Staring up at the ceiling fan that rotated slowly enough for him to follow the individual blades as they painted his arms with goose bumps, Jim was having an early morning fight with his subconscious.
You should be happy, asshole.
I know. I know that.
So wipe that pout off your face.
He generally had a pretty blithe, easy-going disposition, not typically finding himself upset to the point of wearing dank emotions on his sleeve. But even now, without a mirror to provide reflection, he could feel the ridge dipped across his forehead, the way his eyebrows were pushed together, the way his lips were pursed into a pout. All while the woman he'd been pining after for so long was willingly lying with her body draped across his arm, her body cuddled up to his side, the breath from her nose tickling his skin.
He should be happy.
But with their conversation from the previous night waking him up as the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, her words itched in his brain, sudden gaps and unanswered qualms tingling in his fingers and making his legs twitch to move and pace and demand answers.
His restlessness almost drove him to hop out of bed, walk the walls of his apartment, call his sister, something to draw his thoughts away from dragging him down instead of letting him live in the bubble of happiness that he thought had formed by the time she fell asleep in his arms. Instead, he was trying to rationalize with himself, to make the implications that jumped out at him in the middle of the night just go away, to just accept that she was here now, and that was all that mattered.
But it wasn't going away. Frankly, it was getting worse with each mile in the sky that the sun rose. If his eastern facing window didn't wake her, the tapping of his leg against the side of the bed would. If she was awake, they could talk. He could have his answers. He'd be free from the vomit of possibilities that was filling his cranium.
But why would you even want to wake her up? Look at that sweet face. Is it even possible to smile in your sleep? Because her lips have not turned down all night, brother.
Would you just shut up and let me think?!
Hey, I'm just trying to help.
Well you're doing a terriblejob of it.
Shifting his head ever so slightly, his gaze fell atop her head, where her curls had begun to frizz and her eyes fluttered against the cotton of his t-shirt and bated breath stifled in and out of her nose.
His subconscious had a point: he should be happy. Should be ecstatic, really. She was here. She was curled in his arms, of her own will, and with the way things were going, he couldn't see her darting off and running home this time.
Unless, of course, they continued down this road of talking things out, and the fighting scared her away.
Which returned him to the reasons behind the foot tapping and the fidgeting and the need to get up and do something to quell his thoughts.
As the eastern light became one with his bedroom window, he realized that time was wearing thin. She stirred in his arms, her fingers seeming to clench the cotton of his t-shirt; he could feel where the breeze kissed the bit of his abdomen that was now peeking out.
The sounds that were squeaking in her throat made him swallow a frustrated lump in his; she was mewling and sighing all of those delicious, early morning sounds, fighting to stay asleep. It was adorable, really, the childlike nature in which she was she stirred herself awake.
"Mhm, you need curtains," she mumbled groggily as her eyes squeezed tighter against the intense sunlight that had stolen their final moments of serenity.
Her arm stretched across his abdomen, her nose burrowing into his chest; he watched the smile widen across her cheeks before her eyes fluttered open, like a butterfly landing on its perch. He'd pictured this moment so often that it was causing him tangible pain to not enjoy it.
"Yeah, that might be a good idea." His chuckle was stitled, his arms more stiffly around her than he'd have liked it to have been in this moment, where the light coming in through the window was making her skin golden and her smile shine.
Quickly, that smile was gone, wiped away by the concern that knit in her brows at the language his body was choosing to converse in. Something was wrong.
"Hey." The words whispered past her lips as a puff of air against his chest. "Are you okay?"
With the hand that wasn't stiffly clutching around her elbow, he wiped across the length of his face, along the top of his head, and back down again as he muttered, "Uhm, yeah, I just...processing."
He met her grim expression with a formidable one of his own, feeling only a fleeting pang of regret at her downturned lips.
With eyes fixed on his shirt, she nuzzled against his chest, seeming to pull her body tighter with the hand that still grasped his shirt. "Starting off the morning with a bowl of cereal and a side of confrontation, huh?"
A sigh exhausted from his lungs, as he let his fingers trail more innocently up and down her arms. "Guess that's about what this looks like, huh?"
The silence hung over them like storm clouds looming, despite the bright Sunday light streaming in and leaving crisscrossing patterns on his floor.
"So, uhm, could we maybe eat something first? I don't want to go into a cage match on an empty stomach."
