Chapter XIV
XIV
Ana
“I’m doing what, now?” No toothbrush, no deodorant, no change of clothes—this isn’t happening.
“There’s a tornado watch. Edwin isn’t coming.”
“What is this, Kansas? We’re in a major city. That can’t be right.” I grab my phone and search for “Nashville” and “tornado.” And there it is, the top result, about Tennessee being the country’s leader in nocturnal tornadoes. What the fuck.
I look up to see Levi run a hand down his face, looking worried and a little bit hurt.
My stomach drops. He thinks I can’t fathom spending the night with him.
I acted like this was the worst possible outcome.
This wasn’t the plan, but we can make it work.
A little . . . spontaneous sleepover. Between coworkers.
Who already kissed today, off camera. Kissed in a way that has me oscillating between a panicked mental state of What the hell are we doing right now?
and a horny physical state of If he feels it too, then why not have fun?
If I spend the night here, I’m not entirely sure which one will win out.
“Hey, it’s fine,” I say, shifting my body toward him and trying to change the energy in the room.
“You know what we’ll do? We’ll keep doing what we’re doing.
We’ll sit on the couch and eat more pizza and you’ll say something cheesy to make me laugh and I’ll share something I might regret.
It’ll be a classic sleepover. Nothing but fun. ”
Levi’s pupils widen, and he pulls his lips to the side, pinching the inside of his cheek between his teeth. Something about the expression sends a zip of electricity down my spine. It’s timid, almost. Is he nervous?
“A sleepover . . .” He draws out the word. “Yeah. That’ll be fine. You can have the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”
“Are you suggesting you could comfortably curl up on what is actually a loveseat?” I point to the piece of furniture beneath us, just two leather cushions wide with curved armrests on each end.
He squints, as if he’s trying to envision how he’d tuck in his limbs. “I could do it.”
“No, you’re not going to do that. And with my joints, I’m not subjecting myself to this either. We’re adults, we can share the bed. Like I said, it’ll be fine.”
“OK.” He nods, trying and failing to sound casual.
“Great. Settled.” I will myself to believe that it will be great. “But you need to find me something to wear. I’m not staying in these jeans for the next however many hours.”
I place my hands on his shoulders and push him to stand before nudging him toward a door I’m assuming is the bedroom. He disappears behind it, and I allow myself a big breath, then attempt to push out the nerves brewing in my stomach along with the air.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I peek out at him from the cracked-open door of the bathroom, absolutely drowning in one of Levi’s workout tanks.
It’s paired with basketball shorts that hang like a midi skirt, even though I rolled them up four times.
This is not the sexy, I-dare-you-to-keep-your-hands-off-me outfit I usually wear when spending the night with someone for the first time.
This is giving Adam Sandler. I look ridiculous.
“Couldn’t be more ready.”
But the moment I emerge from the bathroom, like a beautiful butterfly who managed to reverse engineer herself back into a caterpillar, his mouth drops open.
“Geez, I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect speechless-level bad.”
“Nope, that’s, ah, not what’s happening here.” He squirms in his seat. “I’ve got a beautiful woman in front of me wearing my clothes. I’m gonna need a minute.” A flush reddens the tips of his ears.
He watches from the couch as I make my way to him, a glint in his eyes that sears heat into my chest. I don’t miss how his gaze lingers on my sides, how the wide holes of his tank expose the black lace of my bra underneath.
He reaches out and grabs me around the waist, his arms enveloping my body. “Get over here.” I fall into him, and we’re immediately a mess of tangled limbs and laughter. The couch cushions squeak beneath us.
When we settle, resuming our positions from earlier with my legs draped over his lap, I watch his eyes travel the length of my body. When he reaches a bloom of blue and purple on my shin, his attention snags, and he sucks in a breath.
“What’d you do here?” He traces the outline of the bruise with a whisper of a touch, an attempt to comfort without pressing on the tender skin.
The gentleness of his fingertips, the care in his voice—it catches me off guard.
