Sixteen #2
Snorting, he elbows me. ‘Heath’s in the kitchen making real breakfast. Strictly protein powder and egg whites.’
I flick him on the forehead as I get up again, sticking my tongue out as I stoop to steal a Snickers bar just to irk him. So busy snickering at the boyish outrage that follows me out of the room, I’m already in the kitchen by the time what Kai said actually registers.
I’m already freezing at the sight of Heath standing in front of the stove.
Silent and still, I stare. Almost against my own fucking will, as if it’s some intrinsic, unnegotiable instinct, I gape at the gray compression shirt molded to his upper body, perfectly showcasing every muscular flex as he stirs something in a pan and sways to low music.
He croons along, and I flinch when I don’t hear the lyrics, but instead the dirty praise he rasped against my thigh last night.
One arm rises and his bicep flexes, and I remember how every vein and tendon and muscle jumped in tortured pleasure.
When he scratches the back of his neck, his body twitches in something I only recognize as a wince once I notice the thin red scratches marring his nape.
Little half-moon shapes that, if I had to guess, are the exact width and thickness of my fingernails.
Talk to him again, Imani had quietly urged me before we turned in for the night, when too much pizza was sitting heavy in my stomach, fatigue and comfort weighing down the rest of me. Trust me, you’ll feel so much better.
I might’ve agreed last night. I might’ve even thought about calling him before I went to bed – that might’ve been the last thought on my mind before I drifted off to sleep.
Last night, I wasn’t a coward. Evidently, right now, I am.
A brisk draft draws my attention to a sliding door left open.
A second later, I’m slipping outside, shivering as winter proves it has well and truly arrived.
Ominous clouds contribute a drizzle that threatens to be more, and my borrowed pajamas provide very little protection, but the cold feels nice. Calming. Clarifying.
Not quite so much that I realize hiding in the rain is entirely pathetic, but enough to temper the anxious rash already wreaking a little havoc.
Mindlessly scratching my chest, I scan the yard in search of somewhere semi-private to collect myself – I refuse to call it a hiding spot.
Almost immediately, my gaze snags on something suitable, and on bare feet, I pad across the grass to the hammock strung up between two trees.
One pear, one apple, Matilda’s pride and joy, I vaguely remember being told.
The sparse branches don’t provide much shelter, the rope is frayed and the fabric ever-dampening, but as I clumsily roll into the cotton cocoon, I sigh with relief.
I settle in the center, and the excess material comes up high either side of me, creating makeshift walls that block everything but the gloomy sky above me.
Under different circumstances, I would like this a lot; find it peaceful. Except, right now, my racing mind won’t allow that. My relief is only fleeting. I can only be a little coward for so long.
I just need a second to gather my thoughts.
Think up what I’m going to say. How to properly convey these silly little feelings of mine.
My crush. Because that’s all it is, right?
A crush. Confusion, really, in its basest form.
I’m simply not used to being treated the way Heath treats me, and it’s fucking with my head. I’m fucking with my own damn head. I—
‘Morning.’
‘Jesus.’ As my little sanctuary gives a dangerous rock, I scowl at the face suddenly blocking my view. ‘That’s it. You’re getting a bell.’
Heath snickers, the sound more reserved than it should be.
No suggestive remarks leave his lips – just a soft little sigh.
‘Gotta say,’ he muses, fingers curling around the hammock as he drops to a crouch, tugging the material down with him, and the movement forces me to roll onto my side, to roll closer to him. ‘Not a fan of this sneaking-out thing.’
In lieu of denying it, I just shrug.
‘How are you?’ comes out stilted, careful, too formal, and I don’t like it, and how hypocritical of me is that, huh? Considering his caution is only born of my panic? ‘Sleep okay?’
Again, I shrug. ‘You?’
He shakes his head.
Long night ahead of him, I bet.
Of their own volition, my thighs squeeze together tightly. Fucking Imani.
Heath cocks his head curiously. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I rasp.
Tutting quietly, Heath taps my temple. ‘Let me in.’
‘No.’ I lick my lips, and his gaze drops to watch. ‘It’s for your own good. You’d crumple like a leaf.’
With a weary sigh, he stands.
Just as I’m wondering if a bad night’s sleep is all it takes for him to finally reach the limits of his tolerance for me, the hammock jerks roughly as Heath fucking throws himself into it.
I curse as I’m almost sent to a grassy demise, and again when my comfortable sprawl becomes a lot tighter of a squeeze.
‘Excuse me,’ I grunt, as an abnormally large foot comes entirely too close to kicking me in the face. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah, by moving over a little.’ Heath shifts too enthusiastically, almost upending our precariously rocking perch again. ‘Jesus, how did you look so comfortable? This is awful.’
‘Well, I wasn’t sharing it with you.’
‘Save all that contempt for the bedroom, baby.’
My wriggling comes to an abrupt stop.
As if anticipating an escape attempt, long fingers lock around my ankle. ‘Smooth segue, huh?’
‘Like sandpaper.’
His laugh is just as rough.
One last adjustment and then he stills too, curled on his side to face me, the curves and contours of his body perfectly molded to my own.
‘Hypothetically,’ he starts quietly, hand sneaking beneath the cuff of my borrowed pajama pants to draw mindless patterns on my calf.
‘If I hooked up with a girl last night—’
‘Heath—’
‘And,’ he cuts me off, voice firm while his eyes cast a soft plea, ‘she wants to act like it never happened, what am I supposed to do?’
‘Act like it never happened, probably.’
‘Probably. Thing is, I’m not much of an actor. But this girl . . .’
‘What about her?’