“Well, all right,” he said. “You tell me where you want to do this.”
“Outside. On the porch.”
“So the swing then.”
He pointed to it—the rickety, old white bench tucked cozily under the roof of the porch to her right. Almost hidden from view, and just the right size for two people to squeeze onto together. Though of course, as soon as she considered all these things about it—how closed in it was, how small—she knew it couldn’t be a contender. “There’s no way I’m facilitating that much contact with you.”
“Oh come on. That’s not so much more contact than a handshake.”
“What are you talking about? It’s loads more. Our arms would touch.”
And all that weird, probably one-sided heat would happen again, she mentally added. Then shook it off to concentrate on what he was saying.
“You say that like arms are way worse than hands somehow.”
“Because they are. And even if they aren’t, well, there are other things that could happen. Loads of things. Really bad things.”
“And what? You think I’m going to do those bad things to you?”
“Don’t say it like I meant sex, you massive dillhole.”
“Dude, I wouldneverthink you meant sex. In fact I feel pretty sure you see me as utterly null and void in that regard. Just completely smooth below the waist, like a kind of evil Ken doll,” he said, and when he did he gestured to this supposedly smooth area. As if to help illustrate this completely reasonable concept.
Even though it wasn’t reasonable at all.
It was so astonishing she didn’t know what to say about it. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Like all possiblewords had died a death in the back of her throat. And she knew it wasn’t just because he had imagined she thought so little of him.
It was because of how he clearly thought of himself.
Somehow, he was able to see himself as unattractive. He could accept that idea, despite being as attractive as he objectively was. Even right now, this early in the morning and days after massive trauma, it was all there. The way the dappled light made his wide-set eyes look so honey-pale and dreamy, how his hair fell across his forehead soft as butter and black as spilled ink.
And he wasn’t wearing the leather jacket.
He had a plaid shirt on. A really warm, cozy-looking plaid shirt, of the kind he used to wear.
Bet it feels like fur against your cheek, she found herself musing. Then had to immediately overcompensate, for ever thinking those things about his face and clothes.
“Well, you’re right. Idothink of you like an evil Ken doll,” she said.
But he didn’t even seem perturbed by her agreement. Like it was just a given to him.
“So then what’s the problem?” he asked, in a way that sounded genuinely baffled. So baffled, in fact, that she almost couldn’t think of a good-enough answer. It took her a second to work out exactly what her objection to sitting close together was. And when it came it felt more mealymouthed than she would have liked.
“I just don’t want to get too cozy,” she eked out, and felt relieved when he didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss.
“Right. Of course. That makes sense.”
“I mean, things are sort of okay between us. But this is still just a deal.”
“Yeah, I totally get that. You don’t want to be best buds over one touch.”
“Exactly. Exactly. So, you know, I will be here on the porch steps,” she said, and pointed to them. Then when he nodded, she pointed to where she thought he should reasonably seat himself. “And you go sit over there.”
“Sit over where?”
She gestured harder. “Look where I’m showing you.”
“I’m looking, but all I see is a bird bath at the very end of the garden.”
