Chapter 16 Variation in Genetically Complex Traits #2
It was uncanny, this feeling. Like I’d stepped through a portal into a universe where nothing bad had ever happened between us, where the last three months were just a blip in a dream.
Obviously, I knew better. But, as I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and changed into the pajamas, I couldn’t help but wonder at the difference between one month ago and now.
Last month, I’d believed him indifferent to me. And now, I knew for certain he wasn’t.
Last month, I couldn’t imagine ever speaking to him again. And now, I wondered if we might repair what had broken, at least enough to become friends.
I stood in the middle of the bathroom, not wanting to leave, not wanting to return to the bedroom where Andreas was probably still in the process of making the bed.
When I finally worked up the nerve to go back, I found him unfurling a cozy-looking comforter on top of the sheets, two pillows already ensconced in pillowcases at the headboard.
My mind chose that moment to recall the first time we’d touched and kissed in private, not for the benefit of putting on a show, but because we wanted to, and had admitted as much to each other. How unsettled and lost he’d looked, how hypnotized he seemed to be by everything I did.
I shoved the memory aside.
Andreas straightened and turned. Catching sight of me, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “All done.”
“Thank you.” I stepped inside and moved to my suitcase, knowing I needed to place distance between us.
The day had been full of upheaval. I felt more than vulnerable.
Distracting myself by seeking out physical comfort would solve nothing.
And taking physical comfort from Andreas in any circumstance, without clear boundaries and honest expectations between us, wouldn’t be right.
He nodded stiffly and walked toward the door but paused as he reached it. “Like before, the front door is locked on a code. You will not be able to leave the apartment if you sleepwalk tonight. I have texted you the code, just in case you do need to leave. I mean, when you are awake.”
I nodded, feeling my cheeks heat. “Thank you.”
He gave me a long look—so long I couldn’t catalogue all the emotions within it—and then quietly closed the door behind him.
I let the silence fill the room. I was determined to not cry about the revelations of the day, not even quietly into my pillow. I was also determined to not sleepwalk. Doing anything that interrupted or interfered with Andreas’s calm, peaceful, thoughtful existence was off-limits tonight.
Tucking myself into bed, I turned off the light and whispered to the universe, “Please let me not sleepwalk into his room tonight. Let me get through this without being a burden or blurring lines between us.”
The universe declined to comment. As usual.
* * *
I woke up groggy but well rested, with the distinct feeling that I was wrapped in something—someone—warm and solid, pressed tightly against my back.
My first thought was: I do not own a weighted blanket.
My second thought was: Fuck.
Andreas’s arm rested heavy over my waist, his chest spooned into my shoulder blades, and one of his legs had managed, at some point in the night, to wedge itself between mine.
A classic big-spoon maneuver I hadn’t experienced since December.
Low, rhythmic sounds, almost a purr, vibrated from his chest. He was still asleep.
Universe, you son of a bitch! You had one job. ONE. JOB.
Of course. Of course this happened.
I lay there, staring at Andreas’s open bedroom door, unable to move, because there are some scenarios in life where the only rational response is to stop, collaborate (with your conscious mind), and listen.
Obviously, I’d sleepwalked in here last night.
I was the invasive species. There was no way to blame this catastrophe on anyone but myself.
Or, if I was feeling generous, my treacherous subconscious.
Last night, I’d promised myself to not disrupt Andreas’s peaceful life, but apparently my sleep-brain had other plans. Squinting, I attempted to recall climbing into Andreas’s bed. I came up empty, as per usual.
Gritting my teeth, I refused to enjoy this feeling of being wrapped in his strong arms, in his big bed, surrounded by his lovely warmth and smell, and instead considered my options.
I could try to extricate myself and leave, hoping he wouldn’t bring it up later.
Conversely, I could simply lie here until he woke up, then apologize and embrace the awkward.
Third option, I could live here forever and become the world’s least interesting bedbug.
I decided to split the difference between options one and two. Leave now, embrace the awkward later. It was time for me to take responsibility for my actions—subconscious or otherwise—instead of always avoiding uncomfortable truths.
Slowly, carefully, I attempted a forward inch. Andreas’s breathing didn’t alter, but his arm tightened for a moment. I paused, held my breath, and then tried a more aggressive exit maneuver by rolling slowly toward the edge of the mattress.
