Chapter 10 #2
I look at the spot I left on the couch. I want to sit down again, but that would mean sitting right next to him. I pace the room, then sit back down where I was before. My knee bumps his briefly as I settle into my seat. He doesn’t bother to move to make more room for me.
“Did Ryan bring the ring back yet?” I ask. I look down at my hands, playing with the seam on the pillow that I threw at him before.
“Not yet. Since I stayed late at school, he’s not coming until tomorrow morning.”
I nod, thinking. “We need to come up with a plan.”
“Something big, right?”
“That’s what Tina’s doing. Think flash mob and fireworks.”
He bites his lip. “How about a marching band?”
My eyes go wide. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me when he first mentioned he was a band teacher that we could use his band to our advantage. “Do you think you could get your students to do that?”
He shrugs. “They’ll do anything for a little extra credit and an excuse to play their instruments in public.”
I sit up straight so that I’m facing him on the couch. I pull my feet up underneath me. “This is perfect. We could find a way to coordinate your band with Tina’s flash mob.”
“If Ryan says yes to all this,” he reminds me.
“He can’t say no. Why would he?”
He shrugs. “It is his proposal. He might want to do all the planning himself.”
“Right.” I pull my lower lip into my mouth and chew on it. Oliver’s eyes lower to my mouth. I become overly conscious of what I’m doing. I let go of my lip and clear my throat, turning forward so that I’m not facing him anymore.
“If this is going to work, I’m going to need to know everything that you’re planning for Tina so that we can coordinate,” he says.
“Get Ryan to agree to let you be more involved, and then I’ll tell you everything,” I say. “Maybe we can meet with the choreographer together.”
“Tina and Ryan can’t know that we’re working together,” he says.
“Absolutely not,” I agree. It occurs to me that we’ve been having a civil conversation since I got here. Neither of us have tried to rip the other’s head off—unless you count the throwing of the couch pillow.
We talk more about the plan and come up with ideas for how we can make it work.
Oliver talks about what he plans to say to Ryan to get him to agree.
Before I know it, it’s late and I’m yawning.
I should probably go, but I’m invested in the conversation and I’m not ready to leave.
I wrap my arms around the pillow and settle into the couch.
My foot slides out a bit and bumps Oliver’s leg.
I look down at it, but I don’t move. When I look back up at him, his gaze is moving from my foot back up to my face.
I wait for him to make a comment about it, or demand that I get my foot off him, but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s because we called a truce.
He grabs onto my ankle, and I think that he’s pushing my foot off, but instead, he pulls my leg into his lap.
His hands close around my leg, and then his fingers begin kneading into the muscle of my calf.
It feels… surprisingly good. Neither of us says anything for a minute.
I watch him, but he keeps his focus on my leg as he continues to massage it.
I’ve spent so much time hating him, I didn’t know he was capable of doing something that could make me feel good.
For once, I feel relaxed. A little too relaxed. I snuggle the pillow a little closer and allow myself to yawn. And then I fall asleep.
I wake up in a panic a while later. For a moment, I forget where I am.
This isn’t my bed, and it’s definitely not my couch.
The room is pitch-black and quiet except for the humming of Oliver’s refrigerator in the other room.
I’m lying on his couch, the pillow wedged between me and the back of the couch.
There’s a soft blanket draped over me. I don’t remember seeing it before.
I slide my feet across the couch, feeling for Oliver, but I’m all alone.
I’m surprised he didn’t wake me up and kick me out.
I feel around for the lamp I remember seeing next to the couch.
I turn it on. I find my phone a moment later.
I check the time. It’s almost four in the morning.
I can’t believe I slept so long on Oliver’s couch, when just the night before I had trouble sleeping in my own bed.
I stand up and wander into his kitchen. I open cabinets until I find a glass, then I fill it with water from the refrigerator.
I take a long drink, then head back to the living room.
I wonder if it would be weird to leave in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.
I decide that me sleeping on his couch is already weird enough and I should probably go.
