14. Bianca #3
“Here is the funny thing about the one-bed situation,” I start.
“You tell me that you’ll take the floor, and then I have to convince you that you don’t have to take the floor.
And my argument will be that we are both adults, so we can share the bed.
And then you try to convince me that you will be fine.
And then we go back and forth until you finally relent.
” I take a breath. “So, let’s not do this.
That floor is disgusting. And we’re going to end up sharing the bed. ”
He starts laughing until his shoulders shake. “Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I throw up my hands. “Theo, this happens in romance books all the time. Now, we’re going to sleep in one bed. And there will be sexual tension. And we will either have sex, or we won’t. That’s how it goes.”
“Do I get a vote on which way this goes? I vote for sex.”
He’s joking. I know he’s joking.
“No!” I respond. “That’s where this romance-novel-parallel stops. We will sleep in the bed. We will keep our distance. And under no circumstances is anything going to happen.”
“Your call.” He’s still smirking. “But in case you change your mind, you already have my vote.”
I look over at the bed. The comforter is the color of a hotel comforter, which is its own genre. The coffeemaker on the dresser is struggling. No surprise there. The chair in the corner is upholstered in a fabric I’m choosing not to identify.
Theo sets his keys on the dresser.
My stomach rumbles.
There’s a diner across the street.
We trudge through six inches of fresh snow to get to it, and Theo holds the door open for me. I order a grilled cheese and tomato soup. He orders the same, because the menu has six items and four of them involve gravy.
He pays. I let him.
On the way back to the room, we stop at the gas station beside the motel for whatever we can find.
He buys a toothbrush, a travel-size deodorant, and a pack of plain black socks.
I buy a toothbrush, deodorant, a comb, and a t-shirt off a sad metal rack by the door, because I am not sleeping in jeans.
The only one big enough for a nightgown alternative says I brAKE FOR YETIS in glittery purple cursive across the chest. I don’t have the energy to be picky.
And then we get snacks. Lots of snacks.
We get back to the room and turn on the TV, landing on a rerun marathon of an old sitcom I half-remember from middle school. He has never seen it. He asks questions during the theme song. By the third episode, he stops asking questions and starts laughing in the right places.
The snow doesn’t stop. The pile of gas-station candy wrappers between us on the bed grows. We eat the entire bag of pretzels he insisted he didn’t want.
At some point, I catch him watching me instead of the screen, and I pretend I don’t notice.
When we get through an entire season of the show, I stand up, stretch, and announce I’m going to brush my teeth.
When I come out of the bathroom in the yeti shirt, Theo is in a plain t-shirt and a pair of boxers.
He is very deliberately not looking at my legs. His suit pants are folded over the back of the chair. His hair is mussed where he ran his hand through it. The lamp on the bedside table is the only thing on.
He glances at my shirt. “I have so many questions.”
“About yetis?” I ask. “Apparently, I brake for them. That’s all I can tell you.”
His mouth does the near-smile thing.
I get under the covers on my side. He gets under the covers on his side. He leaves a strip of cold sheet between us wide enough to drive a small truck through. I appreciate the effort. I also resent it.
“Goodnight, Bianca.”
“Goodnight, Theo.”
He turns off the lamp.
The room is completely dark. The storm against the window is a steady, papery shush. The heat kicks on with a clunk and produces a smell I’m choosing to interpret as lived-in.
I lie on my back. I stare at a ceiling I can’t see. I am too aware of him to fall asleep.
I think about his mother on the road to the orchard. I think about his hands on the steering wheel. I think about him making Bartley listen to me. I think about him laughing at the right place in a sitcom he’d never seen. And I think about him finally apologizing to me today.
It wasn’t a public apology. But it was a sincere apology.
I turn my head on the pillow to face him.
He is already facing me.
My eyes have adjusted. He is on his side, one hand under his cheek, the other resting on the strip of cold sheet between us.
The heat of him is bleeding across the sheet toward me. I can hear him breathing softly.
“You’re awake,” I whisper.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking,” he whispers back. A pause. “Today was the best day I’ve had in a long time.”
Oh.
“Theo, I?—”
“I’m not asking you for anything, Bianca,” he interrupts. “I’m telling you that I don’t regret anything that happened today. I want you to know.”
My hand moves across the cold sheet and rests on top of his.
He turns his palm up under mine and laces our fingers.
Something inside me gives.
I move.
Or he moves.
One of us moves. Both of us. It doesn’t matter.
His hand comes up to my jaw. “I don’t want this day to end, Bianca.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
My hand goes around the back of his neck, and I pull him closer.
Outside, the storm keeps going. Inside, I let him kiss me.