But that won’t help either, the admission that she’s still attracted to me, and I am to her, and we’re not doing a thing about it.
Because it’s complicated, you ass.
I really need to get away from her, but I’m a glutton for Remy, so I settle in on the floor and she sits on the couch, and we crack open the Valentine’s candy. As I pop in abite me, Remy asks if I want to watch a show.
“Sure,” I say, since it’ll pass more time.
We agree onTop-Notch Boyfriend,a series based on a book from a writer named TJ Hardman. It’s about an American guy who meets an Englishman and falls fast and hard for him but circumstances pull them apart, and it’s a little addictive.
So addictive, we plow through two episodes and a box full ofkiss me,hug me, andtouch me.
Soon enough, she’s yawning and has clearly come down from the sugar high. “I should go to bed.”
“And I should finally shower,” I say, grateful we’ve survived. Well, almost. There’s still that matter of the one bed.
“Lake,” she says, standing and stretching. “You don’t need to sleep on the couch.”
“Thanks. I don’t think I’d fit.”
She pauses, swallows, then lifts her chin, like she needs to stay on point. “We can share the bed. Right?”
Therightis doing a lot of work there. The subtext is clear—we can share it and it won’t end the way the nap lesson did.
“Right,” I say.
After she brushes her teeth, she emerges from the bathroom. She’s wearing sleep pants and a T-shirt that do nothing to help me escape all my desire for this woman.
But she’s also sporting a pair of red glasses that make my heart kick, and I don’t even know why. “You wear glasses,” I say, the words thick in my mouth.
“Only when I remember to take my contacts out. And they were bugging me, so I took them out.”
My desire is bugging me. Wish I could remove it just as easily.
32
SO HARD TO SEE
REMY
I’m stuck outside in a storm. The wind whips around me. The clouds are angry. The rain pelts me everywhere.
I’ve just got to get inside, and I trudge to the door on heavy feet that barely move, trying to yank it open, when my eyes blink open.
Oh. I was just dreaming. It’s raining outside though, and wow, is it loud.
All I want is to go back to sleep but my eyes feel sticky from my mascara, a reminder that I forgot to wash my face. I drag myself out of bed, squinting in the dark. I stumble toward the bathroom door, which looks fuzzy without my glasses, but I can tell it’s ajar. A yawn takes over me, as I push on the door the rest of the way open. It’s so bright in here and so loud. What kind of monster would leave all the lights on in the bathroom?
In a flash, the rain stops. I yawn again, but something scratches at my brain as I fumble for the light to dim it.
It’s. Not. Raining.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
I don’t listen to the voice in my head. I turn to the shower,and I look right at the gorgeous hockey player as he slides open the steamy glass door and steps out.
Without glasses or contacts I can’t see objects that are far away, but I can see well enough up close, and right now the object is a very close, very wet, and very naked hockey player as he reaches for a towel from a nearby hook.
I make a sound. Something like a whimper.
