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An image of my ex-boyfriend wells up, unbidden, in my mind and I hate the way my heart twists. He had hurt me so badly, shattered me into pieces so small I don’t think I put myself back together the right way. It left me more fucked up than I already was.
I was lucky to meet Wesley the night my ex broke up with me. Without him I would have wallowed in bed and eaten pints of strawberry ice cream while binging Gilmore Girls for the third time.
Wesley falls silent, an unreadable expression on his face. We walk amicably beside each other. Occasionally, his arm brushes against mine, and I know I’m imagining it, but I swear the warmth of his skin seeps through my weatherproof jacket. I shiver, but it’s not from the cold.
I’ve always had weird reactions to touch. I like to hug people, even if I just met them, and it's led to some strange looks and comments about me getting too close. It’s not like I’m trying to be a creep. My body just likes touches of any kind. Hand holding, hugs, even playing footsie under tables.
It’s nice to feel the contact of another human being. It reminds me I’m not so alone.
Add that to the list of weird things about me. Number one is I can recite every line of season one of The Office. Wesley always teases me when I take breaks during our study sessions to watch an episode, but it’s not my fault they’re so comforting. I think I’ve rewatched every season at least three times.
There’s something about familiarity and the comfort it brings. Wesley is like that for me. No matter what I’m doing, he makes everything better.
I can’t keep my mistake hidden forever. Eventually, we’ll get to the cabin, and he’ll see the one bed and he’ll be disappointed. He won’t say anything, because Wesley’s too nice for that. He’ll probably offer me the bed while he makes a survival-ready fort in the living room, but I’ll drag him under the covers if I have to. Still, I can’t help but tug on the hair exposed underneath my beanie nervously.
“Hey, Wes?” I say, my voice echoing in the silence.
He hums, frowning at the GPS screen.
“Would you want to share a bed with me?”
2
Wesley stumbles, almost dropping the GPS, and clears his throat.
“What?” he says, his voice flat.
I wave my hands as I talk, trying to explain myself. “You know, because there’s no heating in the cabin, I just thought we could conserve body heat by being in the same bed. It won’t be weird, or anything, and it would be efficient, right? I know how much you like efficiency because you’re so organized and—”
“Ollie.” Wesley grabs both of my hands in his bare ones. “We’re not sharing a bed.”
Warmth sparks in my stomach at the touch. Still, I can’t help but feel disappointed. “Oh. But why? People share rooms and beds all the time back at college.”
“Yeah, well, that’s different,” he says.
“How?”
He looks away, tilting his head up to the sky as if seeking strength. I try to pay attention, but I can’t focus on anything except his hands touching mine, tan against pale. They’re cold from the mountain air and so big they make mine look dainty in comparison. The knuckles are a punching shade of red.
Wesley is a big guy in general. He towers over me at almost six-foot-three, with broad muscled shoulders and strong legs. I wonder what it would be like to hug him properly. Not the brief ‘bro hugs’ we sometimes do, but to be enveloped in his arms and lay my head on his chiseled chest. He’s practically built like a Greek god.
The only time I’ve seen him shirtless was when we went to the beach last year after our finals. I was distracted the entire time, watching the glistening water travel down his shoulders and over his taut stomach. I knew he worked out, but I’d never seen the fruits of his labor until then.
I didn’t swim, because I hate getting into the ocean with all those creepy crawlies swimming around under there. But I watched Wesley until my eyes were sore.
That was the moment I knew I had a problem.
When he came in from the tide, he asked me what I was thinking about, and I told him the truth. “You,” I said, stretched out on my beach towel, shirtless myself, my sketchbook shut firmly beside me. I meant it as a joke, but Wesley had turned that pretty shade of pink all over.
My sketchbook pages of those days are filled with doodles of him. I don’t draw him as much as I used to, but I still do a few now and then. So I don’t forget how to.
Wesley squeezes my hands, and the sensation sends electricity down my spine, shaking me out of my daze.
“Never mind that,” he says eventually. “The cabin is less than a mile that way, so we should make it in half an hour.”
“Okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird.”
He bends closer until our faces are almost touching, and my heart jumps so much I think it’s going to burst out of my chest.
