Chapter 3 - Sunday
I awake to an empty bed and gaze around the room for my phantom cuddler. She has slipped away somehow without me realizing. There were times I awoke in the night almost just to check she was still there and relishing in the cuddles, the holding that bordered on desperate. If I moved, or released my grip in even the slightest way, Veronica came closer, snuggled tighter.
It was fucking incredible.
The shower starts running and I'm right back to last night, imagining a pile of her clothes on the floor, and I groan, turning over and burying my head under the pillow.
The hidden dangers associated with hotel sharing kept revealing themselves. Naked in adjacent rooms was deeply troubling.
My mouth is almost fused together and in desperate need of hydration and I could certainly do with brushing my teeth.
I sit up and feel that familiar room spin and stomach that has awoken after a night of drinking. I abort temporarily and collapse back onto the bed. Then, once steadied, make a bee-line for the bathroom.
Surely if she can wander into my bed (and of course, I graciously accept her with open arms), I can wander into the shower? There will be a curtain separating me from her naked form… unfortunately.
"Morning," I groan and she echoes my greeting from under the stream.
I run the tap, drink the water directly from the faucet before loading up my toothbrush. My stomach churns again and I lean against the counter for support.
"Ugh, that champagne, I feel like death," I groan, toothbrush still in my mouth.
"It's the bubbles. Poor Logan Echolls, can't drink like you used to?" She teases me but her voice is a little more high-pitched than normal. I suspect she might be slightly thrown off by my presence, or possibly by what transpired last night. Both seem like legitimate concerns.
My eyes rise to look at myself in the mirror, but in my periphery, I can see that thin blue curtain. The only thing that separates me from heaven. There is a small crack, where the curtain meets the tiles and I can see movement, skin, steam.
I'm not looking.
But also, I am.
Of course, I've seen her naked before, many, many times. So much so that years later I can close my eyes and still see it, vividly. The image of it only distracts me seven to eight times a day, closer to thirty when I'm deployed. It's a hard image to live with indeed, growing increasingly harder. I lean against the vanity to disguise it.
"Nope, I'll need to condition myself more before the next wedding," I reply and rinse my face under the water, the cold shocking me just enough to keep me focused and snap me out of my naked-friend-daydreaming. I wet my hands and run the water through my hair attempting to remedy my unfortunate bed hair.
That half-inch curtain crack suddenly has movement behind it, an eye, the corner of a nose peeking out. I grin and look up at its reflection in the mirror. Veronica's eye sees mine and I throw her a wink. Her eye opens wide and disappears into the steam.
I chuckle and stroll out of the bathroom.
She appears with sweats on and damp, limp hair dripping onto her shirt and it occurs to me that even better than her in that emerald dress is Veronica, wet.
We pack our bags in silence. My eyes keep drifting to my bed, disheveled from squeezing two bodies in all night and hers, sitting beside it, mostly neat. It is physical evidence that bedsharing did, in fact, occur, even if we won't speak about it. I consider taking a picture so I can place it in front of Veronica's nose in the future when she steadfastly refuses that this night ever happened.
Ha, ha, see! We spooned!
She's a lawyer, she relies on evidence.
I grab our bags, taking them to the cars while she checks out, then lean against hers, waiting. I'm getting those hot hangover chills and my stomach groans hungrily thinking about the greasy drive-through food that awaits me.
I finally speak, "So…"
"So…"
"Busy tonight?" I ask, because it's all I really want to know. My allotted hours with her were dwindling.
"Oh, yes, I've got a hot date."
I nod, "Movie at mine? No champagne," I rub my stomach.
"Sounds good."
I open the door for her and she hops inside, carefully avoiding my arm and my body in some fanciful wide berth. I shut the door and watch her drive away.
I spend the day milling around, tidying my already borderline obsessively clean apartment. Doing the jobs I'd been putting off, because now, I have an end date here and I can't just keep ignoring things like this would go on forever.
When my stomach finally settles I go to the gym in an attempt to sweat out the alcohol and food. Lifting heavier and heavier weights. Each one I stack on, there only to help distract me from the heavy weight suddenly on my shoulders.
