22. Gemma
TWENTY-TWO
GEMMA
The Kid
Knock, knock
Now you think that’s a cheesy knock-knock joke to cheer me up, or get me to at least answer him, right? No. I know my best friend, and I know the song he’s quoting.
Panic starts to build in the bottom of my stomach, causing it to drop into my lower intestines and fight for space there, a very uncomfortable sensation overall. I know I said he could text me today, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him yet. Not sure I trust my heart around him again yet. I hope for the best, and pretend it’s a knock-knock joke, instead of the lyric I know it is.
Me
Who’s there?
The next three messages ding on my phone in rapid succession, before I can respond to a single one, and I know what’s coming before they even come in.
Don’t try to keep me out
You made me a promise and I’m here to call you out on it
Don’t make a liar out of both of us
Sighing heavily, I glance down at myself to at least see if I’m a quarter decent, and I guess this new look and wardrobe is paying off, ’cause as I pass the mirror in the foyer hallway, I don’t even look like I’ve been bumming around the house, living on Cheetos and cheap wine, consuming my feelings ever since the disastrous double date two nights ago.
That balayage I let the hairdresser have free rein with is really doing me a solid. I dunno the science behind it, but between that and the long, shaggy bob she gave me, it’s making my face look like it has angles and softness, and I’m pretty sure she’s a magician. I didn’t bother putting much makeup on today, the library is closed on Sundays and even if I’m trying this chic thing most days, today is the Lord’s day and surely He didn’t invent makeup until WAY later, right?
There’s no helping the comfy leggings I’m wearing, but at least they make my ass look fire (so says Spencer, at least, but he’s a little biased). The cream sweater is soft as shit, loose on my gangly frame and it kinda falls off one shoulder, which looks cuter than it feels, but whatever.
All in all, I don’t have a good enough excuse to not answer my door right now. I’m close enough to people-able and I don’t have another way out of this on the tip of my tongue.
Dammit.
I said text , Aaron. Not fucking show up here. Again.
Apparently the sixteen seconds it took between getting his texts, walking from the desk in the back of my living space to the foyer, making sure I didn’t look like a yeti and putting my hand on the knob to open the front door was too much for this kid, because that’s precisely when the banging starts. It’s not the pounding of a fist, like it was yesterday morning, but more the slamming of a random body part into the door, like maybe an elbow or a knee. It sounds clunky, and the whole door shakes.
“Gem!” His voice has gotten deeper in recent years, and the timbre of it is something I could fall asleep listening to every single night. It gives me chills, but it’s soothing, and somehow spikes my pulse all at once. Hearing it this loud, from right on the other side of the door though? A little much.
Yanking on the brown wooden door, I swing it open, in toward me, and there he is. The same face that’s in every one of my favorite memories, my longtime fantasies (though lately, those have been admittedly a little stabbier than they were before). His irritatingly handsome face (one only he could pull off) looks relieved when he realizes the door isn’t going to remain shut in his face. The fact that he isn’t just using his key to come in brings me my own rush of relief, because it means he’s taking my feelings seriously, and granting me the space and respect I asked for, at least to some extent.
It becomes apparent why he wasn’t knocking like a normal person when my eyes roam down his toned frame to his hands, which are carrying two paper grocery bags in each, and all four look like they’re absolutely bursting with Lord knows what. I wanna know what, damn me.
My face must look unimpressed, even though I’m more than curious as to what he’s brought, because his expression softens.
“It’s Sunday night,” is all he says, and I can’t argue that point. Despite all the reasons I should, something inside of me just won’t combat the need for us to return to our version of normal. Stepping aside to allow him through the doorway, he trundles in, arms full.
I block his way any farther into the house with my body, allowing him to step into the foyer and for the door to shut behind him, but I need some reassurances before I can agree to anything beyond that.
“No funny business?” I trust that he doesn’t need me to expound on this point. No trying to play footsie with me, and no fucking with my heart. Hopefully he can read the subtext there.
“Just like old times, Gem.” He gives me a half smile, somehow managing to make it self-deprecating, apologetic in a single look, and I’m ready to let him back in my place, my heart.
Call me a sucker, but his confession yesterday got to me.
I have missed him, of course I have. We all have our issues, and our off days, so to speak. He and I have always overcome his demons together, I’m more familiar with his darkness than anyone else probably ever will be. I’ve been with him through it all . While Friday night was a new kind of low—safe to say he’s never lost his damn mind like that before—I will always have a soft spot for this kid. Helping him through the tough times is what I do. And if he’s going to act like a mature adult and move past the other night, I’ll try to, too.
Aaron sidles by me in the narrow entryway and makes his way to the modest dining room table to set down the bags in his hands. It’s weird to have him here. Period. But especially for a Sunday night ritual. We’ve always done them at his house. I mean, he’s the one with the big paycheck. He’s the one with the multi-million dollar house with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains, with six bedrooms and a theater room.
We’re gonna be awful cozy in my tiny excuse for a townhouse. I’m not even a thousand square feet all in, and this living space only holds a loveseat, a coffee table, a small dining table and my little desk in the far corner. A couple barstools at the small kitchen counter are where most meals are consumed, plus the single bedroom and bathroom complete the floor plan.
