34. Gemma
THIRTY-FOUR
GEMMA
It’s been two weeks since that night we shared our hearts and our truths.
He still comes to the library every day.
We’ve had dinner together at my place every single night since. (He hasn’t cooked it, thank God, but he has ordered it for us every night.) He’s also brought me a new vase of peonies every. Single. Day. My small place is overflowing with them at this point, it’s getting ridiculous. I’m starting to think he’s made a checklist of everything he’s seen a guy do to grovel in movies over the years, and thinks to himself, how can I take this two steps further?
Had to draw some lines when he tried to use his key privileges to do everything for me. Like, he tried to get my clothes ready for the next day (I told him I wasn’t a toddler and to stay the fuck out of my underwear drawer), and he compromised to taking over my dry cleaning (I didn’t even know I owned anything that could be dry cleaned, but that has been kind of nice, actually). Do my dishes, in the dishwasher, with Dawn, because he’s never done his own and doesn’t know what he’s doing (Google it, if you don’t know how that turned out). Jumping up to beat me to any task I stood up to do (and I do mean jumping ). Get a glass of water? He gets there first. Bring my laptop to the couch to work on my Etsy store? He grabs it for me.
Eventually, I had to tell him that supporting me doesn’t mean being my bitch, and I even kicked him out once to really sink my point home. I appreciate all of his efforts to show me I’m his priority and that he’s here, he cares, but I don’t need him taking a piss for me, ffs.
What I haven’t done is sat on his lap again since that night in the club. Hasn’t felt as safe to do it when it’s just us, alone in my house, on the couch where he told me he loved me and that he gets himself off to the thought of me.
Somehow, in this environment, it feels a little less like pushing the limit and a lot more like temptation when my bed is only steps away from us.
So I’ve been a little less torturous on him, at least physically. But I have been letting myself speak freely with him. If I wanna flirt, I do. I spent years holding it back with him. Not anymore.
It’s killing me going so slow with him (probably killing him more if I’m honest), but in a way it feels like a natural evolution, a progression of our friendship to something more.
That’s not to say there aren’t times he has to get up from the table, fist pressed into his mouth, eyes wide, and walk away—to the other side of the room, to the bathroom, or outside, depending on the look I gave him or what exactly was said. But hey, he’s the one who made the stupid decision not to touch me as more than a friend. If you recall, I made no such promise to him.
So most nights, I can’t resist flirting with him. Sometimes even at the library, if I can get away with it. Leaning over in front of him as he’s trying to read, tossing him a wink every now and then, asking for his help reaching a tall shelf just so he has to come and press against me from behind, shit like that.
To his credit, he rarely flirts back, trying not to cross that line. But I can tell it gets to him, and sometimes he can’t help himself. The looks I give him when it’s just him and me, at my dining table, on the loveseat, pretending like we’re paying attention to whatever is on TV, how his eyes will scrape along my entire frame in response, soaking in all the parts of me his hands can’t (yet). How I go out of my way to brush against him every chance I get, just to be close to him, and the way he’ll linger as near my body as he can get away with, fingers gripping whatever object is next to him until his knuckles turn white. Sometimes those fingers clench over one of his pecs instead, a new reaction I’ve noticed recently.
Or that time I dropped my napkin just so I could bend over to grab it right in front of him. That was the first time he had to walk outside. Made some string of high-pitched noises and bolted straight out the back door, biting his knuckle. It wasn’t the only time, either.
I’m not doing it to be cruel, not mostly.
But I am loving exploring this dynamic between us. It’s the first time I’ve been free and open about my interest in him, and the fact that the teases and flirts between us come so naturally…it’s promising. The chemistry between us, even though we’ve yet to actually do anything, is off the charts. Way hotter than I’d even imagined it would be.
It’s driving me insane .
With every passing day, I know I’m that much closer to caving, begging him to make that move he promised me fifteen days ago (but who’s counting?). I’m trying to hold out.
More than me needing this time, I think he does. He’s rebuilding his faith in himself. That he can be the man he thinks he should be.
Honestly? I know he already is.
But seeing how proud he’s becoming of the growth he’s made this past month… I don’t want to take that away from him.
But I’m only so strong.
