socks and no shirt. He’s sitting up already, reaching toward the dresser where I can see a T-shirt wadded up haphazardly.
“No, don’t get up,” I say hurriedly, embarrassed by my spontaneous gesture. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Everything’s fine.”
“What’s going on then?” He’s still sitting up, his eyes scanning me closely. His hair is slightly mussed, he’s got an obvious five-o’clock shadow, and the waistband of his sweats is riding low, revealing a whole tantalizing stretch of firm skin and dark body hair.
“It’s nothing. I didn’t think about the time. I was just wondering…” I grapple for a somewhat believable explanation. “I was feeling kind of anxious for some reason. I don’t know why. Has there been any more news on the stalker situation?”
There.