I never worried about getting a huge house; I was only ever here to sleep, and even then, back in those days, that was usually just a few nights a week. It seems a lot cozier when all my time outside of work is suddenly being spent inside these four walls. Spencer doesn’t mind it though, and I do get to spend a lot of my time at his place, too, which is a little comfier than mine.
Aaron’s bags cover pretty much the entire breakfast table, his back to me while he rummages through them. After locking the door, I mosey on over to explore what he brought. Cheetos only do so much to nourish me, after all. Maybe he brought ice cream?
“Did you go grocery shopping?” I ask in surprise. He hasn’t set foot in a supermarket in probably six years. Since the first time a girl straight up screamed in his face when he was trying to get some cereal, some Advil for his hangover, and a pack of condoms. Needless to say, his headache didn’t improve with the encounter. After that, he sent his assistants to do his shopping for him.
He turns around, a sheepish half smile on his face admitting everything I needed to know. “I used one of those apps,” he confesses.
“Mmm, so domestic of you,” I tease him, peeking around his much larger frame to see what he’s decided is going to sustain us tonight.
His hands each wrap around one of my upper arms, pulling me back in front of him, where I can’t see shit, except this man. My brows furrow in indignation. Now that I know we have snacks, I’m hungry.
“No peeking,” he says with the cutest look on his face, like he’s planning something.
No, Gemma! Bad Gemma! He is not cute , he is your best friend. Your platonic, bro of a friend, who you have spent approximately three hundred similar Sunday nights with before. This is no different.
“Go sit down,” he says gently, pointing with one finger toward the couch.
I narrow my eyes at him, like I’m suspicious, not letting onto the fact that I’m fucking thrilled he’s letting things get back to normal, and being sweet about it, too. As long as he doesn’t try to feel me up tonight, I’ve got high hopes. “Do we need plates or paper towels or anything?”
“Oh shit, yeah, please Gem. God, that woulda sucked.” He chuckles as the sounds of paper bags crinkling fill the small space, and I make my way to the kitchen cabinet to pull out a couple of plates and bowls, as well as some silverware and a roll of paper towels. Typical Aaron. Excited to get on with what he’s focused on, without thinking about the details. Whether it’s a contract for a new role he’s negotiating, a property he’s buying, or dinner, I can predict what this man is going to do in almost any situation. I guess that’s why we worked so well together for so long.
Setting everything down on the coffee table, I make myself comfy on the loveseat, backing into a corner, pulling my legs up and crossing them over one another until I’m in a little cozy pretzel, covered in a fluffy beige blanket and ready for a night of normalcy.
“Close your eyes,” he calls out to me from the makeshift dining nook, and I humor him, placing my hands over my eyes, but I’m definitely peeking through a slit between my fingers.
“You’d better not be peeking, Jellybean!”
Called out. Dammit. Guess I’m not the only one of us who is predictable to the other.
God, that nickname is so embarrassing. He hasn’t used it on me in forever. My parents used to call me that as a kid, and he thought it was hilarious when he heard them call me by it one of the first times he was over and we were playing Mario Kart together. He doesn’t whip it out on me that often, though. He must mean business.
My tongue pokes out of my mouth, making a rude face at him despite my handicapped vision. I close my eyes for real, pressing my hands tightly over them so he feels reassured, and the mystery is eating at me as I not only hear all sorts of noises as he sets things out on the table in front of me, but I can smell delicious things, too.
“Is that chicken teriyaki?” My nose sniffs the air dramatically, like I’m some sort of bloodhound or something. He doesn’t give me anything in response, just keeps working on his little surprise.
Eventually, I feel his presence in front of me, and he pulls on my forearms until my hands come away from my eyes. The contact of his almost rough fingers against my skin shouldn’t feel so good, but I don’t miss the tingles that run up my arms at the sensation. It’s not technically the first time he’s touched me since the footsie fiasco, but it’s still a bit soon, my system is still highly sensitive to him atm, after the shell shock of Friday night, and I pull back away from him on instinct, leaning farther into the couch.
He looks down at the point of contact before clearing his throat and then waving his right arm out behind him, toward the absolute pile of snacks and food on display. It looks like he brought every single food we’ve ever shared together (on his cheat days, at least), and I don’t even know what to take in first. There’s containers from at least three different takeout places, bags of every imaginable snack available in North America, and what looks like two different flavors of the wine mixers that are my go-to at industry events he drags me to.
“Damn, kid,” I breathe out, stomach rumbling at the smells and sights in front of me. “You did good.”
He grins down at me, then grabs a plate and starts loading it up with chicken teriyaki, shrimp Alfredo, and this incredible roasted pepper hummus and pita combo from my favorite Mediterranean restaurant near his place. It’s a weird mix, I’ll admit it, but definitely not complaining. We’ve spent years of cheat days trying takeout from every highly rated place on Yelp within five miles of his house, and found the best dishes from each. I expect him to plop down next to me, lean back and start inhaling his food, but he hands the plate to me almost shyly, along with a fork and drink.
