Knickers

Celebratory Wiggling

The following day I spend planning something nice for Dom. I don't actually come up with anything solid, but thinking about it makes me feel better. The premise of him being happy for something I've done is gratifying on its own.
If my studio came with a stove I might bake him a cake. I would do all the googling, track down all the ingredients. It would look like garbage but he would accept it, and compliment it, and thank me, and kiss my cheek, and hug me, and then we'd share it, and then we'd have a rampant sugar rush, and when we crash we'll fall asleep side by side.
Maybe I should have gotten a place with a stove.
It's about eight when I get the call.
Mr. Blud's name lights up my phone. My heart does somersaults in my chest, creating such a crushing anticipation that I forget to let it ring a few times.
"Hey, Dom."
"Hey, Marley."
There's something different in his voice that upsets me immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, really. I just..."
He trails off.
"Dom?"
"I can't seem to calm myself down this time." He draws a long, tense breath that gives me chills, even over the phone. "You know, the anxiety."
"Oh," I say. "How do I help?"
"I don't know. Talk to me."
"Okay," I say, the softness in his voice flattening any ability I have to consider a topic. He's been on my mind. I want him to know that. "I was going to bake you a cake."
"A cake?"
"Yeah. You know, as a thank you for saving my ass the other day. Should I go into detail about it?"
"Please."
"Okay," I say, plopping myself down on my bed and kicking both my legs up. "Well, I would have decorated it pink. Duh, right? Three layers, Neapolitan. It would have been heart shaped, with buttercream frosting. An unbelievable amount of red food coloring. We'd have lost our minds. Our goddamn piss would have been pink."
A light laugh on the other end. "I didn't know you were such a talented baker."
"Oh, I can't bake for shit, but I would have tried like hell. You know, if my place had a stove."
"You don't have a stove?"
"I live in a bachelor's studio," I tell him. "That means no kitchen."
"You don't even have a kitchen?" he asks, aghast. "How do you feed yourself?"
"With a microwave, and every food delivery service I can find. I found this place on Sunset with this killer noodle dish." I pause. "Can I send some your way?"
"Come teach me how to do it," he says. "Please?"
I'm on my feet in an instant, scrambling around for my shoes.
"Marley?"
Fuck. Why can't I ever play it cool?
"Yeah, sorry," I say, propping myself against the bed to mute the frantic background noise of me trying to get myself together. "I'll be over soon. Is there anything I can bring to make you feel better?"
"Just you," he says. His voice is notably stronger than it was at the start.
My cheeks go bright red.
"Just me," I echo. "Okay. I'll hurry."
"Okay," he says.
We hang up. All hell breaks loose in my mind as I race to do myself up in the Yungblud-approved makeup. His words reverberate viciously, so much so that I can hardly concentrate on my internal conflict.
Just you.
Is that an indirect admission of love?
Just me.
What'll happen tonight? Should I wear nice lingerie? Extra perfume? Flavored lip balm?
Just you.
I'm halfway through brushing my teeth when the reality sets in. Dom's just being Dom, of course. Friendly to a fault, devastatingly appealing. How had I forgotten that crushes tend to dim common sense?
Two minutes before my Uber arrives I pause by my counter, contemplating. On my way out I grab a bottle of wine and a bag of marshmallows, for reasons I didn't think through.
This time my driver is talkative, enthusiastically asking about my weekend plans, telling me about her baby cousin who's about to start kindergarten. I tip her well at the end of my ride, and she wishes luck to me and my bottle of wine.
Dom answers the door, hunched and hollow. I open my mouth to greet him, but he holds up his hand. The visible shaking steals my words.
"It won't stop," he tells me soberly.
"Oh my god," I say, passing him to set my pointless gifts down on the coffee table. "What do I do?"
He shrugs.
"Can I touch you?"
He nods.
I take his hands and seat him on the sofa, chewing my lips in desperation for an answer. The feeling of uselessness is one I know well.
"Music, maybe?" I say, pulling out my phone to scan my library for something soothing. I put a jazz playlist on low volume, searching his face for results.
His tension melts ever so slightly into the beat.
"We can talk about stuff," I tell him.
He shrugs one noncommittal shoulder. "Tell me a story."
"A story," I repeat. "I went to this festival not long ago. I met this idiot who bet me to steal some underwear."
He smirks. "Details, please."
"Well," I begin, "the fence had a hole in it, sealed off with a tarp and some cable ties. We broke through that by melting the cable ties. We went bus to bus, you know, hiding from security. Neither I nor Maya knew your name."
He readjusts on the couch, turning and reclining into my lap, his head warm and heavy on my thighs. "How'd you wind up on my bus, then?"
"Well, I think he'd told us about two artists. You, and Machine Gun Kelly."
"We did a song together at Warped."
"I know. I've listened to it about a thousand times since then," I tell him, threading my fingers into his hair and making steady trails along his scalp. "Anyway, Maya and I figured Machine Gun Kelly didn't sound like someone who would have beef with Eminem. Different genres, you know, cause rappers tend to have beef with other rappers. I thought Yungblud sounded more hip-hop."
"Double the U..." he says, trailing off.
"Double the flavor," I finish. How dorky that is. How adorable.