At this, his lips pulled upward, and he cocked an eyebrow at her.
"Absolutely. Let's smash some waffles before we put the gloves back on."
They were wordless as they ate, brushed teeth, freshened up. It was odd; he'd pictured this early morning stillness much different, not quite as heavy and riddled with the promise of more hateful words. As he handed her the last plate to dry, he let the bubbles in the sink claim his focus, watching them swell and pop instead of watching the lines in her face come together again.
"Pam...how long did you know?"
It was a simple question, really, one that he both craved and feared the answer to, one that had woken him with a painful start when he realized, through the memories of what she'd said last night, that he was still in the dark about. She took her time, methodically drying the dish in hand until she was afraid she'd start chipping the paint off.
"How long did I know what?"
"C'mon, don't do that."
She couldn't see the eye roll, as her own gaze was fixated on the loops of the dish towel that had pulled away from the rest, but she could hear it in his inflection.
Trying but failing to gulp down the growing welt in her throat, she closed her eyes, braced her hands on the counter, and continued.
"Uh, I guess...I don't know, Jim? I guess, awhile now?"
"Define awhile." The amount of bubbles he had as distractible options was slowly dwindling as they popped and disappeared into thin air, mimicking his dwindling patience for her avoidance tactics.
"Does it really matter? We're here now, aren't we?"
Her voice was small, quiet, childlike in its apprehension, but he pressed on.
"It matters to me, Pam." His voice hitched on her name, and he jutted his chin towards the ceiling.
The loose thread was getting longer now, as she pulled at its edges. She was going to have to buy him new dish towels; she wasn't sure if he actually had any others to use in this wasteland of a home.
"Okay, uhm...if I had to settle on a specific time, I'd probably say...Valentine's Day? At least, that's when I knew for sure. I'd...been speculating for awhile, but that night...and that morning...that's when it actually hit me."
He tapped his fingers along the cool metal of the sink, letting his head become level again.
"So you...knew, what you were doing to me...all this time?"
He sounded so defeated, as if the words were leaving his breath like a quickly deflating balloon, taking his upper body with them as she watched his shoulders drop dramatically. Thus began a steady stream of silent, fat tears down both of her cheeks; she gave no attempt to even stop them.
He was still facing the sink, his head sunk low, picking at the wash rag that hung limp on the edge of the sink. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to gather him in her arms, to feel him close to her, because in that moment, she could feel him rapidly slipping through her fingers.
She reached for him, tentatively, fearing that any touch rendered would be reciprocated with a flinch she was sure she couldn't bare. Instead, she let her hand drop, grasping at the hem of her-his-t-shirt that she was still cloaked in, uttering echoing words that she had been so grateful for the night before.
"I...Jim? Can we...pause?"
He turned to face her, his eyes riddled with a pain she thought they'd overcome by this point. This pain was new, though, more laden in betrayal and deception.
"No, Pam, I don't wanna pause anymore. I want...I want to yell. I want to know why it took you so long to say something. I want you to tell me why you strung me along for so long. Jesus, I just want to know."
It wasn't the reaction she was expecting, but one that she accepted, provisionally so.
"I...I was scared, Jim. Jesus, I was supposed to be getting married for god's sake, and all of a sudden I had these...these feelings for you that wouldn't go away no matter how much I beat them down. I figured...I guess, if you had just said something, made me know that it was real, that I wasn't making it all up in my head, then..I didn't think I'd have to say anything. I thought that you'd...something would happen and you'd own up to it eventually."
"I literally told you to break up with him, Pam. Those exact words came out of my mouth."
"Yes, but they weren't in the context of you loving me." He could taste the bite in her words, the fight, the defensiveness.
"How can you say that?" His breathing was labored, the words scratchy, as if new and uncomfortable. "How can you say that I didn't tell you all of those things because I loved you?"
"Because every time you said something like that, you followed it up with friendship!" she exclaimed, her arms waving animatedly, frantically, mimicking the fire in her eyes. "You're so over concerned with me not saying anything, but do you remember all of the cop outs that you pulled?"
His jaw, pressed and hard, tightened along with the arms across his chest. The jutting of his chin was her cue to press on.
"Whenever I'd throw you a bone, you'd throw it right back. Shit, I sat and complained about Roy to you, and all you did was act like my buddy, my pal. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, Jim, but at least I was trying!"
"Trying and then running away!"
