Hands Tied
Keys are thrown onto a hard surface, rattling ever so slightly at the collision. Steps are taken around a room, a clothing article shaken off of narrow shoulders and laid somewhere outside my line of vision.
Because it is all out of my line of vision.
All I know is what I hear from here, from this spot I'm standing so awkwardly in, a few feet from an open door that could just as well be closed. It wouldn't make it harder than it already is to ever tread over it.
My arms are crossed infront of me, body leaning lightly against the hallway wall, copying an action that is completely out of place because there's somewhere else I should be standing. There's something else I should be leaning against. This is only a test before the real deal, the real spot I should inhabit in a few moments and I'm merely preparing myself.
I must look ridiculous here I stand, leaning against an empty wall in a hallway meant to be walked in, and before I've been waiting too long for the right moment to occur, I lean away from the wall, uncross my arms and smooth my sweaty palms roughly against the fabric of my jeans.
I changed my mind, arms crossed isn't the position I want to take as I approach her again. No, arms crossed means defensiveness and that's not what I want. That's exactly what I idon't/i want.
For the first time in weeks, it seems my head is ahead of my feet, mind urging them to take the necessary steps towards a doorstep I can't remember ever standing on.
They don't squeak like I expected them to, the hardwood floors outside her room, and her doorframe doesn't feel as sharp on my arm as I always imagined it to be. Yes, I'm here, standing on her doorstep, thumbs barely inside the pockets of my jeans, eyes roaming around her room in open curiousity before seeing the keys on her desk and then seeing the movement assuring me of her presence. That she really is inside this room, this room I'm tipping on the doorstep to so nervously but with so much bravery that I couldn't chicken out even if I wanted to.
For the first time, this feels right. This setting, letting her see me watching her, silently asking her to notice me, invite me in. Mentally as much as literally.
I know she saw me the minute I stepped onto this barely raised door sill as I let my toes dig into the edge of it but never letting my eyes fall on them. No, I won't let my eyes fall down this time. Instead, I let them do what they want to.
There's no show of her noticing my presence other than the eyes that are looking straight into mine. She continues what she's doing, rummaging through her purse as she stands by her desk and at last she lowers her eyes from mine and onto the purse.
It doesn't surprise me.
I expect nothing less than this. I'm just happy she hasn't slammed the door in my face yet. I hope it won't come to that.
I don't know what she's looking for but she's putting all her concentration into her quest for something inside the purse. It makes me smile, ever so slightly but still noticeable to a searching eye. There's no eyes searching me though, and I wish there was. Because I want them on me, I want those blue eyes filled with so much tension to meet mine again, I want it so much. So much that I can't walk away from this doorstep even though I know she's ignoring me. Ignoring me so openly and carelessly that I know my presence affects her, affects her more than she would ever admit that it does. I just hope it affects her in the way I want it to.
She finds whatever she's been searching for but I don't take notice of it. I don't care what it is, because I know it could've been anything. Could've been the pocket mirror I've seen her lend Madison every now and then, could've been her cell phone that she never seems to find inside the jungle that is her handbag. Whatever she found, I know it wasn't in her purse at all because I'm pretty sure she was never really looking for anything in it. She was looking for something inside iher/i.
Courage.
That's what I think she found, because she no longer chooses to ignore me and looks at me again. Eyes so hard to read but still so expressive, still calling me in without knowing it.
Still just meeting mine and making me so very, very nervous again.
She turns away from me and walks with small steps toward her bed, sitting down on it so very carefully that it looks like she's afraid it'll break. Afraid it'll not be there when she trusts it to support her.
Her hands grip the sides of her bed tightly, suffocating the edges before releasing her grip while she sighs ever so softly, trying in vain to release whatever tension that has has filled her. Her eyes travel a path along the floor before they reach me again, not my eyes but the tip of my toes, the ones that are tipping on the doorstep, hidden inside white socks but their form still easily seen. They don't linger there for long though, they don't linger anywhere for long as her eyes climb up me, not in anger, not in lust but in awkwardness and confusion. She's wondering what I'm doing here. Stepping into her territory.
I take her silence as invitation and when she doesn't object at my presence gradually decreasing in distance, I muster up the courage to sit down beside her. Sit down on the same bed that she sleeps in every night, the same bed I've never seen her bring anyone into.
Wondering if I might be the first one outside her family to touch it.
It's almost pathetic to even call it 'beside her'. Because there are so many feet separating us on this bed, a distance that could be measured in years but I hope to lessen those months and days that stand between us. That separates us and makes us so alien to one another. We've already come such a long way.
«I heard about last night.»
Not the most tactful approach, I'm fully aware but what words should have been uttered before it? There's so many empty sentences that could've opened this conversation between us, but I don't see the use of them. We've never had a normal conversation. Never uttered words without meaning and I'm not about to start. All I want is to be truthful. And hope with all I've got that she'll be the same.