"I was raised on hip-hop, you know."
"I do know. I've been..." I clear my throat in preemptive embarrassment for what I'm about to admit. "I've been watching your interviews."
"Christ, why?" he asks, squinting up at me. "You've got the real thing right in front of you. All the flavor, up close and personal."
"Well, I forget about your celebrity status sometimes. It's better to keep it in mind, so it won't hurt so much when you inevitably ditch me for your other celebrity friends."
"Marley," he says tiredly. "I don't have that mentality. There's no pedestal, there's no hierarchy, it's just about the music. I swear."
"Yeah. I'm trying to believe that," I tell him, tugging at the end of his hair. "Tonight's not about me, though."
He huffs, his head dropping to one side. "I could have called anyone, you know, but I called you."
Fuck, he's right. I need to avoid getting so emo that he regrets choosing me. Tonight's about Dom, making Dom feel better.
"Are you hungry?" I ask him, cupping his chin.
"I wasn't before. I am now."
"That's a good sign, right?" I say, pausing the jazz music on my phone and opening the Postmates app.
"Yes, but I'll never admit that," he says, shuffling in my lap so he can see my screen. "Alright. Teach me the magic."
So, step by step, I take him through the process of mobile food ordering. He offers the occasional question, prodding at various buttons and offsetting my concentration. As expected, it is all very endearing, and it only takes twenty minutes or so to actually order, considering the various hiccups in the lesson.
I lean over him, toward the coffee table, and pluck up the bag of marshmallows. "Tell me something."
"I'd tell you anything."
"Why'd you invite me, a stranger, onto your tour bus? Honestly."
"Adam asked me the same thing," he says, jabbing his index finger against the pillowy bottom of the bag. "He thought I was a proper idiot, bringing a random girl on the bus."
"Especially one that had already broken into it," I add. "So. Why?"
"It didn't even occur to me," he says. "Maybe it was naïve of me, but I felt no distrust toward you. Just, well, a click."
I tear open the bag, cocking an eyebrow. "A click?"
"Don't disagree with me now," he groans, opening his mouth to receive a marshmallow. "It couldn't have just been your carnal desire for me that fostered our friendship."
My heart rate spikes. "My what?"
He cracks the first real smile I've seen all evening. "You wanted to hook up, remember?"
"Not explicitly," I say, defensive. "I thought that's what you wanted. Why else would a guy invite me to his tour bus?"
"Yes, I haven't forgotten. You kissed me."
My face goes red at the memory. I didn't have the foresight back then to know how much of a mistake it would have been, but now it rings in my mind as the one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done.
"Yeah," I say, twiddling my thumbs with the marshmallow bag between them. "I did apologize for that, right?"
"More than once," he says, and the laugh that follows revitalizes my soul. "I didn't mind it then and I don't mind it now."
I stuff another marshmallow in his mouth to silence him, buying enough time to decode his words. What is all this teasing? Is it flirtation? Was that last statement an invitation to kiss him again?
God, do I want to. But it wouldn't be right, would it? I'd have to make my intentions clear first, that I don't want to hook up and be done with it. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I'm hoping for more.
Directness has always been a strength of mine. Why is it so hard to just come out with it?
Our conversational banter remains lighthearted and fun through our meal. I didn't notice exactly when, but his hands have stopped shaking completely. We wander into his kitchen to cork the bottle of wine, and pass it back and forth between us as we roast marshmallows over the tiny flame of his stove. My history of accidental fires is conveniently forgotten during this time.
Wine is my favorite thing to drink when I'm not hiding from trauma. It leaves my entire body warm, and all I want to do is dance and sing and giggle about my most embarrassing memories.
Despite our tipsiness we decide to play guitar hero, then Hot Hands, then Go Fish, all of which I lose. It's too easy to lose to him, to watch him spin and celebrate his victories. I try to convince myself at one point that I'm throwing the game intentionally to see his bubbling joy, but I know that I'm really just terrible at games.
Regardless, I'm fine with it. I am so fine with it.
"Dom," I say, slapping down my cards.
"Hm?" he returns smugly, pausing his celebratory wiggling.
"You deserve the world."
His first reaction is to smile, before his expression is replaced with recollection and his jaw drops. "That reminds me. What did you mean by that text? When you were at that bar and you told me that I deserved better?"
"I don't know. I was drunk."
"Exactly. What was the brutally honest sentiment behind that, hm?"
"Nothing," I say. "Just my insignificance. The feeling that you could do so much better than me."
He knocks on my head with his bruised knuckles, tilting his head one way then the other in a funny little display. "You must have a brick in there or summat. You dropped everything and came here just to help me out. Not to mention, drunk Marley trusts me with her life. That means a lot."
"Yeah. Well—"
"Hey," he says, silencing me with a firm pinch of my nose. "Stop. I love you."
Then he gets to his feet and wanders back into the kitchen, giving me no time to respond. I'm almost glad he leaves, because the choking stutter that escapes me isn't flattering.
It occurs to me then, no, it's just that friendliness again.
When he returns he smiles innocently at me, as if he hadn't just given me a heart attack. He lies in my lap once more, and he and I drink wine and play Sticks until we both fall asleep.