He’s the boy I’ve loved since I learned what love was. And it’s clear he feels just as strongly about me. Actually, the depth of the emotion that gazes out of me from behind his eyes is startling. It’s funny, really. My devotion to him over the years has always been the thing people notice most about me. But I’m starting to realize his devotion puts mine to shame. The thought of what that passion will look like when all the barriers between us are finally dropped could send a shudder down my back and arms, leave me covered in goosebumps from the anticipation alone. But I’m trying to do this right.
So I’ve been enjoying this time, reconnecting with him, and pushing the boundaries as far as I can without giving him some sort of aneurysm. Is there such a thing as permanent damage from blue balls? If there is, he’s probably got it, based off the glimpses I’ve caught most nights when he has to subtly rearrange himself, or dart into the bathroom suddenly, and I do feel a little bad about that. But trust me when I say my lady bits haven’t been getting off any easier.
Well, that’s the wrong choice of words. It’s been very easy for them to get off lately. Like, a couple of touches after he’s left each night, when I’m finally all alone in my bed, and bing bang boom. Thanks to all this pent up whatever is between us, I’m pretty sure if Aaron simply breathed on me in the right way, I’d implode in the best way imaginable.
But we’re waiting , because that seems like the responsible choice.
I think.
But I’m just about done with this portion of our story, I can tell you that. That man is the love of my life, and I’m damn near ready to ride off into the sunset on him. With him. Whatever. Semantics.
The way I see it, at this point in our relationship, we’ve done all the hard stuff together, been through all the big moments in life already. We’ve put in the work—more than ten years of it. All that’s left is to reap the rewards. The fun stuff. The pleasure. The parts that should feel the best. The God-given benefits that come with going through life with your partner—what can take a shitty day and make it okay.
I’m hardly a puritan, probably more accurate to say that I haven’t slept around much, and I’m pretty inexperienced as compared to Aaron. But even in my more limited experience, I don’t think it’s an accident that however we, as a species, were created—nature, evolution, some higher power, whatever the case may be— it can feel so good to be intimate with another person, especially one you care deeply about.
Yes, I’m basing this mostly off of my experience with Spencer, but also from how hot even the tiniest contact is with Aaron. Any promise of more from that man gets me more ready for him than I’ve been for anyone I’ve dated before—those guys that I wasn’t head over heels in love with.
So I can’t help but have this theory that it’s a currency of sorts; that intimacy, sex and pleasure were intended to be this incredible payoff we get for sharing ourselves so wholly with another. And damn , I can’t wait for the payoff with this kid.
And it’s these agonizing thoughts that have me practically writhing with need in bed this morning as I take my time getting up, my first lazy Saturday since taking the temporary job at the library. A chance to sleep in—or at least stay in bed—sounds like heaven.
Yesterday was my last day, by the way. I should probably have mentioned that, sorry. Layla, my counterpart, came back from maternity leave last week. We spent the week doing a knowledge transfer on my time there, so she was all set to resume and yesterday was officially my last day. Of course, I’m still going to host the bi-monthly book club, that’s my baby, and it’ll be a chance for me to keep the little community I found myself a part of over these past couple of months.
Aaron presented Brenda and myself with a parting gift yesterday—two sets of every indie book on the list of mine he’s been reading off of. All of my favorite books that weren’t available at the library now are. And he asked Brenda how he can go about donating them to the rest of the libraries in our metro, too.
My heart got a little mushy over that, and I think my face showed it, too. Brenda gave me quite the look when Aaron wasn’t looking, he’s won over everyone there in his time as a self-proclaimed romance scholar.
I know if I drag myself downstairs, for the first morning in two weeks, Aaron won’t be waiting for me. He’s mysteriously disappeared on me a lot lately, and I’ve done my best to let him keep his secrets. But my curiosity is definitely starting to get the better of me.
He warned me last night, after we’d had steak salads for dinner, then watched I-have-no-idea-what (though I do recall what he was wearing, how he smelled, and how many times his lips twitched throughout the evening) on the couch for a couple hours that he wouldn’t be by until later today. He did prep my K-cup machine for this morning since he wouldn’t be hand-delivering my latte. Then he pressed his lips to the side of my head, right on my hair, one hand holding either side of my head, and wished me sweet dreams. Then he locked up and left, taking my breath with him.
