Near Touch

Chapter 13: Guinea Pig

All her adventurous misdemeanors of the latter part of the week slowly spilled onto her dreams – like a flute of champagne – in a kaleidoscope of glass and rich incertitude. Amy woke up, unable to feel the tips of her fingers. A blissful, numbing warmth had enveloped her. 

With her feet out of the sheets and her head tucked under them, she searched in vain for a cool spot; idly pondering over the events that had occurred. Amy's heart was a stranger that faded Saturday morning, craving a million things it couldn't have.

Her bed wouldn't have any of that tosh. It clung to her stubbornly, and whispered, "You're all mine today, baby."

Caleb reclined in the window seat, a careless arm slung over one bent knee. He was humming a song whose lyrics he couldn't quite remember, the white sheer curtains billowing around him in the light breeze. Amy spied on him, wondering if he missed tracing smiles on misty glass panes.

He had faithfully stayed another night, quietly observing her. Fewer words were traded.

Something felt different.

Caleb turned and caught her staring. Shrugging indifferently, he moved closer to the bed and began tickling Amy's feet. "Could you please turn the page of that book? I've been up all night wondering why Gus had to die," he said, pointing to the floor.

Amy lazily sat up, fighting the hold her bed had on her. Caleb straightened and cleared his throat. 

She pushed her messy hair backwards and hopped off the bed. Stretching, Amy civilly excused herself to the washroom. She religiously avoided the mirror, choosing to close her eyes instead, as she showered.

Amy heard his voice over the sound of the flowing water. "So when are you going to tell him about me?"

Frowning, she padded back into the room, wrapped in a large yellow towel. Amy twirled her finger, gesturing for him to turn around. "Whatever do you mean?"

Caleb huffed and placed both his hands over his eyes, covering them like a little kid. "You know your boyfriend won't like the hot little thing we have going."

"He is not my boyfriend," she scoffed, toweling her hair. Ashton had made that abundantly clear.

Dressing casually in a cream top and a long rosewood-colored cardigan, Amy pretended not to notice the growing spaces between his intertwined fingers. Rummaging under the blankets, she dug out her spiral-bound notebook.

Caleb raised his palm solemnly. "I, a whole stadium full of people and your glorious, just-fucked hair from last night would sorely like to disagree."

He never missed an opening for borderline harassment. Watering her overdramatic suspicion, Amy believed he was consigned to her by a vindictive deity – in accordance with some kind of twisted, Greek mythology fetish. Undeniably, with his cobalt eyes, statuesque build and rugged appeal, Caleb Dawson looked fit for the part.

Amy scowled. "Just give me a minute to think."

When the telltale sound of pen scratches reached his ears, Caleb walked closer to her. "What are you doing?" he asked, peeking into her book.

"You'll know soon enough I guess," Amy said, noncommittally. Sweeping her hair away from her face, she gave him the sunniest of smirks. "Guinea pig."

The circuit from her room to the kitchen and back again was filled with loud, persistent, childlike protests from him, and it almost ruined her breakfast. Amy spooned her Froot Loops, randomly jotting down points in her special notebook, and occasionally jerking it away from Caleb's prying eyes. She meticulously prepared her bedroom for the preliminary stage of the operations.