«What about last night?»
Her voice is rushed, not successful at hiding the obvious fright that lays beyond them, those words she probably hoped to never have to say.
«You shouldn't care about what they say. It's just rumours, people always feel the need to spread them but they'll go away. They don't know you.»
She looks at me with an almost offended expression, confused but annoyed at my blunt assumption of her feelings and she obviously doesn't like it.
«They can say whatever they want about me. It's not like they haven't always done so, I don't care.»
Confusion creeps into every pore in my body and I'm not sure if she's just blocking me out or being honest. And my next words are probably so far from what I meant to say that I wonder if I even thought them, or just blurted them out before I had the time to think them.
«But you were crying last night...»
Whatever button I pressed with my misplaced sentence, it seems to have hit the trigger and maybe it wasn't so misplaced after all. Maybe it was the sentence that needed to be uttered more than anything. Because she looks at me so open-eyed right now, cheeks reddening as if she never thought I would ever adress it so openly, so innocently.
«I wasn't crying because of that...!»
Her hands leave their spot on the bed and it looks like she doesn't know where to place them, doesn't know what to do with them other than suspend them in the air, looking around her not quite believing what she just said. I can't quite believe it myself.
My mouth is open and won't close, my own eyes mirroring hers in size and I've got no words in my mouth, no words in my head. So I just look bewildered around me, around her. And as I do so, I see her hands fall down in her lap, one softly stroking the other as if soothing herself, seeking comfort in her own hands and her forehead wrinkles, not much but noticeable when you really look at her. Study her like I do.
«You know why I was crying last night...»
The end of her sentence is punctuated by her eyes shooting into mine, but only briefly before they fall down into her lap again.
She's opening up to me. Opening up in ways I don't think she's ever done before and I don't know what to do with this trust she's throwing into my slippery hands. I'm so scared that I might break it.
On the other hand, this is the chance I've always wanted and I'm not sorry for her trust in me. No, I'm so far from sorry that I can barely see the outline of it. This is my chance to prove I deserve it.
And I'm messing it up so badly, messing up all the words I've said over and over in my head in preparation for this moment. They're chopped up, altered, spread around and impossible to find meaning to, those words I planned to say to her when this moment came. Rendering me speechless.
My silence must be taken as an end to this conversation, because she stops staring blurriedly in front of herself, stops sitting on the bed next to me and instead stands up and tucks her shirt down nervously. I can't see where she's looking because I'm so caught up in desperately looking for the right words, the right actions to follow such a vulnerable admittance but they're still not there. Still not solved in my head.
She doesn't kick me out like I thought she would, almost hoped she would. Instead, she walks across her room and mindlessly starts to stroke the buttons of her stereo, never pressing hard enough for it to start. Just keeping it as an undisguisable distraction.
They will never be found, those words I'm looking for, so I think of new ones but they all seem wrong, all seem too mediocre and pathetic to honor this very setting.
When my first words are about to come forth, they are stopped by someone outside this situation, someone so perplexed by this very setting that he's not even capable of disguising it.
«Oh, hi girls! I didn't think I'd find you both in here, but good. Good.»
Arthur just stands there, looking between us making this even more awkward. Or possibly less, because he's breaking the tension, filling it with just awkwardness. And awkwardness doesn't hold a tenth to what tension seems to do to me.
He smiles a happy little smile that he hopes is the right emotion to show right now, and then he finally talks again.
«So, I've baked brownies and I thought you might want some, especially since Glen is out cold and doesn't have the chance to eat them up before you get there.»
He looks at us expectantly, but I think he's kinda sorry he busted in on us, in on whatever moment I know he knows we had. I'm just grateful he doesn't know iwhat/i kinda moment.
«Sure Arthur, that would be great», is what I manage to pull out of me, Spencer just looking at her dad and nodding, apparently not feeling the urge to talk orally.
He just leaves, doesn't say anything more than that and I can hear his footsteps smacking hard down on the steps like they always do. Never fooling anyone about his whereabouts.
Her finger is still resting against the 'pause' button of her stereo as I dislodge myself from her bed and look toward her. I copy Arthur's smile and I do it genuinely, actually happy in my confusion and she catches it. What stuns me even more is that she reciprocates it. Sends it back to me in a closed-mouthed package and it makes it so hard for me to not fully break out into a grin. It just doesn't seem like the time for those kind of smiles yet.
We both walk toward the door simultaneously, never crossing our minds that it's not big enough to fit us both at the same time without making us impossibly close.
Or maybe that's exactly that crossed both of ours mind.
