Pathetically, I immediately wonder if Mike is doing okay. That’s my first fucking thought, a learned behavior with two years of reinforcement. Where is he going to live? How is he going to afford rent? Will he remember the doctor’s appointment I made for him next month? He needs his flu shot—stopLina, he’s afucking grown-ass man, for fuck’s sake?—
However.
The bathroom occupant opens the door, and any thought of Mike, really any coherent thought at all, entirely ceases.
Because this? Nowthisis a fucking grown-ass man.
He shuts off the lights and the fan, leaving us in complete silence, his body illuminated from the ambient daylight streaming in from the windows. I’m unsure, but I believe to be having what is known as an out-of-body experience while taking in this grown-ass, fine-ass specimen of a man—tall, long, masculine torso lean with muscle under a fitted black t-shirt, skin glowing a gorgeous golden brown. Thick, dark, floppy hair pushed back from his face. Dark eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes, pillowy lips in direct contrast with the sharp angles of his clean-shaven face, his cheekbones, his jaw.
Both arms are corded and ropy and completely covered in full sleeves of tattoos—beautiful, consistent, intricate tribal looking patterns that bring cultural significance to mind rather than bad nineties trends.
Gravityis the first word that pops unbidden into my static-filled brain. He has a gravity about him, dense and all-consuming, like a black hole.
Delicious, is the next thought my sex-deprived ass has about this manna sent from heaven and/or hell.
He smiles at me inquisitively, likely wondering why I’m about to drop to my knees or why my mouth is hanging open and my tongue is all but dangling out of my mouth, ready to receive him. His face is meant for smiling, like it’s his natural state, the corners of his mouth and eyes settling into well-worn lines.
Damn. This warmth, it’s a delicious addition to the whole tall, dark, handsome, tattooed thing he has going on?—
Oh, hell no.
Nope.
He steps out into the hallway and towards me. “Hey?” he asks, half greeting, half question, and Ireallywish he didn’t open his mouth and give me his hot-ass voice, tranquil and strong, or step so close to me that I could smell his body wash and laundry detergent, but it’s the scent of that detergent that snaps me out of it.There’s no way this man does his own laundry, Lina; run.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, swerving around him, barreling into the bathroom and slamming the door on his tall, dark, handsome, tattooed self.
* * *
“Everything okay?” Oliver asks, when I finally stop hiding in the bathroom and rejoin the group outside.
“Everything is terrible,” I assure him. It’s a struggle not to ask him who the man from the bathroom was, even if theluxury yachtanalogy is starting to sound real good right now.
I catch his movement in the yard—it’s impossible not to, because he stands a head taller than most of the people around him—and I make sure to move so that the bodies of at least twenty family friends/cousins/titos block my vision. We make eye contact anyway, somehow. Once, for several seconds, putting the ‘fuck’ in ‘eye-fuck,’ before the beginning of that damn smile builds on his face, before I shift my eyes away and angle my body so that my back is to him.
“—anyway, moral of the story is that Shangela ate and then shat on her corpse, and that’s my personal favorite Lip Sync For Your Life,” Emmanuel finishes.
Nick nods solemnly.
“Wow,” Elias says, with absolute sincerity. He looks down at Mia, who is still glued to his side. “Can we start watching when we get home?”
“Please live-text me your reactions,” Emmanuel asks.
“How was your school year this year?” Oliver changes the subject. “Georgia’s told me some stuff, but how was it for you all?”
“It wasawesome,” Elias says, because he’s escaped the clutches of the New York City Department of Education.
“We’d be annoyed with you if your Sherlock Holmes bit didn’t lead to Courtney Thomas being fired,” Georgia tells him, referring to Courtney Thomas, the principal hired at PS 2 after Oliver left and the absolute worst principal PS 2 had ever had.
I shrug. “It was fine.”
Everyone except Oliver whirls around and glares at me.
“What?” I demand to know.
“You had the worst year out of all of us,” Emmanuel points out.
“No—”