"You ran, too! All the way here. And I came after you, Jim!"
He thought about it, contemplated for several beats the retort of it took you long enough. But he couldn't do that. Not after everything they'd been through in these past twenty-four hours. Not with the fact that they were both here, grappling at that, but trying.
"Well...what did you want me to say?" There was a hint of annoyance in her tone, as he glanced up from where his gaze rested on the edge of the sink to see her arms folded defensively across her body.
"I wanted you to tell me how you were feeling, how you were actually feeling. Not some bullshit about Roy. If you were so confused about what was going on, you could have talked to me, Pam. We were in the same boat."
"So why couldn't you have told me? You were more certain than I was. Or, at least, I have to assume you were. Why was it all on my shoulders?"
"Why couldn't I have told you? Oh, I don't know, Pam. Maybe because you ran out every chance you got? You literally bolted out my door. Twice. And then you'd...you'd-initiate things and then turn around and do a one-eighty in the opposite direction. You were so fucking hot and cold...what was I supposed to do?"
It was her turn to wallow, stewing in the bluntness of his words. He wasn't wrong. She had run out on him, on the absolute basis of fear. She hadn't revealed that to him then, nor had she now. But this was the time for honesty, no matter how brutally their words were stinging one another. You gotta take a chance on sometime sometime, Pam rang in her ears, suddenly reminding her of the first time he'd ever been assertive with her. That stream of thoughts was stilled as his voice cut through the air once more, his timbre deeper this time, his tone low and rich, rattling her to the bone.
"I didn't want to say something and scare you off, either. I know it sounds so stupid, god does it, but I...Pam, I didn't want us to be those, like...awkward friends who don't return feelings for one another and then just...just fade out of each other's lives. I couldn't live with myself if you weren't a part of my life anymore."
The words had dictated, but his eyes were proclaiming everything else, the deep, rich green striking her suddenly cold as he held her gaze, trapped her in her place, and disappeared all too soon.
They were both still heated, radiating to the touch, as they stormed to opposite ends of the kitchen, stewing in their own thoughts. The tears hadn't even thought of surfacing in the anger that was bubbling over, dissipating only when they had separated and let out huffy breaths. He heard her feet pad in resounding wallops into his front room. On bated breath, he awaited the sound of the front door opening, but it never came.
He wasn't sure he'd even heard the small thud until he noticed the shine of purple and silver out of his peripheral vision. It was a can of grape Crush soda, with two crinkled Post-It notes affixed to it, one on top and one on the bottom. When he read the Post-It's with the name of the soda, it said,
I've got a
CRUSH
on you.
"Is it too late to say something?"
She looked so small, engulfed in his huge high-school basketball t-shirt, her arms folded and her chin tucked against her chest. His heart swelled, ached. His fingers traced the circular outline on top of the can, as if trying to read braille intentions. Without meeting her eyes, he lapped over her neat printing, focused intently on the word you.
"It was supposed to be your Valentine's Day present. You know, tradition."
His fingers continued their tracing, eyes meeting the grainy wood of the table, in silence.
"You ran out so fast that day that I didn't really get the chance to give it to you. Or thank you for the ice cream. And then it...kind of just sat in my desk for awhile. Sorry if it's warm."
She was pursing her lips in a way that said I'm really trying here, but she didn't have to. He was already standing, crossing the kitchen, and filling two glasses with ice.
"Nothing a little ice can't fix."
He was standing above her now, so tall compared to the way her body was shriveled in upon itself. He thrust one glass outward, along with a grin that tugged with equal parts apology and truce? He took a mental note of the way her fingers brushed intentionally against his as she took the glass.
The pour of the syrupy purple against clean glass and fresh ice cubes roared deafeningly, the pop and fizz of the carbonation settling lightly over the top.
He took a long gulp, finishing nearly all of his share of sugary soda in one gulp.
"So, a crush, Beesly? Wait-do you like me like me? I mean, come on, how serious is this? Are we going steady? Can I hold your hand on our way back from algebra? When we slow dance at the turnabout, will we be leaving room for Jesus?"
Laughter passed by teeth that were gleaming in the light that streamed in through his kitchen window.
"Oh, come on, it was supposed to be cute."
Her head hung low towards the table, curls tumbling, as her attempts to feign anguish were warded off by laughter.