Either way, we end up here, so close to the doorstep and even closer to eachother, shoulder pressing into a shoulderblade and when I turn my head to look at her, she's so frighteningly close to me that it makes me tingle. Makes me stop breathing momentarily as I will myself to step away from her and not let us continue this close encounter.
I don't move at all.
Neither does she, but only for such a brief moment that I could have imagined it. Could have tricked my own mind because I so desperately wanted that to happen. Wanted her that close to me.
Now I just want her even closer.
«Sorry», is heard uttered from far away, because she iis/i suddenly far away, having stepped back and reduced the insane tension that still tickles my bones. Still tickles me the whole way down the stairs, giving me a frightening thrill that I should be used to around her but it still feels new every time I experience it.
As I enter the kitchen, I linger in the doorway for a moment, only a few seconds but seconds that are so precious to me because I hope she will be right behind me. Hope she will repeat the same position as before, so close to me, so painstakingly, euphoricly close to me.
It's so ridiculous the whole immature wish of mine, because Arthur and Paula is in here, inside this room and I know I should be careful. All in all, I shouldn't be doing anything at all. For them, I shouldn't even think it, let alone wish it. That's why I step inside the room in a sudden rush, sitting down in the spot I always sit in during family meals and I don't know if it's out of habit or in hope of her sitting down next to me. Close to me.
I no longer trust my decisions to be unbiased.
Several moments pass before she enters, reason unknown as to why it took her so long. No hints as to why is given and I stop dwelling on it when she sits down in a chair so different from the one I wanted her in. The one next to me continuing to be vacant.
«I hope you're all hungry.»
Arthur smiles and looks between us all, making me forced to pretend a smile I'd rather not show. I'm confused and more disappointed than such a trivial thing should ever make me, and it makes me mad at myself for being so powerless to the feelings she ignites in me.
«So Spencer, how was Madison doing?»
She looks up from her plate and watches her mother with a look tinted with suspicion. Her gaze shifts momentarily into my direction and she catches me staring at her but I don't look away. Right now I'm justified in my watching because we're all waiting for her to answer, all waiting for her to tell without effort.
But she needs effort to reply. And however much I try to turn it around in my head, all I end up with is one recurring thought in my head; she wasn't at Madison's house earlier. She might've planned to, but she never went.
«Yeah, she was fine as always.»
«That's good to hear, I heard her parents were having some problems in their marriage so I was just wondering how she was holding up.»
The staring executed toward the plate in front of her is intensified as Spencer's jaw clenches, teeth grazing together in silence.
«She's good mom, stop being nosy.»
«I'm not being nosy, I'm just feeling bad for her you know.»
«No mom, you're just looking for some gossip and I'm not going to give it to you.»
I'm sure Paula has a frown upon her face and feels wronged by Spencer's comment but I wouldn't really know for sure. She's not the one I'm looking at. It's Spencer that owns my attention and there's a little glint of thankfulness that she's sitting opposite of me and not beside me, because it gives me a better ability to watch her, read her. Stare at her unabashedly without anyone thinking twice about it.
It pains me to admit it, but I'm grateful that Glen isn't here. Because he would've noticed. He always does.
And they talk more, these people that surround this table I'm at but I'm not hearing their words, only sounds jarring in the background as I watch her lips move, as I watch her eyebrows raise, as I let her affect on me consume me completely.
I'm so in love with her.
Scares the shit out of me, those words, because I never thought it went that deep. I never thought it was ithat/i serious for me. But it is now, even if it wasn't before. I've always been under her, grasping and hoping and wishing for her acceptance but I didn't know her then. I didn't see her like I do now and whatever fascination I once had has strengthened tenfold, burst the bottle and she's no longer just the girl I want to like me. She's so much more than that.
There's rushed movements coming from my right and as I finally let my eyes tear themselves away from tingles and faster heartbeats I see Paula rushing into the living room in a hurry. My confused expression doesn't go unnoticed but thankfully it's the right person noticing. How could she not when she knew I was starting at her the whole time, barely even touching the brownies on my plate.
«Favourite show», is muttered under her breath as Arthur reaches for my plate, looking at me weirdly. He's not used to me leaving food behind.
«I can do the dishes, you can just join Paula if you want.»
Finally I say something, more out of habit than thought out words but it makes him smile again, smoothing out the frown between his eyebrows as he lets the plate be and turns around in Spencer's direction.
«Will you help her, Spencer?»
He doesn't expect an answer, even less the «yes» that slips out from soft lips but he's pleasantly surprised instead of suspicious like he should be. Like I am. Because this is so not her, so not what she does and I don't know how to take it. If I should be thrilled or terrified.
When I think about it, I believe I'm both.
Her hand reaches out for Paula's plate and I watch her retrieve it before I snatch Arthur's plate before she does the job for me. She's quicker than me, and it's not without a reason. I'm deliberately spending more time than normal on balancing the cutlery on the plates, because I'm waiting for her to make a move. I'm waiting for her to reach the dishwasher before me.
