Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
ANNIE
"I have so many questions." I turn in a slow circle to take in my surroundings with absolute awe.
“Well, I’m not answering any so don’t bother asking them.” Miles leans in an open doorway watching me. He seems uneasy having me in his space, but he’s the one that chose to bring me here.
Miles’ apartment is decorated with a heavy emphasis on dark wood and other masculine features. The brown leather couch has textured black throw pillows and the walnut coffee table pops against the darker oak floor. The small slivers of the wall I can see beyond the bookshelves are painted a deep tan color that makes the space feel warmer. The blinds are all open in the windows, so I bet that during the day the sunlight filters in and really brings it all together.
I can’t resist trying to ask at least one question. “Have you read all of these books?” There are walnut bookshelves lining every wall of the living room. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of books covering every inch of the space. Even the coffee table in front of the couch has a stack of books lying on top. A book is laid open over the armrest of the couch.
“What did I just say?” Miles looks at me over the edge of his glasses with a disapproving frown.
“You don’t have a TV.” I’m feeling brave enough that I wag my finger at him mockingly as I say, “That one is a statement, not a question.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t have a television as the centerpiece of their living room before. My mom put a television in our bathroom growing up because she couldn’t even stand to take a bath without access to a TV. Because of her, I know pop culture as much as I know classic literature.
No need to mention that fun fact to Mr. Judgemental over here.
“They’re just books. I’m not concealing a lifetime supply of unicorns in here.”
This man has the audacity to try to pretend that a book collection like this is normal. Also… “What exactly is a lifetime supply of unicorns? What would you be doing with unicorns that you would need more than one? Eating them feels weird. Do they run out of friendship magic eventually or something?”
“Jesus. Just forget I said anything.” His cheeks tinge pink as he drops his head to let his hair hide his eyes from my view.
“Oh, right. No questions.” I tap my temple and then do something resembling a wink except my eye closes too slowly and my mouth opens wide enough for a root canal. I’m pretty sure I must look like I’m suffering a stroke.
I’m so nervous being in Miles’ apartment that I’m slowly turning into my mother. Same nervous energy and Energizer Bunny monologues.
“I watch movies on my laptop sometimes,” Miles blurts out.
I latch on to that little tidbit. “What kind of movies?” I’m betting either old westerns to be ironic or book-to-film adaptations purely for the opportunity to point out all their flaws.”
“Whatever new releases are streaming,” he grumbles, surprising me. He could be lying to throw me off and keep me from getting too familiar with him. “Do you want a shirt or something to sleep in?”
“One of your shirts?” Woah. I can feel my chest flush as I imagine tugging one of his shirts over my head for the night. I didn’t realize by bringing me here he was also offering me an invitation to stay the night. I thought he would kick me out to go home any minute now. Especially after my gawking.
“Well, we’re not having a sleepover in a Walmart so yeah the natural assumption should be that I’m offering you one of my shirts.”
“That would be nice, thank you.” I don’t want to poke the bear in his own habitat. I’ll attract him with honey, instead.
Well, not honey like in a physical way. And not attract as in make him attracted to me.
My head is a mess. I’m glad Miles slinks away further into the apartment in search of a shirt for me, because my entire body is on fire with embarrassment.
Without his dark eyes studying me, I move closer to the bookshelves to check out the titles. He has a decent-sized collection of cozy mystery novels, which surprises me. The science fiction and fantasy isn’t too shocking. Of course, his largest quantity of books is made up of classical literature which is exactly as I would expect.
I search for a copy of Wuthering Heights—my favorite book—and manage to find two versions shelved next to each other. They’re easy to find since the older-looking copy has the same spine as my favorite copy at home and stands out to me. The newer copy looks like a special edition while the older copy looks well-loved. He either re-reads Wuthering Heights regularly himself or bought the copy second-hand.
“Here you go.” Miles walks back out with a tan T-shirt in hand. “You’re awfully nosy, aren’t you?” he says when he realizes I’m examining his books at close range.
I shrug. “I get that from my mom, I think.” I don’t know enough about my dad to know if I get anything from him. Maybe my dedication to studying. I’m pretty sure he has an MBA from an Ivy League school.
When he holds out the shirt, I read the text across from the front and realize he’s handing over a Noah Kahan tour T-shirt. There’s some serious sadness in that guy’s music.
“I’m surprised you’re letting me wear this.”
“Laundry day is Sunday. You get that or something dirty.” Miles stands close to me even after I take the shirt he offers.
