After I put the electric kettle on to boil, I follow Colin to where he’s snooping around.
“You remember this room, right?” I ask, slamming closed the closet he’s moving toward.
He glares at me for a moment before muttering, “Of course.”
“We’re keeping our clothes on this time,” I joke, knowing full well it’s only going to set him off.
With a scoff, he turns away and marches toward the door. “We’re not doing this, Declan.”
“Okay, okay, relax. It was a joke, Shelby. Just sit down.”
He pauses by the sofa and turns back to stare at me with a heavy sigh. To my surprise, he actually listens this time. Sitting on the chaise, his posture is stiff, and his face is flat and guarded. Nothing like the living, breathing man I once knew. The one who harbored so much curiosity and excitement for the world. Something has extinguished that since I saw him last.
My kettle beeps when it’s done boiling and I finish preparing the coffee in silence. I offer him a cup and he accepts it, so I prepare his like I know he once took it—with milk and lots of sugar. He seems touched that I remembered when I take it over to him.
Then I set mine on the table next to the easel where a fresh canvas waits. I hate to sketch on the easel, so I grab a charcoal and prop the canvas on my propped-up legs. Then, I rub my eyes and take in Colin’s position on the chaise.
“Sit back,” I say, slipping on an assertive tone with him that brings back a lot of memories.
He scoots to the back of the sofa without looking any more at ease.
“Relax, Colin.” I can tell that he tries, but he’s physicallyunable to. His shoulders slump unnaturally and his back rounds.
“Jesus, you’re an actor,” I tease.
“Yeah, well…this is different,” he says, looking painfully uncomfortable. And for the first time, I try to see things from his point of view. He was supposed to have a beautiful, uneventful wedding this week. Instead, he’s up in his ex–best friend’s attic, where we once had a very passionate lovemaking session followed by the fight of the century. None of this must be easy on him.
So I decide to take some pity and stand from my chair. I walk over to him and gently nudge him until he’s reclining against the arm. Then I put his elbow up on the side and lift his leg just a touch until he’s sitting in a more natural position.
When I delicately brush the hair from his forehead, I catch him staring up at me. My thumb leaves a trace of charcoal behind, so I rub at it gently. His warm gaze stays on my face. Being this close, I inhale the aroma of his aftershave and the familiar scent ofhim. It makes my mouth water and my heart pick up speed.
My attraction to Colin was always something I couldn’t quite explain. His body and his beauty have always drawn me to him, but it’s his personality and his character that were far more arousing to me. I knew from a young age that my attraction wasn’t restricted by gender, but with Colin, it was so much more than that.
It was the essence of being so close to him and knowing him better than anyone else. Watching him mature,corruptinghim, feeling his trust and his knowledge that no one would ever know my heart the way he did. These were the parts that truly brought out my sexual longing for him.
If I was the moon, he was the tides—in sync beyond reason. Connected in ways neither of us understood. He altered the chemistry of my brain, and no one would ever be as attractive to me after him.
His posture is much better now, but I stick around, making small adjustments just for the excuse to be able to touch him.When I move his shoulder just a tad back, I feel him lean into my hand, and I wonder briefly if it’s all in my head.
“Perfect,” I whisper before standing upright and forcing myself to go back to my seat. Picking up the canvas and charcoal, I shake away the dirty thoughts in my head. I can’t go back down that road with him, so I might as well forget it.
The room is thick with tension as I start sketching. I keep waiting for us to start fighting or for him to call me a selfish bastard or remind me of what I did wrong seven years ago, but we don’t. In fact, it grows perfectly comfortable after a while.
Colin melts into the chaise lounge and we lose track of time. Before I know it, it’s past two in the morning, and he rests his head on the couch once while I take a sip of my cold coffee, but his eyes close and he never picks it up again.
Instead of waking him, I set the canvas and pencil down on the table and walk over to where he’s sleeping. I grab a blanket from the end of the sofa and drape it over his body. For too long I stand there and stare down at him.
It’s stupid of me, but I let myself miss him. I reminisce on the good days and even the excellent days. The way he’d smile and the way it felt to know I was the one who made him do it.
Mostly, I miss loving Colin. Because when I let myself love him, my heart was in use. That dusty, nearly broken, battered old organ of mine actually beat when Colin was in my life.
And even I know deep down, he was always more than a friend.
Not to say he was my lover or my boyfriend. More than that. What we were was special. What we had was bigger than life itself.
I lost track of who ruined it. Was it him for meddling with a good thing? Or was it me for not having more to give? I’m not sure. But it feels cruel to have him here now, a merciless reminder of how perfect I once had it.
Now he’s tainted the idea of being alone. He’s filled my head with memories of how wonderful it could be to love someone.