She does, never noticing my hesitant movements or maybe just ignoring them. Just like I'm ignoring the barely noticeable shake in her hands because I don't know what it means. And this is not the time to dwell on it. I've already got my mind full of things so unfathomable, I'm not capable of handling any more.
She never walks away from it, the dishwasher, instead just hovering by it, looking in my direction as I try my best to focus on the plates and not on her, not on her form that is pressed against the kitchen counter with hands gripping the edges hard. While her hands almost hid their nervous shake earlier, my hands are trembling like they've never done before, and it doesn't slow down when I step closer to her. It doesn't lessen at all.
I'm amazed I even manage to place the plates where they're supposed to, and not in pieces on the floor. But I do, and as I hover down here, down by the dishwasher and seeking comfort in its neutral and unfearful nature I'm waiting for her to leave. Waiting for her to walk away from me like she's done so many times, over and over but always leaving me with isomething/i. Some weird feeling that only seems to strengthen every time I see her leave.
She never leaves.
«Ash.»
I can't bare hearing her say my name, it just makes it even harder, even more painstaking knowing that she can say it in such a way. In such an easy and natural way and making it mean iso much more/i.
My head is swimming, blurred in vision and I can't see a way out of this, I can't see how this can ever go back to what it once was: Fascination and contempt.
As I stand up, I have to turn away. I can't look at her in this state, I can't trust my actions to control themselves because my mind has already been taken hostage by the tingling feeling she envelops me with.
And all trust in restraint is forever gone when I end up turning too far, too much around and ending up just in front of her. A step being taken without my consent and hands landing on the kitchen unit right beside hers. One of them accidentally touching her thumb and making my breath hitch.
I'm not sure if the hitching was because of the touch or the closeness though. Because seconds later, my lips land on hers and my eyes slam shut and it's just that one touch. That one thing binding us together and it feels almost too real.
Not because I haven't imagined this over and over, not because I actually dared to do it.
It's because she doesn't back away.
She doesn't really kiss me back either, not at first. No, we're both just standing there, me waiting for her to stop this, push me away and run out, or even worse, start shouting at me. Her... I'm too afraid to speculate on her reason for not pulling out of it.
I'm just so happy and nerve-wrecked at the same time that she doesn't. End it.
And I tense even more when I feel her lips move, ever so slightly away from mine but never letting me get filled with dread before placing them back on my quivering lips, slightly different but still so very, very soft.
It's almost like she can't believe it herself.
I sure as hell can't.
Especially not when the hands previously gripping the kitchen counter right next to mine land on my jawline and she leads me carefully closer, closer into her body and ultimately closer into her kiss. iOur/i kiss.
I back out of it far enough to let my lips part from hers, but never far enough to take us out of the moment. I'm too afraid to open my eyes, too afraid of having reality dawn on me so I don't let them be apart for too long, those lips of ours.
She seems to have the same idea.
It's never harsh or wanting, just filled with so much tension that I'm afraid I'm going to have heart attack at any moment.
It would still be worth it.
And as I thought my breath was already out of me for good, a velvet touch without warning lands on my bottom lip, just touching it and I don't know how to proceed.
Sure, I've done this before. It's not the first time I've kissed someone, made out with someone, but the thought of actually imaking out/i with Spencer is so surreal and unbelievable that it shakes me up in ways I can't describe.
It's not a gasp or subconscious reaction that makes me part my lips. Instead it's such a conscious step that I remember every bit of it, every movement I make as I deepen this. Deepen it so slowly, because I can't rush this. I can't inot/i revel in it.
She doesn't rush it either.
My hands are still on the edge of the counter behind her, no longer touching it but instead gripping it so thoroughly and harshly that I'm sure my knuckles are turning white. Every ounce of my body begging me to give in and touch her, touch her in all the places I want to but don't dare to.
The fearfulness has never left me.
I'm still afraid of everything about her, everything that is happening and my hands are a proof of that. A proof of how incredibly inot/i ready I am for this.
This insane impact she has on all my senses.
It's not before my hand looses its safe grip on the counter and betrays me by reaching up her sides, feeling slight trembles along the way, that I understand how wrong this is. How incredibly out of line we both are.
Hands are off of her in an instant, as if burnt and so are my lips. All contact is broken as I finally let my eyes open bluntly and look right into closed eyelids. Closed eyelids that are slowly opening and when her eyes open to look at me once again, I feel the taste of salt on my lips, suddenly noticing the wet feeling on my cheeks and the automatic sniff I try to hide with the back of a palm touching the tip of my nose.
Her expression suddenly looks more broken than mine has ever done.
«We can't do this.»