He’s not a gym rat so I don’t imagine his dirty shirts smell too bad but I would look awfully weird offering to wear one of those instead. He’s gotten the wrong idea about the kind of person I am from the moment we met. No need to seem even stranger than I already do.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall. First door on your left.” He gestures for me unnecessarily. There’s only one hall in the cozy, contemporary apartment. “There’s probably an unused toothbrush in the bottom drawer under the sink.”
“Thanks,” I squeak. I hope he’s not making a point of that because my breath stinks.
As soon as I disappear down the hall out of view, I cup my hand around my mouth and release a long breath. I don’t think my breath smells bad, but I think Miles tends to be a harsher critic than I am.
Like the living room, his bathroom is decorated in a mix of dark wood, shades of brown, and black accents. Very masculine while also having the warmth of contemporary design. The place feels more lived in than if it were decorated in more of a modern style. I feel very comfortable in his space. Not that I should be thinking that when my presence in this apartment is very, very temporary. The place might feel comfortable, but I shouldn’t get comfortable being here.
I make quick work of finding a plastic-wrapped toothbrush in the drawer he indicated and brushing my teeth with his minty toothpaste from the medicine cabinet. Other than toothpaste, the only other things in the cabinet behind the mirror are Ibuprofen, face wash, a razor, and a small bottle of cologne that looks barely used.
Very utilitarian.
My real dilemma comes when I look at Miles’ shirt resting on the edge of the bathroom vanity. I should have asked if he had drawstring shorts or sweatpants that I could put on too. I don’t want to be stuck sleeping in my jeans on his couch.
Self-consciousness holds my hand like a best friend as I ultimately shuck off my jeans, bra, and top, leaving me only in panties and the Noah Kahan T-shirt.
I step back to take in as much of myself as I can in the mirror above the sink. I can see my bare thighs practically glowing under the bathroom lights because I’m so pale. I look like a little girl playing dress up in her dad’s clothes. Miles isn’t a huge guy—more slim-fit than meathead—but I’m short enough to swim in his T-shirt anyway.
“I’m not sleeping in jeans,” I mutter to myself, trying to steel my resolve on my decision.
That steely resolve fades fast the moment I step out of the bathroom with bare legs, clutching my clothes tightly to my chest. The hallway feels twice as long as before as I make my walk of shame back out to face Miles.
“Took you long enough,” Miles grunts when he hears my footsteps plodding on the wood floor into the living room. He’s made himself comfortable on his couch, a book perched in his hand as he rests his legs on the coffee table.
If only a photographer were here now to capture this moment. He looks like a male model lounging so casually in a room that belongs in a furniture catalog.
I’m silent for so long that Miles finally looks up curiously. His expression remains impassive as his gaze roams over me, taking his sweet time looking over the length of my exposed legs. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably in his throat before he speaks again.
“That outfit suits you.”
We both blink stupidly at each other in silence as his words sink in. He managed to compliment me… In a really uncomfortable way considering the outfit in question leaves me half-naked in his apartment.
“What are you reading?” I ask in a tight voice, desperate for a different topic to latch onto.
“My favorite piece of literature.” He flashes the cover of The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka at me. The novella where a traveling salesman wakes to find himself turned into a bug. “I just love the way that obsession with money turns us all into writhing, miserable bugs.” His voice is so sarcastic and harsh that my first instinct is to think he’s hoping to get a rise out of me.
“My favorite book is Wuthering Heights.” I dodge his frustrated tone by keeping my voice light and soft. I trail back toward the bookcase that holds his two copies.
Miles snorts derisively. “Of course you’re the kind of woman that says Wuthering Heights is her favorite book.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I have some unflattering guesses considering Wuthering Heights is one of the world’s most polarizing dark love stories.
“What do you think I mean?” he taunts. He drops his feet from the coffee table and leans forward to set down the book.
“If I have to guess?” I can’t imagine he spends a lot of time reading romance subplots out of choice. “My guess is you’re judging me for enjoying a book with a heavy romance plot in it because a lot of people don’t believe love stories should have a place in classic literature.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Miles stands and slowly makes his way toward me.
“Is it?” I quirk an eyebrow at him as I lean back against his bookshelf to leave space for him. He stops only inches away, invading my space as he tilts his head in toward me. I can feel the heat of his body radiating toward the bare skin of my legs.
“Romantic feelings are a normal part of the human condition. Of course those plots deserve a place in literature.”
“Then what’s wrong with Wuthering Heights?”
“Nothing at all. Only I’m not sure I believe you’ve read it.” Miles puts his arm out to rest his hand on the shelf my head is leaning against. “Wuthering Heights is an easy book for English majors to claim they love when they’re not actually doing most of the readings.”
