Chapter 7 The Human Sexual Response #2
I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I made a mental note to look up “spasskyfisher,” and carried my dishes to the kitchen.
When I finished hand-washing them, seeing that Andreas had already cleaned up after making me breakfast, I wandered back into the living room.
Still staring at the chessboard, Andreas rolled the black knight over his fingers, flipping it back and forth with his thumb.
I didn’t want to interrupt his concentration, so I turned for the hallway, stopping short when he called out, “As I said on Monday, I am not bothered by you sleepwalking. The only thing I care about is that you are safe and comfortable.”
There was something about the way he said it—no inflection, no humor, just absolute certainty—that made me want to believe him.
Fiddling with the sleeve of my hoodie, I faced him. “Andreas—”
He cut me off, dipping his chin and deepening his voice. “Do you recall when we were young? I would find any excuse to sleep with you. I slept in your bed most nights. Remember?”
I’m sure I looked confused, because what did that have to do with anything?
“Just consider this a repayment, if that will make you feel better,” he said, biting his bottom lip while we locked eyes.
I tried to keep my thoughts from my face, which were mostly flavored by skepticism and bewilderment. The two situations weren’t comparable. We’d been kids back then. He’d been seeking comfort from a friend. Everything between us had been innocent and platonic.
But now, we were adults. And my feelings for him? Well, let’s just say, I’d be lying if I said my feelings for Andreas were innocent.
* * *
To say that Thanksgiving at Kaitlyn and Martin’s was a circus would be an insult to circuses, which at least have OSHA standards they’re supposed to adhere to.
The only constant was the perpetual motion of baby Joey, who rotated from lap to lap like a hot potato with a self-destruct timer, pausing only to attempt suicide off the edge of the sofa or scream in protest when denied a third dinner roll.
By the time we finished dessert, the entire apartment looked like an explosion in a bakery, with dollops of mashed potato welded to the hardwood, and what I prayed was gravy crusted into the tabletop.
Through it all, Andreas managed to monopolize Joey.
I don’t know how he did it. There were four adults and a baby in a palatial three-bedroom penthouse, but somehow Andreas spent the majority of the afternoon holding, soothing, or otherwise interacting with a seven-month-old as if he’d been training for it.
He’d swing Joey with one hand while sipping tea with the other, bounce the baby on his knee as he and Kaitlyn discussed Italian composers (turns out, Andreas’s mother was one of Kaitlyn’s favorite composers), and when Kaitlyn needed to run to the bathroom, he wrangled Joey’s diaper situation with a dexterity that suggested past-life experience as a neonatal nurse.
The baby, for his part, gazed up at Andreas with starry-eyed worship, giggled when he made faces—oh my God, Andreas made so many adorable faces!
—and fell asleep against his chest in a feat of trust I’d never seen Joey display toward anyone but Kaitlyn herself.
It was obscene. It was unfair. It was, on a molecular level, illegal to be that good with children while also being devastatingly attractive. My latent competency kink reared its ugly head and roared. The only saving grace was that Kaitlyn’s husband, Martin, looked even more jealous than I was.
Right now, Joey was asleep in his crib. Andreas and Martin had vanished into the kitchen to wage war against the mountain of dirty dishes, leaving Kaitlyn and me on the couch with nothing but a throw blanket and our secrets.
She tucked her feet under her and used the remote to increase the volume of the stereo. Kaitlyn cast a glance toward the kitchen. Dishes clinked, water ran, the men were out of earshot. She leaned over, blanket slipping down to her lap.
“Okay, let’s finish our discussion. You moved in on Saturday and then started sleepwalking into his bedroom? How did he react?” Her voice was a whisper.
I sighed, bracing myself for this part of my story.
I’d been giving Kaitlyn the CliffsNotes version of my last week in scattered, five-minute bursts between rounds of vegetable roasting and diaper changing.
The goal had been to keep her from dying of curiosity while also minimizing the odds of Martin or Andreas overhearing.
It hadn’t quite worked. She’d nearly asphyxiated on a carrot when I told her about the show Andreas and I had put on for Nakita at my old apartment.
Martin had stormed into the kitchen when he’d heard her choking, sending me a vicious look, like I was trying to murder his beloved spouse.
Then, when I told Kaitlyn about the sleepwalking, she’d gasped so loud, both Martin and Andreas had run into the nursery to ensure nothing was amiss.