"It was very cute," he replied through shared chuckles, his fingers dancing along the woodtop of the table. As their laughter began to peter, he let the thrumming of his fingers come to bump hers that were still clamped around her glass. He traced the top of her index finger slightly, back and forth, before nudging her fingers away from the glass and loosely holding on, his thumb brushing gently along the back of her hand.
"So...Valentine's Day, huh?"
Nodding, with lips pursed in a line that hinted upward just a smidge, she squeezed his hand back.
"Yeah. Valentine's Day."
The contented silence was only broken at first by the slight brushing of fingers, the inhaling and exhaling of breath.
"It was the way you looked at me," she began, unprompted. "The way you...cared about me, with...this...selflessness. You were sad in my sadness; you weren't even thinking about yourself. I can't even remember the last time Roy put me first." The memory danced past her eyes, her anguish in Roy's actions abated by the overwhelming joy that Jim had blanketed her in that night. "You just...you made me realize how a...how love is supposed to work. And, that night, I could see that it wasn't just you casually being my friend. There was something else there, something that I'd been blind to for so long. And, honestly Jim, that kind of scared me. It scared me a lot."
He nodded, his gaze still pulled toward the glass in his hand, to where their fingers connected, to the crook in her elbow that was covered in his maroon sleeves.
"I didn't know how to tell you...didn't know what to say when I wasn't really sure what I actually wanted myself. I mean, obviously I was feeling something, but I was also planning a wedding and...it was all just very confusing, ya know?"
His lips pursed, curled, scrunched along with his eyes.
"So it wasn't that I didn't see how you felt. I think it was more like...didn't want to see. I didn't want something getting in the way of the track I had my life on. It just took me a little while to figure out that I had just been on the wrong track for a long time."
He could see the hope in her eyes that had broken through the dark clouds that just moments before had consumed them. He'd never heard her this truthful before. Sitting up a little straighter, he watched as her heart continued to flood the room.
"Do you know how scary it is to think that your life is headed in one direction and all of a sudden have it going somewhere completely different?"
"Well, I did just recently move across New England," he chuckled, scooting his chair closer to the table.
"Oh relax. You still get Phillies broadcasts, don't you?" Her sarcasm was accompanied by the first smile he'd seen all morning.
"On the contrary. Friday was an exception because they were on ESPN. I mostly get the Red Sox now, which, in light of recent World Series championships, I will not complain too much about. Plus I like David Ortiz. Dude's a monster."
Awkward laughter overlapped in the thick air that was beginning to settle. Their fingers were perspiring at the point of contact, but he really didn't want to let her go.
"So... I guess, really, I was just waiting around for you to make some kind of move that told me I wasn't crazy, that I wouldn't be, like, uprooting my entire life for nothing, if that makes sense. I didn't want to tell you that I was all of a sudden feeling these things for you that were new and thrilling and scary, for you to, like, beat it back down with a bat and put me in this awkward friend zone. I'd know one way or another when you told me. But when you didn't, I just figured you were, I don't know, over it or something. Over me. If you had ever actually been…"
Her eyebrows quirked as her lips furled in thought, her gaze floating to the ceiling. He smirked, clueing together what she was trying to avoid saying.
"If I'd ever actually been…?"
"Please don't make me say it."
"Oh, I'm gonna make you say it. C'mon. We both need a laugh right now."
"Okay, fine. If you had ever actually been under me."
"That's what she said! God, it's been awhile."
He removed his hand from hers to pump his fists enthusiastically into the air, throwing his head back as a grin spread wide across his cheeks.
"I hate you," she chortled, her squinting eyes betrayed by the way her lips were tugging into a sideways grin.
"You do not," he deadpanned.
"No. No I don't."
It was a silence that was new, still tension riddled, but a new type of tension, a where do we go from here? aire hanging about. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop several times, his gaze shifting about before, "So...I am in desperate need of curtains. Care to help me pick out something in between 'depressed bachelor' and 'grandma?'" came tumbling past his lips.
"Absolutely." Her smile said so many different things, from gratefulness to amusement to simple joy.
He offered her a new, third t-shirt, his next smallest one being a Phillies shirt from the nineties with Curt Schilling's name on the back, but it wasn't visible under the massive zippered hoodie that he draped over her shoulders before they headed out into the autumn sun.