I stiffen at the accusation. “I love to read, you… you… You asshole!”
Miles doesn’t so much as twitch as I place my hand on his chest and try to shove him back away from me. Nothing has ever felt more painful than the tightening in my chest that I feel over being outright accused of faking my love of books.
“It’s just a theory,” he murmurs.
My anger makes my pulse race and my throat tight as he looks over me again. My stomach quivers unnervingly as he looks straight down between us where my bare legs are close to his jean-clad ones.
We’re a study in dichotomy, the two of us. We’re two things so different somehow managing to exist in the same place at the same time. And Miles and I are polar opposites in so many ways.
“You have bad theories.” The attitude I intend to speak with vanishes, replaced with a breathy whisper.
Miles' face seems closer to mine all of a sudden.
With no warning, his hand finds the back of my neck and cups me there. His other hand glides across my cheek, thumb stroking my jawline. I open my mouth to gape at him and he swoops down, his mouth capturing mine in an unexpected kiss.
I want to pull away in anger— how dare he— but his mouth is so soft yet firm against mine. His grip on my head also seems to leave no room for argument.
This kiss is happening.
I hesitantly kiss him back, sliding my hand over the muscles of his pecs and clutching his shirt in sudden desperation as he deepens the kiss.
This is what people mean when they say anger and passion are two sides of the same coin. All of that anger I’ve had building for him seems to unleash itself into this kiss. I kiss him back harder and he meets me with teeth clashing and tongue snaking out to taste my lips with a quick swipe.
I barely have time to idly appreciate that I brushed my teeth before this when he tears away from me, despite being the one to initiate.
We stare at each other in silence with heaving chests. Neither of us can catch our breath right away. Neither of us seems keen to say anything and acknowledge whatever the heck we just shared. If we acknowledge that kiss, it will be all too real.
When Miles does speak, he says, “Let’s go to bed,” in a sharp tone and motions for me to follow him.
I feel dazed as I walk behind him with light feet as if I’m floating on air. I don’t know what’s happening between us, and I don’t like the lack of control I’m left feeling. My brain has never felt fueled by lust or passing fancies. I worked on a pros and cons list about Cameron for three weeks before I agreed to go on a first date with him.
Reality snaps me back to life when we reach his bedroom—the only bedroom in the apartment.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt out. I broke up with the only long-term boyfriend I’ve ever had just a couple of hours ago. And Miles and I don’t even like each other.
Miles chokes on a laugh. “No one is having sex, Blue. We’re going the fuck to sleep.” He shakes his head with an amused smirk as he starts to shuck his clothes off. When I narrow my eyes suspiciously, he explains, “I’ll sleep in boxers. Don’t worry, I won’t threaten your purity tonight.”
I stop myself short of clarifying that I’m not a virgin. He’s only teasing me, I manage to realize at the last second.
“Whatever,” I mutter. “Just stay on your side of the bed.”
I hurriedly slip between the fitted and flat sheets of his bed and yank the duvet up to my chin. I’m surprised a guy his age even has a flat sheet, much less is completely made up as if this is a hotel instead of a college guy’s apartment.
Cameron only manages to have clean sheets because a cleaner comes to his room at the frat house twice a week.
I need to stop comparing the two men. There’s no reason to compare them. Nothing is happening between Miles and me just because I finally woke up and walked away from Cameron. And while I can’t explain the kiss in the living room, we obviously are going to pretend that never happened.
Even if I can still vividly recall the feel of his lips on mine, my lips still tingling from the kiss that totally didn’t even happen.
The bedroom air feels thick with tension as Miles walks around to the other side of the bed, pulling the sheet back and sliding in beside me. I can see him from the corner of my eye and he looks far more casual about all of this than I feel.
I know he did me a favor bringing me here when I didn’t want to go home. I still don’t understand why.
Now doesn’t feel like a good time to ask questions or try to make sense of anything. The time for talking tonight is long past as Miles heaves a heavy sigh and rustles around for a moment before settling in comfortably on his back beside me.
I roll over onto my side so that I’m facing away from him. I don’t want to make eye contact or worry about how my face looks as I fall asleep beside him. I’m more tired than expected. The moment my head is on his deliciously smelling pillow, my eyes droop drowsily.
My last conscious thought is to note the copy of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl on the bedside table next to me. I’ve always thought of Howl as a beautiful work about how complicated it can be to try to find meaning in modern life. I can't help but wonder if Miles reads the Ginsberg poem the same way or if he has a different interpretation.
The cover has been worn down to nearly nothing from use. I can see the marks where his fingers have gripped the edges of the book while reading it over and over.
Miles lied about his favorite book.