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“You keep doing that, I’m going to start thinking you like touching me,” I say, my voice still shaky.
He doesn’t comment on it though, he just lowers down to the floor, bringing me with him, then sets me down beside him. We both edge back until we’re pressed against the back wall of the elevator. It continues to not work.
“You’re a beautiful woman, why wouldn’t I like touching you?” he finally comments. “Anyone would like touching you.”
“You’re not so bad either,” I say. I’ve never been known for having a filter, but any glimmer of one I might have had is gone at the moment, so I add, “But those glasses are really hideous.”
His laughter rumbles through me, because our sides are pressed together, every inch of us, like he doesn’t want to feel like he’s alone in a void either. Like maybe he does enjoy touching me as much as I’m starting to enjoy touching him—in this elevator, at least. This place out of time. My phone is still nestled in his hand, although I’m certain the screen probably broke. At least we have that soft glow to light up our faces.
“I don’t like them either.”
“So why do you wear them?” I ask, warming to the topic. It’s helping me forget that we’re stuck here in a little box. Maybe we’ll run out of oxygen. Except, no, it’s not an airtight space in here.
“Because my sister gave them to me for a Christmas present. I likeher.”
“So stick them in a drawer and take them out whenever she comes over.”
“I could do that, I guess,” he acknowledges, sounding bemused by the idea.
“Youshould, especially if you’re trying to impress that Daphne woman.”
I’m not sure why I’m bringing it up now, except maybe I need the reminder. There’s someone Danny wants to impress, and it’s not me. So, the awareness I’m feeling in between bouts of terror needs to be tucked into a drawer just like those glasses.
“I guess,” he says noncommittally. “My friends talk more than they should. I don’t know what they told you, but Daphne and I broke up years ago. I shouldn’t care about impressing her.”
“Still. Even if you’re not sure you’re interested, you’ll want to show her what she’s missing. We should find some different shirts for you.”
“You want me to be your project, Mira?” he asks turning his head toward me. He didn’t mean it in a sexual way, obviously, but a shock of awareness shivers through me, especially from his closeness and the sound of my name from his lips. It’s almost musical the way he says it. His side is still pressed against me—warm and firm—and I feel a deep, almost primal awareness of him.
He’s your roommate, I remind myself.The friend of your future brother-in-law. You know how bad it is to sleep with someone and then get stuck with them.
It was like that with Byron. It was exciting at first, living together. We had sex everywhere in the apartment, even out on the balcony after everyone was asleep. We lived and breathed each other. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that what I thought was love was just a sexual high.
It would be a very bad idea to have sex with Danny. Besides, he’s not my type, or at least I didn’t think he was. I usually go for artistic types. The kind of guys who are in bands or pretend to be.
Douches, I can hear my Azalea say.I think that’s the word you’re looking for.
I clear my throat and try to prune the intrusive thoughts from my brain. “It’d be easy to give you a makeover. Like in that movieCan’t Buy Me Love, when she tells Patrick Dempsey she’s going to give him a makeover, but he’s Patrick Dempsey, so she doesn’t really have to do anything, and suddenly he’s more popular than she is. Except you look more like Lee Pace than Patrick Dempsey.”
“Who’s Patrick Dempsey?”
I mean, really…
I nudge his shoulder slightly. “Do you know anything about pop culture?”
I can almost feel him smiling, that real genuine smile that takes over his whole being. “I try to keep it to a bare minimum, but Idohave a younger sister and a five-year-old niece. I probably know more about Numberblocks than you do. It’s a pretty clever show, actually. There are these—”
“I know I should be polite and listen,” I say, “but I don’t really care, and I’m too keyed up to pretend. I’d like to hear more about your sister and your niece, though.” When he speaks about them, there’s a warm affection in his voice that’s frankly adorable.
“What would you like to know?” he says softly, and I find myself leaning into him a little more, wanting his voice in my ear, the reassuring press of him against me.
“Everything. I’m greedy.”
His laughter makes me feel warmer, more present. It pushes the fear back. “Ruthie’s five years younger. I took care of her a lot when I was a kid. I felt responsible for her. Still do, I guess. She got married six years ago for all of four months, and then she had Izzy after they split.”
“Shit,” I say. “Is Izzy’s dad involved?”
“No.”