As she pushed the cart around Target and he jokingly threw Batman sheets and curtains into the basket with a stark serious expression, she was brought back to that day on the ice rink, the day that they had spent worrying over Kevin and spending their lunch break at Rite-Aid buying M&M's and fabric softener. That familiar feeling crept through her body like the warmth of a summer's day, that this moment that they existed in was the missing cog she had been searching for.
They bickered playfully as she tossed food items into the cart, Jim loading up on chips and cookies while Pam insisted that he find something that wouldn't 'slowly ruin his insides.'
"And why, dare I ask, do you care so much about my insides?" He was over-expressive as he snuck a second box of Cheez-Its into the growing pile in their cart. "Here, I thought it was the outside that you ladies cared about."
She simply shrugged, her lips curling only slightly. "Because, your insides keep you alive, and I very much like you that way."
"Huh. See, now, I pegged you for a dead guys type of girl. I was only trying to help make your dreams come true."
He returned her shrug, his sideways smirk breaking into a full grin when she couldn't hold her laughter in any longer.
"You're gross," she chuckled, shaking her head as they headed towards the registers.
"Just doin' my job," he retorted.
She held the kitchen chair stable and handed him screws as he hung up the curtain rod, rewarding him with an overly excited clap and ditty around the room once the job was done and the room was shadowed in an intense grey.
She flopped backwards onto the bed, her head landing on the pillow she had fixed in that same spot earlier when they'd made the bed together in silence, their demeanor so much different in this same space, then seeming worlds away. Closing her eyes, she sighed in contentment, resting her folded hands over her stomach.
"See? You could sleep in for hours like this. No pesky sun to wake you up before noon on a Saturday."
In the cloak of the room's new darkness, he joined her tentatively on the bed. Propped on his side by an elbow, he watched her, drinking in the lazy Sunday afternoon stillness of where they were, their words finally tame. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to sweep his fingers across her face, but he didn't. Instead, he just let the truth tumble into the shadows, feeling free enough to respond without hesitation.
"With a view like this, I don't think I'd want to sleep much."
His voice was husky, emulating the cover that the shades had brought into the room. It was so much different with no light, the darkness-even false, because she knew that the sun was still shining behind those Target curtains-revealing a timbre to the atmosphere that chilled her through layers of his clothing.
She could see the way that his eyes were darkening, could feel the air thicken like his voice had, the new texture like molasses. As she watched his eyes trace her features, connect and part, find her lips and her neck and her hands and her eyes, following every swell of her body, it wasn't the tension or fear that sparked her words, but the realization that she didn't have to be afraid, that she could have have this now without holding back, that consequently sprung nervousness within.
"Lunch?" She'd had to clear her throat before letting the words escape the desert of her vocals. That ten second gaze had her parched dry.
With a smirk on his face and a sparkle in his eye, he nodded once, slowly, before taking her hand to help her up.
It was odd, coming out of this darkened room to the sun streaming in through every other window in the condo. The light, paired with the stark whiteness of every other surface, had both of them squinting, craving the cover of darkness again. But she quickly found peace in standing side by side, putting together sandwiches-peanut butter and jelly for her, ham and cheese for him.
"Doesn't this feel so much better than just downing a bag of chips and calling it a day?" she said between bites.
He nodded simply, his mouth stuffed and chewing. But the one thought that passed through his mind, amidst the tension and the awkwardness and everything that was still unresolved, was that he was full in so many ways.
After general lunchtime jabs, she began clearing their plates, and-as he insisted-using the dishwasher this time.
"So...what do you wanna do?"
His words, in any other context, would come off as awkward, accompanied by similar body language where his arms were swinging back and forth and his right fist was meeting with opened left palm on each forward swing. As she finished putting the peanut butter back into his freshly stocked cabinets, a thought crossed her mind.
"Hey, here's an idea: What if I helped you unpack some of these boxes? Make this place look a little less…"
"Depressing? Desolate? Cave-manish?"
"As long as you're the one saying it," she giggled. "But in all seriousness, I don't have to help. It was just a suggestion. I know putting things away and setting up your place can be personal and-"
"No, I'd love your help." His smile was soft, kind. She followed his lead, each of them opening a box labeled KITCHEN and setting to work. She asked for his input first, not wanting to overstep boundaries, but was pleasantly surprised when he asked for her help, gladly accepting the logic of her organizing skills.
"I don't know, it just makes more sense to me if the pots and pans are next to the stove, and the plates and bowls are somewhere near where you prep the food."
