Elliot
The next two days pass by in one of those blurs that are difficult to describe. Like when you get in your car and start driving—one minute, you’re pulling out onto the road and the next, you’re sitting in your driveway. You know you drove home, but you have no memory of how you managed to do so safely because you weren’t paying attention.
I know I practiced, I know I played football. I know I kicked two field goals and I know I did post-game press with our special teams coordinator.
Or at least, my body did all of those things. My mind was back there in my bedroom, watching Alex through my phone and itching to reach out and touch him.
We haven’t had much time to catch up since Friday night, but I did shoot him a text this morning asking if I could come over to his place tonight so we could finally talk. So here I am, thighs burning from the uphill trek to Alex’s front door, a take-out bag full of sushi in my hand, and I’m too damn chicken-shit to knock on the door.
Alex gave me the time I asked for to think, but I’m still unsure of my answer.
What am I supposed to say?
Ican’t stop thinking about the noises you make when you come.
Iwant to kiss you so badly that my lips tingle constantly.
Ineed you to keep things casual between us because if you so much as look at me with a hint of hearts in your eyes, I will fall so head over heels in love with you and my life will be ruined.
None of those sound great, but standing out here in the cold is doing me no good.
Just as I lift my fist to knock, the door comes flying open and Alex is there on the other side.
“I’m sorry, dude, but you were giving me anxiety just standing out here like a sentient gargoyle. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
Fuck me, but he looks incredible. Bare feet, black basketball shorts that show off his muscled calvesand leave little to the imagination in the groin department, a threadbare Boston Hockey tee fit snug against his chest and in his hair, one of those puffy pink headbands people use to hold their hair back while they do their makeup.
He’s so pretty, it makes me want to cry.
“How’d you know I was here?”
He reaches past the door frame and taps on a small, dark gray box I hadn’t noticed.
Ah, the doorbell camera. Duh.
“Stalker,” I mutter.
“You like it,” he sasses, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me into his apartment and straight into the living room.
This is the first time I’ve seen the inside of Alex’s place beyond the background views I get when we’ve FaceTimed, and I’m not surprised to see that it's just as wild and colorful as he is. It's clean but lived-in with blankets strewn about, an open package of cookies on the coffee table next to a handheld gaming console, a few paperback books, and what looks like three different abandoned yarn projects—some embroidery, crochet, and a bunch of stuffing. There’s a yellow couch, a zebra print rug, and a green accent chair that is so bright, I almost don’t notice Franny the fanny pack laying on the seat. The TVmounted to the wall is on mute, but the screen shows one of those ambient, autumn afternoon scenes complete with falling leaves and a perfect golden hour sunset on a lake. It smells like pumpkins and cinnamon and feels so perfectly Alex.
“I didn’t know you were a…crocheter? Knitter? Yarn person? You’ve got a lot of craft stuff here.”
He chuckles, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“Eh, that’s because I’m not great at it. I’ve managed to crochet a couple of uneven scarves and that’s it. Mostly, my projects are just a clusterfuck and I donate all of my jagged finished pieces to the local animal shelter to be used as blankets. But crochet, knitting, embroidery—they’re all good for finger dexterity, which is good for hand strength, which keeps me good at my job. Sorry you have to see my mess of abandoned fiber art work.”
“I love your place, Goat. It feels so homey here. I never bothered decorating when I moved into my house and eventually, Mom got sick of looking at empty white walls any time she visited. She hired an interior designer who came in and whipped everything into shape. It all looks really nice, but now the place feels like the inside of an issue of Architectural Digest. But this? This feels like you.”
Alex tilts his head, looking me up and down until those cute little crinkles form by his eyes and his lips tip up into a smile.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you El?”
I huff out a laugh, running my hand over the back of my neck.
“How can you tell?”
“Because you sound like me, all rambly and messy. I know you didn’t come here to talk about interior design, and even if you did, I could barely hear you over the sound of that plastic bag in your hand because you’re shaking so much.” He grabs the offending take out bag from my hand and places a warm hand on my chest, gently nudging me towards the couch. “Go sit down. I’ll take care of the food, and then we’ll talk.”