Now, with the evening winding down and only the kitchen as our buffer, Kaitlyn wanted the director’s cut.
“He seemed a little bashful about it,” I said, picking at the edge of the blanket.
“Like, I woke up on his bed, and he just sort of blinked at me, then his cheeks got all red and he went full android. Very formal. Lots of ‘It’s no big deal’ and ‘Please, don’t be embarrassed’—which, as you know, is the number-one way to make me more embarrassed. ”
Kaitlyn’s eyebrows jumped high on her forehead. “Really? He told you not to be embarrassed?”
“Yeah. I mean, he keeps saying it doesn’t bother him, but how can it not?
I keep waking up in his room like a poltergeist with boundary issues.
Even when I try to keep to myself, it happens anyway.
He even tucked me in last night and, this morning, I somehow ended up nested between his sheets again. ”
She grinned. “He’s not upset you keep sleeping with him?”
I shook my head, letting the memory replay. “He never says he’s upset. He’s just—stiff, sometimes? He’ll get all quiet and his jaw goes tight. But then, if I apologize, he tells me it’s not a problem, or says something so . . . nice that I want to die.”
Kaitlyn nudged me with her foot. “Give me an example.”
I exhaled. “Sunday night, I ended up sleepwalking and fell asleep on his lap. Like, literally, across his thighs. I woke up and he had his arms around me. Instead of making it weird, he just said, ‘I want to be useful.’ Which is simultaneously the most wholesome and the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard from a man. ”
She reached over and gave my arm a gentle squeeze.
“Sam, it’s not like this is something you can control.
You need to stop apologizing for existing.
When I was in the kitchen with him earlier, he asked me all kinds of questions about your preferences, what you like, what you don’t.
And I’ve been watching him today, how he looks at you. It seems like he’s really into you.”
I made a face. “He’s doing that to keep up appearances. Darn it, I should tell him the truth about you knowing so he won’t feel obligated to pretend we’re engaged.”
Kaitlyn drew back. “‘Darn it’? Did you just say ‘darn it’?”
I groaned. “It’s the strangest thing, but I find myself very much caring what he thinks of me. Like, actually caring. I don’t even cuss around him because his manners are so good. I wore makeup to dinner last night. Voluntarily.”
Kaitlyn’s lips twitched, but she played it straight. “What does that—what do you mean? You care what people think.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure, but not like this. Usually, if someone doesn’t like me, I’d think, okay, their loss, and move on.
But with him, I keep nitpicking everything I do and say.
Whether I smell good, whether I said something dumb, whether my laugh is too loud.
I even find myself censoring my dirty jokes. Can you imagine?”
Kaitlyn snorted. “You? No sex jokes?”
“It’s a tragedy. My therapist would say I’m repressing my authentic self.”
She was quiet for a second, then suddenly made a face of discomfort, her hand going to her chest.
“What’s wrong?” I leaned forward, inspecting her face.
Kaitlyn had been dealing with bouts of mastitis since Joey was born and had even been hospitalized for it once. When she first showed me her cracked and sore nipples, I’d almost fainted from friend-sympathy.
I knew she’d struggled with breastfeeding but had persevered, hiring a lactation consultant. Things had improved, but were nowhere near perfect. I would be forever in awe of women who breastfed.
Kaitlyn shook her head, giving me a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. Just boob issues.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure. Breastfeeding is not my favorite.” She then studied me in that unique way she had when attempting to determine the truth of a matter. Kind but unsparing. “Sam. Do you think you might really like Andreas?”
I stared at the pattern of the blanket and, after a moment, nodded. “Yes,” I said, and sounded extremely melancholy about it.
Kaitlyn covered her mouth, and her eyes glinted with suppressed laughter.
“Stop it,” I hissed, smacking her shoulder. “It’s probably just residual and unresolved crush feelings from when we were kids.”
Kaitlyn cocked her head. “I don’t know. He’s pretty crush-worthy now. How many languages does he speak? That is some sexy shit.”
I laughed, but it also sounded melancholy. “Well, he’s leaving tonight for two weeks, so that’ll give me some time to get my head on straight, at least.”
She didn’t let the topic drop. “Do you want to sleep here?”
I was touched by the offer, but I shook my head. “No. I told you about Andreas’s brother Henrik earlier, right?”
“The scary guy who chased you into the biology building?”