I love my job. It's something that I couldn't even envision for myself ten years ago but it's something that I need. It's helped to keep me focused, disciplined and purposeful. Almost like a redemption for all of the shitty years, the terrible things I did, the terrible things done to me.
I can climb into the cockpit, takeoff and suddenly my mind is clear. Complete focus on my task takes over, I'm above the world, above all the bullshit that happens on earth. Power is suddenly in my hands, complete control and it's almost freeing.
But right now, I'm just not ready to go back yet.
On my return, I pull out my duffle and place it on the floor. I stare at it for a while, make to pack some clothes, can't decide on anything, and swiftly withdraw from the task entirely. I opt instead to lay on the floor beside the bag, staring at the ceiling.
I'm not ready.
There is a distinct feeling of unfinished business that envelops me, like I'm leaving something behind. I run my fingers through the cream shag carpeting that I hate. Back and forth, back and forth. Until I eventually fall asleep, completely exhausted from all of last night's developments.
The green curry is delicious and Veronica helps herself to more, with another generous scoop of coconut rice. She then drinks her beer with small, deliberate sips and I take some careful glances at her long neck as she tips it.
Veronica wants to watch Pulp Fiction, again.
"We watched Pulp Fiction on my last leave. Surely we can find something else we haven't watched forty-five times?"
She pouts, full lower lip pout. I cock my head to the side and sigh. It wasn't like I had a real choice anyway.
"Sure, whatever," I relent.
She does a little dance, I've coined it the winners dance. She does that dance a lot. Clearly, I'm a sucker.
My mind is still reeling from last night. I was pretty sure my concentration levels on anything would be dismal anyway.
I wanted answers. But I wasn't even sure what the questions were.
Why did you climb into my bed, Veronica? Why did I just lie there? Why can't I focus on anything else when she is in the room?
Why? Why? Why?
Frustrated, I flop down on the couch with my ice-cream, flipping my legs up and onto Veronica's lap. She crosses her eyes at me and she nudges against them, complaining. But it's not a hard nudge, she doesn't try that hard to move me off her.
Sorry Veronica, my legs are going to stay right here.
You broke the cardinal rule of no-touching last night, and now I'm not sure I can stop touching.
Any contact is suddenly deemed good contact as far as I'm concerned, even if it's purely platonic leg draping.
I grin and shovel more ice-cream into my mouth.
She gives up and rests her bowl on my legs, the cold penetrating through the ceramic feels cool against my legs. It's a nice contrast to the warmth of her lap below me.
We're watching Pulp Fiction and John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson are driving, discussing the merits of overseas takeout establishments. "No man, they got the metric system. They wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is." Veronica's mouth moves silently, following the dialogue with intensity.
All the while she eats her ice-cream like it's her last meal. The spoon dips in, it raises to her mouth and it opens wide to devour more. "Then what do they call it?"
"They call it a Royale with cheese." I see the ice cream sitting on her tongue as she mimics with her mouth full.
"Royale with cheese. What'd they call a Big Mac?" She makes the hand gestures too, and the little John Travolta smirk.
"Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it Le Big Mac."
She chuckles and heaps another mouthful in, a solitary drip of chocolate trickles down almost to her chin and I watch it intently, my hand starts to rise to wipe it but she beats me and her pink tongue whips out and it disappears.
I've got to admit, I'm disappointed.
I force my eyes back to the television.
Veronica works at the bowl, her spoon loudly clanging and scraping lest she miss out on any of those pesky last drips.
Eyes directly on the screen, she lifts the spoon to her lips, her tongue runs up the metal slowly and carefully. Then, she spins the spoon around and performs the same intriguing treatment to the other side.
Holy Shit.
Why can't she just eat the fucking ice cream? Put it in her mouth like a normal person? She's killing me here.
A jolt runs right through me and my cock twitches involuntarily. Instantly shifting to cover it, I place my hand over my lap and smile as casually as possible.
"Please, don't let me stop you," I offer.
She wipes at her face, "Do I have chocolate all over my face?"
"No," I reply, trying to keep my face as stoic as possible.
But if you did, I'd lick it off.