He made a small sound and adjusted himself, giving me an opening. I escaped.
Once I stood, I saw his bed was a crime scene of harmony and geometry, sheets perfectly crisp and tidy except for the tiny Sam-shaped trench.
The sight made me irrationally angry. Who the heck maintained this level of orderliness in their sleep?
Was he a cyborg? Was there a nightly visit from a bed-making Roomba with opposable thumbs?
Tiptoeing out the door, careful not to disturb him or his supernatural sleep hygiene, I maintained my soundless footsteps until I reached my assigned bathroom.
There, I started my day as if nothing abnormal had occurred, refusing to look in the mirror longer than it took to brush my teeth.
The idea of confronting my own expression right now was too much.
Subconscious Sam is such a disappointment.
But I did take a shower, clearing my mind and focusing on the sensations.
The bath products were the same ones I’d left behind months ago, all luxury brands in minimalist packaging Andreas had bought me while in London.
Letting the familiarity sink in, I inhaled the steam and scents deep into my lungs, certain this would be the last time I got to enjoy this extravagance.
Unless, of course, I took the time to find and buy the products.
Knowing myself, I would never do that.
I toweled off and shuffled back to my old bedroom.
Ignoring the piles of beautiful clothes Andreas had purchased for me, I opened my suitcase and pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
I needed to draw the line somewhere. If I couldn’t stop myself from sleepwalking into his bedroom and sleeping in his embrace—just like old times—and using the delightful bath products—just like old times—I could at least eschew his superior taste in women’s apparel.
Boundaries. Weak boundaries. But boundaries nevertheless.
I checked my phone—no messages—and then, with resigned determination, headed out to face the music. The smell of brewing coffee was lovely and I followed it, steeling myself for the inevitable embarrassment of what was to come.
Andreas, already at the stove with his back to me, wore a fitted plain white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, both of which left little to the imagination regarding the glorious shape of his body beneath.
He looked less like the metrosexual, dashingly handsome strategic genius of my memory and more like an extremely sexy, fit, overgrown college student whose hair was still damp from a recent shower.
I also noticed his feet were bare. Where are his fussy pajamas or Euro-chic casual wear? Who has Americanized him?
He glanced over his shoulder. “Hi. Coffee is made, if you would like some.”
His voice was easy, casual. But I was distracted by the sight of him looking so informal that it took me a second to process his words. And . . . is he wearing underwear beneath those sweatpants? Because it certainly doesn’t look like it.
“Sam?” Andreas’s voice cut through my inappropriate contemplations and I realized I’d been openly ogling him.
“Hmm?” I pressed my lips together, fighting the blush threatening my neck and cheeks. “Pardon?”
The side of his mouth angled up. “Coffee?”
“Uh. Yes, please. I can get it for myself. Obviously.” I moved to the carafe and poured myself a cup, relishing the heat on my palms. I didn’t add anything—he always bought the good stuff—and anyway, my heart rate was already on a hair trigger. If I wanted cream, I’d have to move within his orbit.
As I took my first sip, he said, “I am so sorry.”
I blinked, then remembered the rules I’d set regarding the ten required apologies. This was number two. I felt a tiny, odd thrill of satisfaction, then tamped it down and focused on the fact that I also needed to say sorry for sleepwalking into his room last night.
He remained at the stove, attention fixed on whatever he whisked in a metal bowl, while I struggled with how to bring up my mistake and apologize for it.
I had hoped he would bring it up first. Then I could express my sincerest and most profound apologies.
I would then point out the obvious, which was that I should find somewhere else to sleep tonight since my unconscious couldn’t be trusted with him nearby.
Uncomfortable in the stretching silence, but not yet ready to broach the topic, I asked, “What are you making?”
“Eggs Benedict for you. Rice, black beans, and salad for me.”
“Why do you make me things you can’t eat?” I asked, genuinely curious. “I appreciate you making me breakfast, but why not just make one breakfast? I can eat rice, black beans, and salad.”
He kept his gaze on the stove, but his jaw tensed. “Just because I cannot eat something does not mean I do not enjoy watching you eat it.”