Eventually, I convince myself to put on an audiobook and go through my morning routine. Find myself comparing Aaron to the book boyfriend of the minute, and I have to say, he’s been holding his own lately. Some author should take notes. I mean, he’s no winged male who’s the FMC’s fated mate, but for a normal (okay, somewhat rich, somewhat famous) guy, I think he’s kinda killing the game. I might be biased. And, hey, at least there’s no surprise pregnancy trope in our story.
An hour or so later, I’m looking cute in some high-waisted jeans with a lightweight, soft cream sweater, hair wavy and what’s become my new makeup look—not quite natural, but not more than I’m comfortable with. I feel cute, and that feeling isn’t getting old.
And now I’m downstairs, K-cup freshly brewed and being ingested, as I set myself up at my little nook in the corner with the mini desk and my Starlight MacBook Air. I log into my online storefront out of habit, just to see if any new orders have come in since the last time I checked (they usually haven’t, but a girl can dream, right?), and that’s when the coffee spews out of my mouth, all over the screen of my poor, unsuspecting computer. I rip my phone out of my pocket and my fingers type furiously.
Me
What
Did
You
Do
???
The Kid
Whatever do you mean, jellybean?
How did I get more than 200 sales yesterday?
I’m proud of you, Gem. You deserve it!
What.
Did.
You.
Do?
You don’t read the tabloids anymore, huh?
And that’s how I was out the door, racing to the nearest drugstore (after wiping off and apologizing profusely to my poor laptop, of course), finding the issue that came out yesterday with a little shot of Aaron on one side of the cover. I buy the magazine, jump back in the car and vow not to open it until I get back home, in case I’m tempted to do something insane after seeing whatever is in here.
Somehow I make it back to my dining room table before flinging the rag open, flying through the pages until I find the Stars: They’re just like you and me spread. Sure enough, there’s my best friend, front and center, walking into an NYC hotspot, midday judging from how bright it is outside, proudly wearing one of my shirts that says Fictional men do it better . The caption that accompanies the pic lists my shop as the source of his shirt.
Did he… fly to New York and back in a single day, just to get spotted by paps?
Tears spring to my eyes. I bring the magazine up to my face and bury myself in it, squealing and flailing my feet around like an absolute idiot. After a few minutes of celebrating, fanning my face, and basically just fangirling over this man and his support of me, I check my shop again to make sure it’s not too good to be true.
It’s not.
Well, it is, but it’s not.
I’ve gotten more sales in the past day than I did in the last three weeks my shop has been up and running. This is the kind of word of mouth I need to grow and be able to offer more products and expand my line to where I want it to be.
And it’s thanks to him.
The guy who hates paparazzi and being in magazines. But he set this up, did this for me.
Me
I see it now.
You’re a jerk.
And I love you.
The Kid
You wanna say that to my face?
omw
Wait
Can you be at my place at five?
Wrapping something up
Seriously?
It’ll be worth it ??
Between now and then, I know what I need to be ready for.
Moving forward with this kid.
This kid who’s such a fucking idiot, but he’s a sweet one, and he’s my idiot, dammit. I still can’t believe he assumed I was pregnant and offered to raise the baby with me. The memory of the sincerity on his face as he offered to be a father to an imaginary kid who wasn’t his makes me snort a laugh (an appreciative one) even now, alone in my dining room.
In his defense, for all the months in all the years he’s been bringing me croissants, he’s never been wrong once. Then again, I was never on a hormonal IUD that ended up stopping my periods until recently, either. But the fact that he made that offer, that he really thought that’s what our future held, and he was here for it? Definitely warmed my heart.
What it comes down to is simple. I don’t need to see anything else from this man. Maybe some people wouldn’t agree with how I’ve forgiven him so quickly, or that I’m ready to tie myself to him after all the shit he pulled this summer, but I know who he is in his heart. Neither of us are perfect, but we’re working to be better, together. I don’t need to wait and see anything more from him than all he’s already shown me.
It’s more than what he’s done these past few weeks—it’s what’s changed between us. The openness, the genuine care that’s evident in every look, conversation, act of kindness; the honest communication between us on anything and everything under the sun. It feels like our forever has begun. It’s time to make it official.
The last bit of nerves that stand in my way feel like the final barrier—these frayed, delicate, sensitive bits of me that have felt rejected by him my entire life, and can’t stomach the thought of losing face in front of him one more time.
