Knickers

Noogies and Oblivion

There's an inexplicable nervousness that settles in my stomach when we reach his bedroom door. It's protected with a coded lock, and he makes no intention to hide the numbers that let us in.

Inside is a stockpile of all his valuables, mingling with the usual decor of the bedroom, though it's impossible to distinguish what was stowed in here for the party. There are snazzy guitars on stands littering the room, various awards, scattered musical equipment and technology. The place isn't color coordinated at all. There are shocks of bright pink in throw pillows and curtains, blues and grays, black and white accents, splashes of orange and green from music and movie posters all over the walls. Most of all, it smells like him, and it's so weird that I know that.

He reveals my bra from the top drawer of his wardrobe and tosses it to me. Is there no intimacy in handling someone's undergarments? Or did we pass that threshold when I nicked his knickers?

"Thanks," I tell him.

"As for him," he says, holding up the tiny plant, doing a three-sixty spin in search of the proper place to put it.

He jabs his finger toward the window, and he sashays over and ties back the hot pink curtain to place the pot on the ledge.

"God, I hope I don't kill it," he says. "You'll forgive me if I do, right?"

"They're hard to kill," I say, chewing my lip, feeling the pulse of the music underfoot. "This party is pretty hype."

"Ain't it?" he agrees excitedly, clapping his hands for emphasis. "I'll be honest, I didn't think you'd come."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you're too cool for me," he says, leaping up onto his bed and bouncing down onto his knees.

"You're famous," I tell him simply.

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like I am," he says, flopping over, rolling onto his stomach, then onto his back again. "I feel like a kid at a birthday, except now every day is my birthday."

"No, what's happening is you're getting recognized for your talent," I tell him, humorless.

"You mean my tunes?"

"That reminds me. I've been listening to your music. All of it actually."

He spins again, propping his chin on his hands. "What d'you think?"

I wander to his wardrobe, investigating the random accessories stacked on top. I slip on a chunky pair of white sunglasses and a fingerless pair of striped gloves.

"I would go into it," I say, posing in the mirror on the opposite wall, "but I'd be a bad guest if I kept you away from your party for much longer."

"It's my fucking party and I'll hide if I want to," he says, army crawling closer to me on the bed. "Go on, then. What's your favorite?"

"I have many favorites," I tell him with a teasing shrug of indifference.

"God dammit, Marley!"

"Well, okay. Maybe it was Polygraph Eyes." I pluck a heavy gold chain from a jewelry dish and drape it across my throat. "Do I look like Yungblud?"

"Nah," he says, beckoning me with a finger, getting up onto his knees. "C'mere."

I approach the bed warily, and he grabs me around the neck and noogies me into oblivion. When he sits backward onto his heels he's visibly satisfied with his work.

"Better?" I ask.

"Do a spin," he orders.

I spin.

"Yes, much better," he says, yanking me by my hands onto his bed.

In a second we're both on our feet and jumping up and down on his mattress, badly singing Polygraph Eyes acapella. He holds tight to my hands, spinning us in circles, galloping in a circuit, shouting at the ceiling. My usual incoordination catches up with me, of course, and I trip over the comforter. Dom senses the impending crash and yanks me forward, clasping his arms around me, but the momentum is too great, and I drag both of us over the edge and onto the floor.

Of the many unforeseeable events in my life, winding up tangled on the floor of the bedroom of a rockstar with said rockstar would have been one of the more far-fetched. Dom's unabashed laughter cuts through any guilt I might feel, and before I know it, it's just us, one on top of the other, giggling uncontrollably on the floor.

"You alright?" he asks, still chuckling, cupping my chin and inspecting me for injuries.

"No," I answer teasingly, quickly captivated, leaning into his hands.

After a moment it occurs to me that, oh my god, I'm not alright.

    An ugly realization hits me like a wrecking ball.

    I have a goddamn crush.

    "Oh my god," I choke out, trapped somewhere in his eyes.

    "What's wrong?" he asks, more serious than I've ever seen him. "Are you hurt? Your head?"

    "I think I should go," I tell him numbly.

    "What? Why?" he asks, stunned. "Have I done something?"

    A crush, Marley? A fucking crush? What are you, twelve?

    "I'm sorry," I say, struggling to my feet, stripping off his accessories and leaving them in the jewelry dish. "Thanks for inviting me to your party."

    I make the mistake of chancing a final look at him, slumped on the ground with his hands in his lap, looking like a kicked puppy.

    "Did I offend you?" he asks softly.

    "No," I retort. "No, it's not you. You're, well, you're perfect, somehow." I pinch my lips shut before I can say anything stupider. "Sorry. Goodnight."

    I let myself out.