I lean towards her, taking her face in my hands and running my tongue over the corner of her lips, tasting the chocolate sauce, the sugary crystals, tasting her. Then I bring our lips together in a passionate kiss, our tongues battle. I pull her by her legs onto me and she nestles herself onto my lap, straddling me. I won't break the kiss, can't break the kiss. Her fingertips graze at my stomach and she starts edging my shirt off…
No.
Stop.
Of course, none of these things actually happen, but my imagination sure knows how to conjure up a scenario particularly uncomfortable when in close proximity to your friend. Veronica is once again engrossed in the movie, seemingly unsuspecting of anything.
Those thoughts are not helping Logan.
Think unsexy thoughts. Baseball, old people, hedgehogs.
I was very good at this. Some days with Veronica I spent all day thinking unsexy thoughts. It was tiring. Then, I'd peel myself off her couch, ride my bike home, go straight into the shower and let myself think all the thoughts I'd been suppressing all day. It was not a healthy way to conduct a friendship.
I look at the television, because I can't keep watching her. Desperately trying to focus on John Travolta and Uma Thurman.
But, I can't.
Suddenly, sitting on the couch with my best friend is too much. My legs fidget involuntarily. I close my eyes. I don't know what else to do, where else to hide.
Finding solace in the blackness, if not from my own errant thoughts, I finally find sleep, my legs growing heavy on Veronica's lap.
We awake to a blue screen and peel ourselves from our couch positions. Veronica does that cute stretch and heads for her jacket. I panic for a moment and invite her to stay because it's late and, well, nook.
Only fifteen hours left.
This bedsharing, however questionable, exponentially increased my allotted time with her, how could I possibly let her leave?
Thankfully she agrees and I find her some clothes and a fresh toothbrush and leave her to get ready alone. I pace around the living room twelve times which I calculate should be more than sufficient to change before knocking and re-entering the room.
Veronica stands at the edge of the bed nervously, looking at the covers but not daring to go in them just yet. She's wearing my t-shirt and shorts, which for some reason is alluring in ways I cannot comprehend.
I motion to the bed, trying to reassure her.
"What no pillow mints?" she pretends to search the pillow, and diffuse the tension in the air.
"If you're expecting turndown service and clean sheets, you've come to the wrong hotel."
"I'm fine," she says, "unless…" she pauses, looking at the sheets with mild horror.
"Relax, I've barely had two orgies here this week, you know, I've been busy."
"Only two, geez, you've lost form."
"Tell me about it," I reply. Nervous banter to avoid awkwardness - there is a strong possibility we could go pro in it.
We climb under the sheets and I spread out my legs a little, accidentally on purpose grazing against her own bare one wearing my shorts.
Think unsexy thoughts: Baseball, twinkies, Danny DeVito.
We lie in silence together surrounded by darkness for the second night in a row, Veronica on her back, me facing her on my side.
I shuffle around, while in my head debating with myself. Why did you ask her to stay? To just lie in bed? Are you going to make a move? Are you going to lie there like a dead fish? What the fuck are you doing Echolls? What are you trying to achieve? Why do you keep asking yourself an endless stream of annoying fucking questions?
"Come here," finally leaves my lips. See, it wasn't that hard.
"Okay," she replies quietly. I open out my arms, Veronica nestles into the crook of my arm.
In an instant, that feeling washes over me again, the warmth and comfort. Her long hair tickles against my bare arm and shoulder and she burrows into my nook. I reach my arm around her back and rest my hand on her stomach, all the while taking deep breaths to try and steady my racing heart rate.
There is something intimate about bedsharing that went beyond sex, at least for me. I for one, knew that I was capable of having sex with a woman and having zero desire to have them share a bed with me. Of course, with Veronica it's different, with Veronica everything is different.
Veronica seems so relaxed, her breathing levels and she seems to drift off to sleep quickly. Clearly, this closeness isn't affecting her in the same way it is me. My eyes slowly start to droop, all the while feeling another wall of the friendzone crumbling down. Friends may accidentally cuddle, while slightly drunk at a wedding once, but following it up for a second night, that meant something else entirely.