"I totally get it," he replied, his outstretched arm reaching to put the last of his rarely used beer steins on the highest shelf. "This kitchen would have no flow without you, Beesly."
"Yeah, well, it would have no food without me, either, so," she retorted, tucking the last of his coffee mugs away.
As his arm settled back to his side, his t-shirt covering back up the peek of skin by his waist, he realized how close they had been as they stocked his shelves when his arm brushed along her side and their skin whispered mere centimeters apart. The heat passed between their bodies, coming to pool where he let his fingers rest on her wrist, loosely circling around the skinny bones. The sudden urge to tug her against his body, to wrap his arms around her, to write all of his emotions on her skin tingled up and down his spine. The way her green eyes were darkening and her lips parted and she seemed to turn closer to him surged his inclination further, as he felt his fingers tightening around her wrist, the space between them closing, and his cell phone ringing in his pocket.
He chuckled, dragged one hand through his hair, and lifted his phone to his ear with the other, mumbling, "Sorry," as his sister's concerned voice filled his ears.
"Hey, is everything okay? Your text last night sounded kind of cryptic."
He was walking in slow circles, rolling his eyes dramatically when he faced Pam again, memories of a late night text to Larisa creeping into a day that had only existed in the sense of Pam.
"Uh, yeah, just uh, give me a sec. Everything's fine, I promise."
He watched her smile, edge out from around the kitchen counter, and disappear into the living room. He found his feet matching the spots where she just stood as soon as she was out of earshot.
"So, little sis, were you ever going to tell me that Pam showed up on my doorstep the day I moved out?"
He heard a gasp on the other end of the line before she spoke again.
"How did you- oh my god! Jim! Did she call you? Did you talk to her? Holy shit, Jimmy, is she there? Oh my god!"
"That, my friend, is classified information that traitors are not privy to," he chuckled as he leaned over the kitchen counter.
"Listen, I've gotta go, but I'll call you later, okay?"
"Holy shit, Jim, you'd better call me the minute she leaves, do you hear me?!"
"Later, 'Rissa."
The smile stretched across his face, widening still as he entered the living room to see her back, her short stature almost at the same height of the stack of boxes she stood in front of. The sleeves of his black zip-up hoodie were bunched at her elbows, and he giggled silently each time he saw her nudge the sleeves back up. The bottom of the sweatshirt hit the crease where her knees began. he couldn't help himself as he slid his arms around her front and tucked his chin into her shoulder. She jumped in his arms, but in surprise, not rejection, as made evident by the chuckle in her voice and her whispered, "You scared me," as she set down the item she had dug out of the box.
Without turning, or moving much more than to hold her closer, he murmured, "I'm really glad you're here," into her ear, the words themselves competing for effect with the way his breath tickled her ear.
She latched her fingers around his forearm, holding on tightly as she leaned back into his embrace, whispering, "Me too."
"So," she began, finally cracking through a silence that he could have remained in all afternoon.
"So," he echoed, continuing to twist them softly back and forth, her body swaying along with his.
"It's a two and a half hour drive back to Scranton."
She felt his body fold against her back as the whisper escaped her lips. It was a subject they'd both been avoiding, knowing that an entire weekend together was equally an eternity and not quite enough time at all. She felt his breath sigh against her neck, felt his strong hands twist her around in his arms so that they were facing one another, hands clenched between them in the same way that they had on casino night. The silence continued, as they let their eyes really trace one another, really drink in just how desperately they were trying to hold onto this moment.
"I feel like you just got here," he finally said, his head bowing so that she could feel his moppy hair brush against her forehead as he shook his back and forth.
"I know," she whispered back, tugging on his hands to close the gap of space that the sunshine was streaming through.
"But," she continued, "I think...I think this time that we had, I think it was good. I think we needed to start airing all of this out, ya know?"
He nodded, squeezing her fingers in his grasp.
"And I think we still have a little ways to go, but...Jim, I want this to work. God, do I want this to work. I don't want to keep dancing around one another."
