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I walk toward him gingerly.He doesn’t move away when I’m right behind him, which I take as a good sign.I put my hands on his back, flattening my palms to soothe his flinch at my touch.Then I slip my arm around his waist and hug him, his back to my front, on the sidewalk.
After a few seconds, I feel Bryson’s hands cover mine.He lets out a long breath that sounds almost relieved.“Carleigh?”
My forehead is pressed against his shirt.His back is warm, bordering on damp; he must be hot.“Yeah?”
“I really do want to go home anyway.I promise.”
I squeeze him as best as I can.“Then get a cab.”
We don't talk about it on the way home.
I'm a curious person, an endless learner, and I have so many questions.I don’t understand why Bryson snapped tonight.I’ve never seen him with that intensity and fire in his eyes, and I’ve certainly never been on the receiving end of an outburst like that - from anyone, let alone from the most consistently upbeat and cheerful person I know.I want to understand - but he’s still acting a little odd when we get home and I don’t think it’s a good time to ask.Tomorrow, I vow, if he seems more like himself, I’ll ask.
I take my shoes off as soon as I get in the door, relishing in the familiar dip of a flat surface on the soles of my feet.I decide to change, and disappear into my bedroom without saying anything to Bryson.
I take off my dress and sit on the edge of my bed in my bra and underwear.I pull my pajama drawer open and stare at my options, uncertain.I’m still so hopelessly confused about Bryson, about what he said.
I play it back in my head.What did that mean?That he has been looking at me?Staring at my ass and whatever else he went rambling on about?It seems impossible; Bryson is the kind of guy who should be dating a six-foot Victoria’s Secret model, not a five-foot-four mostly antisocial nerd who likes baking a little too much.He’s incredibly out of my league in every way, and the reason I know that is because I’ve checked him out, too.I’m very aware of his muscled arms, his vibrantly blue eyes, his imperfect smile, his construction crew t-shirt, the way his pants sit on his hips.I live with it every day.If he liked the way I looked in the dress in a way that was more than just friendly, well - that’s … interesting.
I shake the thought from my head.The whole concept is a little beyond the pale as far as believability goes.Still, when I get dressed, the pajamas I instinctively choose are a set I only wear when it’s blisteringly hot outside: a pair of shorts printed with doughnuts Trinity got me as a joke, and a white tank top with thin straps.It’s not an obscene choice - this isn’t a seduction mission, I’m not in the business of intentional failure, after all - but I am probably showing more skin than he’s ever seen of me.
I’m just curious.
Bryson has changed, too; he’s got a beanie back on his head and is wearing shorts with a t-shirt from a local brewery.He’s sitting on the couch with a big bottle of water in front of him, flipping through recommendations on Netflix, and looks up when I walk by on my way to the kitchen.
“I’m kind of hungry,” I say by way of greeting, not stopping as I walk.“I’m going to heat up some of those pizza rolls from last week.You want any?”
When I look back for his answer, it’s obvious that his eyes are following me.“Sure, Carleigh,” he answers, his voice gentle.
“Coming right up.”I walk into the kitchen and grab a couple of my frozen pastries from the freezer.I get the idea that grating some fresh parmesan on top will make for a nice crispiness when I stick them in the oven for a quick reheat, so I pull that out of the fridge as well and then open the cupboard where the grater is.“Oh,” I comment to myself, noticing it’s somehow found its way to the highest shelf.Bryson.
In normal times, I’d ask him for help, but things feel sort of tense and the pizza roll is kind of my peace offering.I could also go grab the folding step stool that has been put away since he moved in, but it’s just a quick reach and it hardly seems worth the effort.So instead, I hoist myself onto the counter and shift onto my knees.
“Carleigh, what are you doing?”
My head twists around, hand on the grater, and I see Bryson standing at the edge of the kitchen with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face.
“You put the grater up high,” I complain, lifting it down and setting it on the counter.“I had to improvise.”
Bryson walks over to me, shaking his head.“You could have just asked me to grab it.”He slides one arm around my abdomen from the back, his hand holding the curve of my waist, supports my legs with his other arm, then sweeps me off the counter with ease.“You’re going to hurt yourself before your race.”
I hold onto his arm as he sets my feet on the floor.He doesn’t let go of me immediately, and now I’m standing on the ground, very aware that my breasts are brushing against his forearm.“You looked relaxed on the couch,” I lie.“Didn’t want to bug you.”
Bryson’s arm loosens, but doesn’t entirely drop.I turn against it so I’m facing him now, and I can see another unreadable expression on his face.I’m not so sure I like this version of Bryson, emotionally - he’s usually such an open book, so upbeat when things are good and so obvious when something bad has happened.The lack of clarity is bothering me.
“You aren’t bugging me,” he says softly.His arm drops to my hip.His hand is so big that it stretches almost the whole length of my little shorts.His fingers curl around the side of my hip so far that half of his hand is essentially on my ass; it’s all I can notice.His thumb presses into my hip bone, rubbing gently.“Doughnuts, huh?”he asks.
I smile and look down at my shorts.“They were a gift,” I tell him.“I went through a real homemade doughnut phase, and Trinity thought they were funny.”
“Roommate gifts!”Bryson says, his voice louder now and approaching some degree of normalcy, even as we stand here in this very not-normal position.“I’ll have to get you some, too, I guess.Pickles, maybe sauerkraut.”
“Pickles,” I tease, squeezing his bicep.“Very Bryson.”
“Very you, Half-Sour.”He lets his hands fall and steps away from me.“So, what are gratin’?”he asks.
I point to the cheese on the counter.“Parm for the top of the rolls,” I say.“Now that you’re here, you can do it!”
“Always putting me to work,” Bryson comments with a smile, picking up the grater and the block of cheese.“Your wish is my command.”