This version of him is so soft. It’s not what I’m used to with men.
It would be dangerous to get used to it.
“Funny enough, I’m not sure how I got that.
” I meet his gaze with a half-smile and a shrug, trying to convey a levity I don’t quite feel.
His eyebrows raise and his head cocks to the side, unconvinced.
“Unexplained bruises are pretty common for me. They’re .
. . well . . . they’re another way my condition shows up.
I tend to run into things. I spent twenty-eight years thinking I was distracted and clumsy, only to find out last year that I have issues with proprioception.
Try saying that five times fast.” I attempt to force out a laugh, but it comes out like a wince.
Levi pulls his hand from my leg like it’s a hot stove.
“Oh, no, trust me—you’re fine. I’m fine.
I’m trying to make sure you know this bruise isn’t a big deal, and I’m clearly failing at it.
” I feel desperate to pull away first, to save myself from falling into the trap where I bare my faults and the person responds by retreating from my life.
But his eyes stay on mine, searching, steady.
He wants something. I could pretend it’s my body, but my heart fears that’s the least of it.
Fears that he wants my honesty. He wants my vulnerability. He wants me.
Rubbing his lips against each other, Levi appraises me like a collector evaluating whether a piece is real.
With care and diligence, as though his investment depends on what he finds.
“Why do you do that? Your reality isn’t a burden, Ana.
You don’t need to brush it off. Tell me about this proprietary-ception thing. What does it mean?”
I smile at his attempt to find the right word, his encouragement making me brave.
“Proprioception. It’s a person’s awareness of their body in space.
Most people don’t have to think about it.
They inherently know where their limbs are when they’re moving and how much space to give themselves when they’re passing by a piece of furniture, for example. ”
His hand finds my leg again, his fingers resuming their pattern around the starburst of purple.
“But for people like me who have floppy joints, that awareness isn’t fine-tuned.
So I miscalculate and run into stuff.” Glancing up, I’m caught by the earnestness in his expression, the way his pupils are blown.
“The kicker, though, is that I’m more likely to bruise when I do bump into things.
You know what I told you about my connective tissue?
The collagen in my vessels also doesn’t—”
“—doesn’t keep the blood well contained,” he says, completing the thought for me.
The way he says this, putting the pieces together on his own without a hint of pity, builds a stinging pressure behind my eyes.
He already knows more than anyone else in my life, but he seems eager for all of it.
My fear loses ground to the desire to be known.
I look back down at the purple bloom and decide to risk sharing more.
“Yeah. It’s pretty innocuous with the bruises and hyperflexible joints, but—and I try not to think about this a lot—the vascular part can be life-threatening.
I’m scheduled to see a cardiologist every three years to make sure I don’t end up with a giant aneurysm like my grandfather.
His artery stretched and stretched until you could see the blood pulsing in his abdomen through his shirt. ”
I’m lost in the memory for a moment, standing beside my grandpa’s hospital bed while he charmed every nurse within a fifteen-foot radius. It makes me smile. If only I inherited his charisma along with his crap blood vessels.
Levi’s warm exhale of breath pulls me back to the present, to the sight of him leaning forward, studying the bruise that’s taking too much of our attention.
He bends further and dots a series of soft kisses around the perimeter.
Goose bumps spring up at each spot where the heat of his mouth lingers.
I can’t stop myself from threading my fingers through his hair, from touching him with some measure of affection.
Affection that is, admittedly, more guarded than what he’s showing me.
“Is it weird if I say I like this bruise?” Glancing up to meet my gaze, his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Maybe from tenderness, maybe from sheepishness.
It’s so endearing, I can hardly breathe.
“I don’t mean that I like that you’re hurt, because obviously I don’t.
I wish you weren’t. But I like that this part of you, this thing you hide that’s invisible to the world but a constant in your life .
. . I like that I get to see it. I like that you’re letting me. ”
“I like it too,” I hear myself saying.
I like you too, I don’t say.