And I know it’s dumb, with everything we’ve been through together, everything we’ve finally realized and admitted to one another, but a part of me still feels like it’s me putting myself out there, on the line, by asking him to make that move. I still feel like some iteration of that shy, fifteen-year-old who wanted his attention; the nineteen-year-old who dressed up for him only to be discarded, disregarded. The twenty-year-old who watched him start to capitalize on his fame with women so gorgeous they’d give any normal girl a complex. What’s the twenty-four-year-old version of me got that none of them did?
A frustrated groan leaves my lips at the memories, being at this crossroads again with him.
Why is it always on me in our relationship?
It’s always on me to put myself out there, go out on a limb, risk everything we’ve been and what we are for what we could be.
I’m the one who has to go out into no-man’s land, that dangerous territory where I’m left hanging, vulnerable, on my own for those dreaded seconds, minutes, however long it takes for what I want to come out, while I wait to see if that’s what he wants, too.
There’s a difference, though.
This time, I know I’m not the only one who wants this.
But Aaron’s made it clear he won’t make another move on me.
His words have said nothing but how much he wants us to be together. His actions have said that, too. That doesn’t mean it’s not absolutely terrifying to make this final jump to try to get what and who I want after nearly a decade and a quarter of wishing for him.
How many times have I daydreamed about this exact moment? How many times has it not happened? How many nightmares have I had about it going terribly, terribly wrong?
But I’m ready. I’m ready to put myself out there, to stake my claim on this man once and for all.
I know what I’m going for when I get to his house.
Except, when I pull into the gated community, up into his secluded, wooded driveway and into the clearing where I can park in front of his house (about three acres of cleared grounds, surrounded by north of twenty wooded acres, all overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains, the lucky duck), he is waiting for me out front with a plan of his own. And it’s not the one I was hoping for.
As soon as I’m out of the car, nervously straightening my sweater, pulling up my jeans, he’s by my side. It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve been here, and I guess it has. About six months, give or take? A lot longer than I’ve ever been away from here before. Looks the same from out here, even if everything between us feels different.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Gem.” His voice is warm, soft, and it sends shivers through my entire system. I don’t think I mean to, but I lick my lips in response. His eyes track the motion briefly before he smiles with them instead and steps up behind me.
“What are you?—”
He places his hands over my eyes from behind me.
“You’re gonna have to trust me.” His warm whisper tickles right up against the shell of my ear, his hands shifting as he leans in and back out with the movement. I can feel my eyelids flutter behind the pressure of his hands. This is absolute torture, to psych myself up for this moment, only to have the choice taken off the table, to have his lips against my ear, his hands on my face, his lean, solid frame pressed against me from behind, and I’m just supposed to do nothing? I let out a little sad-sounding sigh and give him a small nod, his fingers still glued to my eyelids through the motion.
He leads me into the house, through the expanse of the living space, then all the way into the backyard. As we step down off of the deck in the back, he shifts his hands so one large palm is covering both of my eyes, and he wraps the other arm around my waist, steadying me as we make our way down the stairs and traverse across the lawn. Even through my shoes, I can feel the grass is longer than it used to be, it’s too soft, too padded underneath my soles. As he escorts me to some secret destination, I vaguely wonder what state the rest of his house is in. If he’s not had time to stay on top of the maintenance and running the staff that keep it looking nice with all the time he’s been devoting to me lately. Pretty sure he doesn’t even have an assistant these days, and I don’t think details like schedules and household maintenance are really a strength of his. I should probably take a peek around before I leave and send a few texts to his people to help him out.
We stop moving, his arm steadying me as my body sways forward with the jolt of the abrupt halt. His other hand is still covering my eyes, and even though I open both and try to sneak a peek, all I can see is a sliver of grass beneath his palm. Damn . I’m pretty impatient with surprises, and the excitement is starting to get to me. My stomach feels like it’s floating with anticipation, and all of a sudden I can’t wait to see what he’s done.
“So, I, uh, didn’t really foresee you letting me back in this quickly. Wanted a place I could feel close to you, no matter how long it took to get back in your good graces. So I did a thing.” His voice has a note of uncertainty, almost shyness to it that I’m not used to hearing from my usually charming, confident, in-command best friend.
His hand peels back from my face, and I have to blink away the sunlight from the early evening glow for just a second before I can take in the sight in front of me.
And when I do, I let out a squeal that sounds a lot like pain, my knees buckling.