24. Sustainable Pleasure
SUSTAINABLE PLEASURE
Leighton
Great. Just great. My once-again roomies have commandeered the living room for a public therapy session.
Indigo stands with her hands clasped to her chest, her long braid trailing down her back. “I am feeling frustrated,” she says in a calm, measured tone, “because I reminded you this morning to move the bamboo out of Leighton’s room. It upsets me that you didn’t do it.”
Ezra hangs his head low, his man bun drooping in solidarity. Even his beard looks defeated.
“It’s okay. We can move the bamboo,” I offer, trying to sidestep the roomie drama on night one. I really just want the bamboo out of my room. Miles is in there, setting down grocery bags.
Indigo lifts a hand in a regal stop gesture. “Thank you, Leighton. But Ezra needs to honor my feelings about this.”
My head spins. Too much honoring happening.
Ezra pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose—they’re for show; I know he doesn’t need them. He looks up at Indigo, and I expect him to cave. Instead, he says, “I should have moved them, Indigo. But I was frustrated about the kombucha top left on the counter. I felt defiant and acted out.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I do not need this confessional nonsense.
Apparently, neither does Miles. He strides out of my room, hauling the bamboo like a lumberjack with a stack of wood, his jaw set in that calm, no-nonsense way. “Where do you want this—couch, floor, or table?”
Indigo startles. “Um…”
“The table, man,” Ezra says, brightening. “Sweet! That would have taken me half an hour.”
“Because you get distracted by your folk music station every time you do chores,” Indigo snaps.
“Oh, now you’re mocking my music? Pretty sure you were the one who asked me to blast it the other night in bed.”
And the gloves are off.
She gasps. “Ezra! Use your ‘I feel’ words.”
What a great idea. “I feel like it’s time to set up my room,” I interject, darting past them.
Miles grabs two more of my grocery bags from the foyer, then follows, shutting the door behind him with a necessary finality. He sets the bags down by the door and leans his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. “Good call on escaping the folk music and kombucha detente.”
The chaos of the living room is replaced with the quiet clutter of my room, my life scattered in suitcases and bags. I breathe easier, but the space feels smaller with Miles here.
And it’s not a bad sort of small. But it is a tempting sort of small. I need to be careful with him so close. I need to remember the friendship plan. “It’s always a good idea to escape them,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, they’re fun,” he says, taking in my room with its futon, scratched-up bureau and not just secondhand, but fourth-hand chair that was passed on from a friend of a friend of a friend.
“Evidently they’ve moved from fucking it out to therapying it out,” I mutter, glancing at the door. “Let’s put on music so they can’t hear us talk about them.”
“Good idea,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What do you like?”
I shrug, my chest tightening. “Honestly, anything. Well, not folk music.”
“Heard. But seriously—any artists you’re into?”
I wince. “I’m not a big music person.”
He tilts his head, his expression softening. “Do you dislike it, or…does it distract you from hearing?”
I relax, but only somewhat. It’s a relief that he’s naturally curious and doesn’t cringe, but it’s still uncomfortable to talk about this with anyone outside family or close friends.
Honestly, I don’t even love talking about it with my girlfriends.
It makes me feel even more vulnerable than I already am with the hearing loss.
But Miles is so earnest and patient, so I give him the truth. “Yeah, it’s that. I don’t listen to music much while I’m out and about because I’m afraid I’ll miss something important. Same at home, I guess. It’s silly.”
He nods, thoughtful. “It’s not silly. Not one bit.
I get it.” He touches the arms of his glasses.
“Sometimes when I go to bed at night, my mind wanders to what if I need to see—really see well—in the middle of the night. That’s why I never wore glasses when I was a teenager and lived at home. Just contacts all the time.”
The tension in my chest unknots somewhat, replaced by something like empathy. “Because…you wanted to be able to look out for your brother and sister if you had to?”
“And my mom,” he adds.
My heart softens and pulls toward him.
“I’m not saying it’s the same,” he quickly clarifies. “I know they’re different senses. I just…I want you to know that I want to understand…you. That I like understanding you.” He pauses, then like he has to say it, adds, “As a friend.”
My heart thumps hard, my throat thick with emotion. “I don’t listen to anything when I walk around the city,” I say, and it is an admission.
His lips curve into a soft grin. “I was wondering the other day if you did.”
“Yeah?” I ask, wanting to kiss that grin. To touch the corner of his mouth. To run a hand over his stubble.
“It had occurred to me.”
“Now you know,” I say, and it feels safe to tell him. Like my vulnerability doesn’t make me weaker.