I take the plate and thank him, and he piles up an even larger one for himself before settling in on the other end of the couch, which might be a whopping nine or ten inches from where I’m nestled in. We are much closer than how these nights usually go at his place, with his couch that is practically wider than my entire damn townhouse is. I can feel his body heat radiating off of him from here, and trepidation hits me at the nearness, the proximity, the prospect of spending a night cuddled up next to him. The last time we did our ritual, the next morning is what set everything in motion that ruined us. Destroyed the friendship of a lifetime.
I vow to keep my space from him tonight, especially after that absolute dumpster fire of a double date that ended with some very confusing feelings on both of our parts.
He isn’t used to seeing me with a partner, especially one as openly affectionate as Spencer, and that jealousy of his that reared its head for the first time ever really got under my skin.
I’ve tried to shake it off, but it’s proving difficult to forget. I’d finally given up hope that I’d see him look at me like that, with hungry eyes full of more than desire, but intention, too.
To say I’ve been having trouble getting the vision of him cornering me in that hallway out of my mind’s eye would be an understatement. I think a little space between us lately has been good for us both, and I need to make a point to maintain that physical distance tonight as well.
We scarf the meal in near silence, not entirely comfortable, but not as stilted as I feared, either. My eyes don’t wander too close to his side of the couch, finding the array of snacks even more interesting than I normally would, my gaze staying in the very safe vicinity of the coffee table and blank TV screen.
When both of our plates are mostly empty, he looks my way long enough for me to realize he wants me to meet his gaze, and reluctantly, I do. If my breath catches and my stomach jumps upon the connection, I certainly don’t notice it.
“It’s your day off, right? What were you doing before I came over?” he asks, like he’s actually curious about my life these days.
I tuck my chin into my chest and sheets of my hair fall forward to cover my face. I don’t know why I’m nervous to tell him about this endeavor of mine, but it feels personal, like it’s putting myself out there for judgment, rejection, and that’s something I never want to feel from him again.
What I’m definitely not expecting is for fingers to reach out and tilt my chin up, brushing my hair away from my eyes so that he can see into them, but that is exactly what happens.
“Hey,” he says softly, fingers still softly pinching my chin. “I’m still me. It’s still us. You can still talk to me, Gem. I wanna know what’s going on in your life, even if I’m not a part of it.”
His hands have touched me thousands upon thousands of times before, but this intimacy is a first. My head twists to the left until his hand is knocked off my face, but the burn of his touch remains.
He drops his hand back down, though that intent stare never leaves mine. I fight the shiver trying to break out across my back, my spine, down my limbs, and decide to open up to him about this. It’s not that I’m worried he’ll make fun of me. He won’t. There’s always going to be teasing between us, but beneath all of it is a bedrock of unending support. But once I say the words, they’re out there. It makes this whole thing real rather than just something I’m considering and having fun dreaming up.
“I’ve been sketching some designs,” I start.
“That’s great, Gem,” he tells me earnestly.
“I keep seeing these visions of cute shirts and clothes for girls who read. I dunno if I’m gonna do anything with it or not, but I wanted to get some of these designs out of my head.”
Somehow it doesn’t seem as scary, now that he knows about it, too.
“A clothing line?” he asks, eyes wide, more incredulous, dare I say impressed, than disbelieving or surprised. “That’s so fucking cool, Gem!” Those words warm my insides, and I didn’t realize how good it would feel to have a little bit of belief, of support from this man, but it’s undeniable. My idea already seems less stupid and unachievable from his belief in me alone.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” I mumble, waving his enthusiasm off with a hand. “Right now, I’m just playing around with some sketches, some designs that could go on the clothes. I might make some for myself and see if it turns out how I want it to.”
“That’s so awesome, though. You’ve always been such a talented artist, how cool would it be to turn that into your own business? So you were working on designs just now?”
I nod, biting my lower lip in apprehension, because I know what’s coming next.
“I’d love to see them,” he says interestedly, and at my expression, he takes it down a notch. “You know, if you want to share. Whenever.”
He clears his throat and points at the TV. “So, uh, I never saw the last few episodes of the season. Figured, you know, maybe we’d watch ’em together, or whatever.”
“Same,” I whisper, unable to take my eyes off of his face, how nervous he looks. He’s being so sweet . It’s like the old us, but something is different. Whether that something is good or bad, I can’t tell yet.
He leans forward to grab the remote from underneath the monstrous pile of snacks, and gets the TV on and our show queued up. I uncross my legs, readjusting to face forward, sitting normally, feet on the floor like a boring adult (because I’ve learned I can watch TV without getting a headache from the crick in my neck the next day if I don’t have to do body contortion to see the screen), rearrange the cozy blanket around my lower half to keep me warm and settle in for just another Sunday night ritual.
Right before he hits play, he looks back at me once more and says, “This is nice.”
The genuine, soft smile that lights up his face fills me with more warmth than all of the hot food we just ate, the blanket in my lap, or the two wine coolers I’ve downed so far. I shoot him a small smile in return, and try to focus on the extremely compelling show in front of me, not the extremely attractive man I spent years thinking was made for me sitting less than a foot to my right.