I wave him away with my beer bottle and take another drink.
He moves quickly, and I hear the freezer door slam shut and then the silverware drawer jerking open as if someone were furious at it for doing something wrong.
Then he stomps back outside, thrusting a spoon in my face.
I almost laugh because, although I’m a little embarrassed about my remark, I didn’t expect him to have this reaction. Or maybe I did and I’m just wishing that I didn’t wish for it.
It’s almost like he’s… I don’t know. Maybe he’s just as frustrated with what’s happening between us as I am.
We both know it can’t lead anywhere. It’s an unspoken agreement, so there’s no point in acting on the attraction we have.
Not again, anyway.
At the same time, we can’t just shut it off.
He pulls the top off the ice cream pint and holds the pint between us, taking a large scoop for himself. He licks the ice cream instead of just sticking the whole spoon in his mouth; his tongue flattens to touch both sides of the spoon so that he doesn’t miss anything.
He stops, and that’s when I glance up to see that he’s caught me watching him.
I quickly grab a spoon full for myself. It’s not a dainty one either.
Unlike Simon, I stick the whole spoon into my mouth.
He chokes.
“Fuck.”
He hits his chest with a closed fist, and I just laugh.
“Look, I hate confrontation, but this whole eye contact and pretending we aren’t attracted to each other thing we’re doing is mentally exhausting.”
So much for an unspoken agreement. Clearly, I need one out loud.
As if he didn’t hear anything I just said, Simon keeps his eyes on me.
“Do I need to take another bite, or do you want to talk?”
He sighs.
“I don’t know what to say.”
I sit up straighter and set my spoon down. He does the same.
“Just say the first thing that comes to mind,” I tell him.
“I can’t.”
“Simon, we need to find a way to move past this. I can’t keep showing up here thinking of what you look like naked and never knowing.”
The beer he just sipped sprays from his mouth. He stands and starts to brush the beer spots off his shirt.
“Jesus, Greer.”
“What? I’m tired of beating around the bush and”—I hold up my beer and stand directly in front of him— “two beers later clearly means I’m not afraid to speak my mind. So humor me, please, let’s talk about this.”
“You want to talk about it, fine. I can’t even wake up without thinking about you. I can’t write a single word on my front porch without hoping to catch a glance of you. I count down the minutes until you show up at my house each day, and you’re not even here for me.”
Oh, wow.
