Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
We were still engaged in easy conversation when we arrived at my building, so it didn’t actually occur to me to bid Quinn goodnight at the door.
We spoke about his upcoming business trip to New York planned for later that week, which naturally brought up the fact that Gotham City is based on New York City.
We then talked about our favorite cities, both real and fictional.
However, once we were climbing the stairs to the small apartment I shared with Elizabeth, I felt a little flutter of nervousness at the passive invitation I’d offered.
Quinn was coming upstairs. We were going upstairs together.
I felt I should warn him that the place was small and my belongings were haphazardly strewn about and not at all organized. I wanted to explain that I was currently sleeping on the Ikea pullout couch/futon in the center of the living space, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.
I also wanted to tell him that I wasn’t going to be his slamp, and even though mind-blowing sex with him sounded very tempting, I was pretty certain I wanted a non-Wendell man, even if the sex would be just lukewarmly mind-blowing.
Scarlet heat consumed my face with each step up the stairs, and our conversation lulled as I approached my door.
“So,” he said.
I stopped abruptly in front of the door, turned to face him, and gave him a tight-lipped smile. He leaned against the doorframe leisurely, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and allowed his eyes to blaze an unhurried trail over my face.
“So,” he repeated. He looked calm, confident, and confoundedly sexy.
“So…” I sighed, then pulled my gaze away from his, and glanced at the keys in my hands. “Listen, I—I had fun tonight. You—you’re good to talk to, and I had a nice time, but I would like to pay you for my dinner.”
His hands came up between us. “Janie, no keeping score, remember?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a date and I know it wasn’t a date and I understand that you don’t date and I’d like to be friends with you, but—”
“You want to be friends with me?” His voice sounded a little dark, perplexed.
“Yes.” I lifted my eyes to his, but only briefly.
His expression matched his tone. I sighed.
“Listen—you should…um, you should come in so we can talk about…” I turned to the door and unlocked it with slightly shaky hands.
The earlier scarlet heat turned into an inferno as I struggled with the lock.
“We can talk about labels and Wendell and dinner and slamps and—oh thank God.” The door opened and I launched myself inside, calling behind me, “Come in—come in. I’ll make some coffee. ”
I flipped on the light in the hall and turned on every light on my way to the kitchen.
I heard the closing of the door and hesitant footsteps behind me.
I rushed through the process of boiling water and scooping the already ground beans into the French press.
When everything was prepared, I walked to the couch—my bed—and noticed that Quinn’s jacket draped across one corner of it.
The sight did strange things to my stomach, and I’m not going to lie, to my lady bits. They may have clenched.
I hurriedly took my jacket off, almost sweating by this point, and tossed it on top of his.
He was walking slowly around the small space, glancing at the bookshelves that contained my comic books and Elizabeth’s record collection.
He took out a Backstreet Boys LP and turned to me with a questioning frown.
I laughed lightly. “Oh, that’s Elizabeth’s. I live with my friend Elizabeth; you met her at that bar the night you…um, well this is her place, and I’m just crashing here—on the couch, actually—until we find a new place big enough for both of us.”
His eyes drifted to the couch as he replaced the record. I tucked my hair behind my ears and cleared my throat. It was strange having him in the apartment.
Admittedly, I was just a transient visitor, and the décor and style represented nothing of me; even so, I felt like he didn’t belong here, in my life.
It was as if he was surrounded by an otherworldly glow that filled the diminutive space and cast everything but him in shadow, including me.
He was too big, too handsome, and too graceful.
He didn’t fit in our small, inadequate world.
The thought made me sad, and I firmed my bottom lip with resolve.
His eyes met mine just at that moment, and he frowned at my expression.
Holding my gaze, he crossed to me and I crossed my arms over my chest. He seemed to hesitate at the movement but continued his approach nonetheless, and stopped just two feet from me.
Silence stretched as his gaze moved over my face; at length he spoke. “Who is Wendell?”
I blinked, startled. “Wendell?”
“You said you wanted to talk about labels, dinner, and Wendell.”
