Sure, there was a time when I would’ve laid on a mud puddle to keep her from having to walk through it.
So what if I remember how she used to take notes with a multicolored pen, then became distracted, and drew flowers in the margins?
We are adults now. Adults whose only reason for being in one another’s lives is to help each other out.
Friends for the time, not for the road.
CHAPTER 17
Klein
“Your place is nice,”Paisley murmurs as she noses through my book collection. Her neck bends awkwardly to read a book title.
Bookshelves line one wall of my living room. Paisley walks its length, her fingertips running over spines, pulling one out here and there to inspect the cover.
I wasn’t expecting company, but I’m a tidy guy. A surprise visit to my home doesn’t induce panic. I vacuum my floors, clean the dishes before they smell bad, and dust semi-regularly. I even own a throw blanket, of sorts. It’s a quilt sewn by my grandmother and great aunt, and I never throw it because it’s precious.
Despite knowing I’m a clean and otherwise socially acceptable man, Paisley perusing my shelves incites a nervous excitement. For every book spine she runs a finger down, a corresponding thrill shoots down my own.
I like her in my space. My home. Watching her learn me, my book preferences, puts a squeeze to my heart. Those red pants she wears only magnify her presence.They do things to her backside that make it hard to look away from. She walked ahead of me up the stairs to my apartment, and I missed a step and narrowly avoided a fall that would’ve made it onto my list of top five most embarrassing moments.
Paisley looks over at me, a Stephen King book in her grasp. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”
Her question is perfectly innocent, even expected given where she’s standing and what’s in her hand. She could never know how painful the answer is.
In a book, backstory is meted out, dropped like morsels along a path. A little something to introduce what made the character who they are in the present. It’s never dumped on a reader like a deluge of cold water.
Hidden backstory is what the writer knows about the character, but never shares. As of this moment, I have no plans to share with Paisley the emotional pain I endured on my way to becoming a writer. Like every other time I’ve been asked this question, I deliver the sanitized version.
“My mom read to me when I was a kid. Big books, with even bigger words. I kept a dictionary next to my bed so I could look up the meanings. She instilled in me a love for story, and”—cue the shrug—“the rest is history.”
Paisley likes my response, if her smile and hand over her heart are any indication. “That’s sweet.”
If I filled out the story, gave it sinew and marrow and muscle, she wouldn’t find it sweet. And though I have no intention of doing so, in my chest is an odd ache to tell her.
No way.
I thumb at my bedroom, saying, “I’m going to take a quick shower,” and hightail it from the room.
When I finish cleaning myself up and return, I find Paisley draped across my favorite chair.
It’s deep, the cushions thick, and the right height to accommodate me. Paisley appears to have been swallowed by it, compensating for the size difference by sitting in it sideways. Her legs dangle off the arm of the chair, feet bare and shoes lying haphazardly on the floor below her. Her head leans back on the opposite arm, a book poised in the air.
She looks like a poem, a painting, maybe even the subject of an aspiring author’s fantasy.
“Hey,” I say gruffly, walking away so she doesn’t catch me adjusting the front of my jeans. “What do you think about staying here and ordering dinner in?”
Behind me I hear the sounds of Paisley closing the book, climbing up off the chair. “Hmm,” she says, “what do you have in your fridge?”
I’m turned away from her in the small kitchen, squeezing my eyes shut and willing my erection to play nice. At least I chose jeans instead of the more comfortable option.Sweats.Those don’t hide a damn thing.
Paisley’s voice grows louder and louder behind me, until I know she’s only a few feet away. Not turning around now would seem rude. I take a deep breath, focusing on keeping my shoulders from moving so she doesn’t know what I’m doing, and turn around slowly.
Paisley is staring at me with curiosity, her gaze strong and clear, and I can tell by the look in her eyes she’s trying to work through the odd behavior I’m presenting.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod quickly, trying and failing at the attempt not to enjoy what has already become a little inside joke.
