When I wiggle my face further into the pillow, it shifts again and is considerably warmer than expected.
Wait.
I let my eyes blink open and then shut them almost immediately.
No, I didn’t just do this.
I didn’t—
We’re notcuddling.
My pillow, Eloise, shifts again, scooting closer and kicking a leg towards me, wrapping around my hips and tugging me close.
It’s, it’s…oh.
Do I like this?Frank was never a cuddler. When he spooned me, it was nice, but there was always something else attached, expected. This… I know there’s nothing else expected because we’re just… friends.
We’re friends.
Well, if we’re friends, why does my heart feel like it’s going to fly out of my chest? Am I allowed to bask in this warmth and this— what is this feeling? Safety? Comfort? I shouldn’t though; this will ruin our relationship. We’re just becoming friends, and I don’t want to lead her on, because I’m definitely not...
No, I’m for sure not.
I pull away from her, trying to ignore the way my hands tremble and my legs feel like jello as I walk away from her and the bed to get ready for the day. My fingers can barely grasp the zips of my suitcase. Opening it feels like the loudest possible thing that I could have chosen to do at this time, and I stop when I see the way she wriggles in bed, kicking her leg out as if searching for me in her sleep.
When she settles back down, I release the breath that I didn’t realize I was holding and lock myself into the bathroom with a quiet click of the door.
And then I panic on the toilet.
Is there a label for this? Am I something more than I thought I was? I guess I have to bring this up to Marguerite next session, and she’ll maybe laugh and tell me more about myself that I didn’t know.
But is this… Maybe I’m homophobic?
That’s a lie. I’m not. I love my friends, and I don’t care who anyone loves. But I’m straight.
Right?
I’msovery straight. I don’t look at my friends like that. For one, it’s rude, and I don’t— well, I can’t say I don’t appreciate how they look. But it’s because they’re so stylish. I don’t stare at things lewdly, I’m not some desperate person.
A knock on the door startles me. “Your alarm is ringing, and I have to pee,” Eloise says huskily, and no, that doesn’t do anything to me.
“I’m just finishing up here!” I shout.
I’m rapid as I’m going through the motions, and as I swing the door open, I bump into her. I can feel the heat of her along the front of my body. She still has pillow creases on her face, and her brown eyes are still blinking open. ‘“Sorry,” I say, trying to step around her, but she follows me, and then when I step to the other side, she does the same.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Now, that is a weird observation.Taylor, don’t think about it. “Let me just—” I push her to the side and slide past. I’m not looking at her. Why would I look atany part of her other than her face? Which has a sleepy smile that makes me wonder what I’m even doing here. “Morning,” she whispers before closing the door.
It’s quiet, but somehow also thunderous. Maybe it’s just my heartbeat. My hands don’t feel like my own, as if they’re still holding onto Eloise, and I’m feeling the silkiness of her skin. I wipe them against my pants. The texture of the black dress pants is soothing, comforting, familiar. Something that I’m used to.
Not silky.
The toilet flushing startles me out of my thoughts as Eloise comes out, looking a little more awake and grinning. She’s wearing a beautiful eggplant coloured blazer and cream shirt underneath, over a pair of matching eggplant pants. Her hair’s pulled back into a slick ponytail, which is long enough to reach her shoulders.
She even looks like she has a bit of makeup on.
“Do I look bad?” she asks.