“Oh, yes. Wendell.” I turned, picked up our jackets, and placed them on the arm of the futon; then I sat with my legs tucked under me and my arm draped along the back of the couch. “Please—have a seat.”
He sat with one of his legs under him so that our knees touched and his arm covered mine; his large hand rested on my elbow, and I focused on my breathing.
“So, who is Wendell?”
I nodded, biting my lip, not really sure how to have this conversation without putting all my oddities on display. As usual, the mouth started moving before the brain could send up a warning flare.
“You are Wendell. Or, rather, you are a Wendell and I can’t be a slamp, so what I’d like to do is talk to you about dinner and labels.”
One of his eyebrows rose and I felt him stiffen; his mouth opened as though he were going to interrupt me, but I, having said this much, gathered my courage and continued with loud urgency.
“The thing is—I like you. I like you a lot, and I’ve really only known you for a few short weeks—less than a month—but you are very likeable.
I’d like to be your friend because I appreciate your honesty about being a Wendell.
Therefore, I would like to have dinner with you—not a date—but I think the label applied to our dinner should be friendship and not Wendell-slash-slamp, because I don’t think I’m up for that.
But I understand if you aren’t interested in being my friend, especially since you’re already juggling a heavy load of slamps.
I’d be disappointed, but I would understand. ”
I felt him relax slightly through my tirade; then tense; then relax. His eyes were watchful. He leaned closer and asked, “Ok, first, what is a Wendell?”
“A Wendell is a guy…” I gestured to him.
“In this situation, you are the Wendell—a guy who is very…nice…looking and also very…” I couldn’t look at him, so I picked a spot on my skirt and studied it.
“A Wendell is very adept and/or talented in certain areas that are related to adult…bedroom activities and who also has a large selection of female companions for the aforementioned adult bedroom activities from which to choose on any given occasion.”
My eyes flickered to his face and found him watching me with a confounded smile, obviously enjoying my discomfort. He cleared his throat. “Janie, just say it.”
I sighed and suddenly wanted to hold his hand, likely because I was pretty sure it would be the last time I did so.
I entwined my fingers with his and squeezed.
I looked at him straight in the eye and immediately felt my resolve weaken, but I plowed ahead.
“Fine; a Wendell is a man who is extremely good looking and who is great in bed. Wendells do not have exclusive relationships— i.e. they do not date, but rather hook up with many women. I have no judgment for Wendells; in fact, I applaud their stamina and ability to provide excellent service to so many women. It seems like a very efficient and generous use of resources. However,” I took a deep breath and swallowed, looking down at our fingers like a coward, “However, despite how equitable an arrangement that might be, I am not interested in non-dating a Wendell. Since you are, in fact, a Wendell, I think that I would be more comfortable if you and I could agree to the label of friends, not kissing friends or Wendell-slamp friends; just regular friends.”
Again, silence stretched. I felt his gaze on me, heard him sigh, and then he asked, “Will you please look at me?”
I lifted my eyes to his. He didn’t look relieved, annoyed, or angry like I feared.
Rather, he looked contemplative and uneasy.
He paused before speaking, and I thought I saw a flash of pain pass behind his eyes, but it was either imagined or hidden instantly.
“I’m not used to this, so you’ll have to give me a little bit of time to… to adjust,” he said quietly.
“You can take as much time as you need.” I offered this reassurance bravely, half-heartedly attempting to pull my fingers from his. The attempt was unsuccessful; he tightened his grip.
“I don’t want…” He sighed heavily again and closed his eyes briefly, and then he met mine again with renewed composure. “I appreciate your honesty.”
I chewed on my bottom lip and waited; when he didn’t continue, my eyes widened in confusion. “Wait. That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”
I drew in a breath and instinctively looked around the apartment for what I was missing. “I’m confused.”
“What confuses you?”
“Are we- did you- did you just agree to the label of friendship?”
“No.”
I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, and then I licked my very dry lips. “Then what label are we going to use?”
His gaze lowered to my mouth; he lifted the hand resting on my elbow to my hair and pushed a mass of curls over my shoulder, his long fingers lingering on my neck. “We aren’t going to use a label.”