“I’m glad you told me,” he says, then cocks his head, studying me. “What if we don’t listen to music? What if we listen to ocean sounds or birds or something? Would that help?”
No one in the entire world has ever suggested anything like that. Maybe because I haven’t given anyone the chance. But he took the opportunity. “How about rainfall?”
His smile grows wider. “You speak to my Seattle soul.”
“You really do like the rain?”
“Fucking love it. Rain is a beautiful thing.”
I picture him in Seattle—no umbrella, a cup of coffee in hand, Nirvana playing in his headphones, impervious to the drops of water the Washington sky flings on him. It fits him so perfectly it makes me smile. “Do you like Nirvana?”
He scoffs. “Do you like shiny things?”
I gasp, mock affronted. “Miles Falcon! How dare you!”
“How dare I figure you out already?” He smirks, moving closer. Lifting a hand, he lightly brushes my flower earrings, then my bracelets, and finally glances down at the anklet he gave me. I shiver from the dusting of his fingertips.
I feel almost…marked by his touch. It’s a heady sensation.
“Yes,” I say, primly.
“Get used to it, friend. I’m very observant,” he says, queuing up rainfall sounds on his phone. The gentle patter fills the room, soft and private.
“Is this bickering new for them?” he asks, nodding toward the door.
“They’ve always been…talky. But yeah, this public therapy phase is new.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And it’s still going on.”
Oh. “I hadn’t realized,” I say, swallowing, my cheeks warming with some embarrassment. “Sorry you have to hear it.”
His smile is soft, full of understanding. “It’s all good. The rain covers it up. Another reason I like rain.”
And I appreciate so much that he didn’t try to make me feel better about missing what they’re saying. I appreciate that he’s not making a thing out of it. “Agreed.” I grab a fitted sheet to toss onto the futon, then wrinkle my nose. “Does my room smell like beard oil? Like tobacco and pepper?”
Miles sniffs the air. “A little, now that you say that. Also, that’s specific.”
“I have a good nose,” I say, offhand.
“I’m impressed.”
“Eagle eyes and a bloodhound nose to make up for what I lack,” I say.
He gives me a soft smile. “I’ll have to make sure I smell extra good around you.”
I lift a playful brow. “News flash: you do.” But so I don’t get caught up in flirting, I quickly add, “Anyway, when I was at Maeve’s place, they sublet to a guy who made small-batch beard oil.”
“Of course they did.”
“Same circles,” I say.
He smirks. “Figured as much.”
Miles shifts to help me pull the sheet tighter on one corner of the futon. As we make the bed, it strikes me—he’s already done so much for me today. I don’t want him to feel obligated to hang around.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say, catching his gaze across the bed.
He shoots me a look, his hands still resting on the edge of the futon. “Have you met me?”
I laugh. “Yes, Mister Determination. Do you always get what you want?”
“When it’s important,” he says, straightening up, his voice soft but firm. “Besides, if memory serves, we’re having pizza. Artichoke hearts, right?”
I laugh harder. “I thought your Lyft services were your housewarming gift.”
“Turns out I’m giving you two housewarming gifts.”
“Fine. But I’m paying.”
“Not a chance. It’s a housewarming gift, Leighton.”
“Then I’m providing the wine,” I say.
“I feel good about that.”
The sound of rain muffles our laughter, and I’m suddenly keenly aware of the ease between us.
It’s dangerous. Too tempting. As if we could fall onto my bed, like a couple, enraptured by laughter, then turn to each other and kiss like it’s all we’ve wanted to do all day.
Will it always feel like this? With him both so safe and so dangerous at the same time?
I clench my fists once, twice, to try to ignore the desire swirling in me.
As we finish with the futon, Miles grabs his phone and asks me a few more pizza questions. When he finishes ordering the food, his attention seems to snag on something beneath the chair. He crosses the room, rummages around, and pulls it out, holding it up to the light.
Something long. Pink. Silicone.
I slap a hand to my face. “Oh no.”
He dangles the dildo between two fingers, looking amused. “Yours?”
“God, no,” I groan, grabbing an old T-shirt of mine to wrap it up. Marching to the living room, I interrupt Indigo mid-sentence as she says to Ezra, “Is it hard to listen to my feelings?”
Girl, it’s hard for me. “Here. This is either beard oil guy’s or…”
Indigo snatches it from me, her eyes flaring. Like she’s going to lash into Ezra. But then her expression softens. Instead, her gray eyes twinkle, and she whispers reverently, “This one is my favorite.”
“Mine too,” Ezra says.
“I thought it was missing,” she whispers.
“It’s a sign. It’s come home to us,” Ezra agrees.