I start to reach for my handbag when I hear a sound coming from a room in the hallway. A door creaks open.
I don’t know what comes over me, but instead of staying where I am like a normal person, I dive for the couch, turn off the lamp as fast as I can, and throw the blanket back over myself. I close my eyes, pretending to be asleep.
I can hear footsteps against the carpet as Oliver reaches the living room.
“Priscilla?” he whispers. “Are you awake?”
I’m quiet for a moment, and then I let out a groggy-sounding “hmm?” that’s even convincing to myself.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought I heard you in the kitchen.”
If he turns on the lights, I’m sure he’ll see the glass I left on the counter and then he’ll realize I’m fake-sleeping.
“It was probably a burglar,” I mumble.
I sit up and turn on the lamp. Oliver is wearing a white T-shirt and dark blue boxer shorts.
My eyes lock onto his legs. I pull my gaze away, but it lands on his boxers.
This isn’t any better. It’s just like the other morning when I picked him up on the way to Tina’s.
I wonder if this is what he sleeps in or if he threw on the shirt to be modest. I picture him in his bed, wearing only his boxer shorts, his strong arms wrapped around a pillow.
And then I picture myself there instead of the pillow.
My face flushes. I don’t know why my thoughts are wandering in this direction.
I rip my eyes away from his underwear and look down at my feet instead. “Why’d you let me fall asleep?”
He shrugs. “You were tired and you looked cozy. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Now I’m tired and embarrassed.” I yawn. “I should go.” I stand up and start to head for my shoes.
“You don’t have to go,” he says. I stop and look up at him. He clears his throat. “I mean, it’s the middle of the night. It’s dark out and you’re tired. You should get a few more hours of sleep and leave in the morning.”
I know that he’s right. I probably shouldn’t drive when I’m this tired. I look back down at the couch. It looks inviting.
“You can take my bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep out here.”
“What? No. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Really, I don’t mind. Take the bed.” He gestures to the hallway where he came from.
“Nonsense. I’ll take the couch.”
I step toward the couch, but before I can lie down, Oliver leans over and grabs the blanket and pillow I was using. I stop and frown at him.
“You won’t be very comfortable without these,” he says.
“Seriously?”
He nods. I grab the blanket to pull it away from him, but he doesn’t let go.
I tug on it, but he’s stronger than me, and I only succeed at tugging myself closer to him.
He pulls the blanket back with a little more force than I anticipate.
I stumble forward and bump against his chest. I stop pulling for a moment and so does he.
I can’t bring myself to look up at his face, so my eyes settle on his chest. I can see the subtle thump of his heart through his shirt.
Time seems to stop for a moment. If it weren’t for his visible heartbeat and my racing thoughts, I might think that we’ve found a glitch in the universe and time has frozen altogether.
I watch the steady beat for a moment, and then I tighten my grip on the blanket and pull as hard as I can.
He isn’t expecting it this time, and I get the blanket away from him.
I laugh at him and do a little victory twirl, swinging the blanket over my head. He watches me, an amused smile on his face.
When I stop, he takes a slow step toward me. There’s something about the way he moves that keeps me from fighting him when he takes the blanket away from me this time. My own heartrate kicks up a notch. I wonder if he can see it.
“Priscilla,” he says. His tone of voice has changed, too. I’m not sure what it is, but it makes me feel inclined to do whatever it is that he asks of me. “Go to my room.”
I nod. I try to say, “Okay,” but I can’t seem to find my voice and it comes out in a whisper.
I leave him behind in the living room and head to his bedroom. When I get there, I wait a minute before I close the door behind myself. His bed is unmade, which makes sense because he was just sleeping in it. I turn off the light and climb under his covers. The pillows smell like him.
I close my eyes and breathe in his scent.
I must be half asleep and delirious. He must have toxic fumes spewing through the vents in his house, messing with my brain and giving me thoughts I would never have if I were in my right mind.
It’s the only logical explanation, because the last thought I have before I fall asleep is that I wish he had followed me in here.