Their breath mingled in the small amount of space between them, and she just couldn't take it anymore. Tilting her head and tugging his wrists forward, she captured his lips. A small squeak of surprise escaped her when his soft lips landed on hers, the heat immediate and searing and yet so tender. All at once, her fingers were climbing his chest, and his were rounding her back, and they were flush against each other, his mouth slanting across hers as she continued to stretch her fingers around to the back of his head, a tiny moan being swallowed in her throat. He was pressing her body to him with his strong hands splayed across her back, his lips moving slowly, tentatively. It was when she was tugging on his hair, those indistinguishable sounds vibrating against his lips, a hint of her tongue touching his bottom lip, that his hands were pulling her to her tiptoes, his tongue parting her willing lips, and tangling with the deliciousness of the reality that made him dizzy in the head.
As his tongue slid hot and wet against hers, she tried to pull herself closer, wanting to diminish any space between them entirely. One of her hands tugged the hair at the back of his head while she let her other clutch at his back, pushing their bodies hard together. His tongue was driving her wild as it explored her mouth, caressed her, spiked the temperature in her core with the thought of that tongue painting other parts of her body.
She was pulling away, her eyes lidded, lips swollen with his kisses. His own eyes, heavy with lust, matched the haze that covered hers, and he swooped back in for a searing kiss, his lips engulfing hers, his hands suddenly on either side of her face as he moved his lips tenderly, kiss after kiss, over hers. She was gripping onto his wrists, noticing that each message from his lips was becoming longer, slower, but each pause increasing, too. Finally, he rested his forehead against hers, still framing her face between his palms, her fingers hotly gripped on his wrists. With lips parted, and heavy breath mingling between them, their swollen lips upturned as the realization hit them that no one was running, no one was saying I can't.
He was walking her to her car, but with promises of Call me when you get home and Drive safely and I will singing sweetly in the air. She was letting go of his hands, but only to grip at the front of his t-shirt and pull his lips to hers in a quick kiss, one that turned into more as his hands found a home across her back and her fingers laced behind his neck.
She had MapQuest directions back to Scranton in the front seat of the car, but then his voice, rough and low, was saying, "Would it be alright if I come down to see you on Friday?" and she was saying, "Okay," without a second thought.
He was kissing her again, quickly this time, and stealing another peck on the cheek through the window of her car, as she drove off wearing clothing that half belonged to him.
He was watching her car peek over the horizon, but this time with the knowledge and hope that she wasn't running from him this time, but to him.
He didn't dial his sister's number until he was sure that her car was headed towards the highway.
"I want all of the details, big brother!"
"Alright, I'll start at the beginning…"
The smile hadn't dissipated the entire car ride long. It was late Sunday afternoon, so the traffic on 287 westbound wasn't terrible. For the few times she'd spent at a slower pace than with the flow of traffic, she wasn't bothered. Her fingers kept finding their way to her lips, touching the tingling skin that was still haunted deliciously by his kisses.
Her phone rang when she was forty-five minutes from home. It was a simple, "Just making sure you're safe," but her heart was soaring more, if that was even possible.
"Well, I was drag racing with this biker gang across the New York strip, but they quit halfway through. Couldn't keep up with me, I guess."
He chuckled then, letting it drift off into, "I'll let you go. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You probably shouldn't be on the phone while driving anyway."
"Kay," was all she'd said as she let the phone sit in her lap for 10 more minutes of silence. He was on speaker anyway; they weren't hurting anybody.
She heard him turn on a game in the background; he heard her radio playing top forties charts, and grinned as she quietly sang along. When her battery was about to die, she said she'd call him when she got home, and she had barely put the car in park before she was dialing his number again.
"Hey." His voice sounded like sandpaper, but it made her toes tingle at the thought of him sleeping on that couch, his chocolate hair mussed, his eyes blinking open when his cell phone had vibrated on his stomach.
"I made it back, safe and sound," she breathed, her voice small but twinkling.
"Good," he replied, the joy unmasked in his quietness.
Once they had hung up and she'd put her key in the lock of building she hadn't entered in what seemed like an eternity, it hit her suddenly that she wouldn't be spending the night wrapped in his arms, wouldn't awaken in the morning to his scent flooding her nostrils. But as she dug through her purse to find her cell phone charger, she noticed a bundle of cotton wrapped on top, the name HALPERT peeking through the folds. As she unwrapped the shirt, she realized that this one might actually fit her, the rattiness of the stickers giving away its age. The faded name Evans and Sons covered the front, and although, as she deduced, this was probably an old little league shirt, it still stopped mid thigh on her.
She closed her eyes that night with her nose buried in his t-shirt and a smile etched into her cheeks.
