Wish You Were Here

Chapter 16

You wake before he does in the morning, lay beside him watching him sleep without trying to be creepy. He looks so young when he's asleep, like he carries his age in his eyes, so deep and expressive. It's not fair that he's so handsome without effort, that he can go a few days without shaving, or let his eyebrows grow rogue, and still look like he belongs on the cover of a magazine. Men's eyelashes are always so long, too. It should be illegal to be so sexy.

You think back to your admission from last night, confessing to your friends that you like him more than you're supposed to, that you wish the two of you could be together in the real sense. Would his family like you? You think you would get along with his sister from what he's shared about her. Your mom would probably like him for his everlasting kindness, the way he expresses feelings, even if she doesn't like the age difference. Your dad would be less impressed with him, you think, but he's always been hard to impress. Your sister being the clear favorite has never helped you in that regard.

This all hinges on how he feels about you, anyway. He would be risking just as much as you if you were seen together in public. It's easy for him to tell you, verbally, if he likes something about you. But every time you've asked him a direct question about his feelings, he's dodged the answer. You wonder if he's ever done one of those Vanity Fair lie detector videos.

Although, you consider, as dangerous as it is, you think you want to tell him the truth. That you like him more than you're supposed to, that you wish this could be more than friends with benefits. If he likes you back, maybe you can figure something out. Maybe he won't go back to the UK. And if he doesn't share the same feelings, you think it's probably for the best that he knows you can't do this anymore. Being with him is too painful if he doesn't feel the same way.

He stirs beside you, moves around and sighs and yawns. Now he's awake you take your pill, drink slowly from the bottle of water you keep on the bedside table, reach for your lip balm. "Can I borrow that?" he asks sleepily, reaching across the bed. You hand the container to him, amused. You like that he's so comfortable with his masculinity that he isn't embarrassed to dig his finger into your lip balm. And now he smells like strawberries and has pink lips.

You lay back down beside him and he pulls you closer, locks you against his body. Mornings with him are good enough to turn you into a morning person. You cuddle until he wakes up enough to make coffee and then comes back, asks how your friends are doing after your group dinner last night, tells you a funny story from yesterday's matinee performance, tickles you until you can't breathe, blows sloppy wet raspberries on your belly to make you laugh. Neither of you have anywhere to go today, and it seems both of you are happy to stay in bed as long as you can.

While you're still laying together, he says, "There's something I want to ask you."

"Mmm?"

"I've been doing a lot of reflection. Self-reflection, mostly. And reflecting on this." A hand reaches out to squeeze your butt.

You laugh, but he's totally deadpan. "Go on."

He gives you a long monologue about desire versus need, about honesty, about how we shouldn't be led by fear. Is he about to confess his feelings for you? "What are you trying to tell me?" you ask.

"I really want to see your place," he says. You read that so wrong you're almost embarrassed with yourself. He must misinterpret your sigh as disappointment that he's asking again. "I'm not going to push if it's not something you're comfortable with. But I just want to know why you don't want me to come over."

"It's just embarrassing." You can't look him in the eye. "It's nothing like the places you're used to sleeping, like the apartments of other girls you've been with."