Maisy

Chapter 16: Maisy

“You don't talk very much.”

He smiled.

“Hello?” I asked in a small voice as I tapped my knuckles gently on his forehead, “let me in.”

“It's just not easy for me.”

“Can you try?”

“Yeah, yes, it's just the way I'm built. And you’re built... I feel like it's easy for you to talk. I have a lot of thoughts, but I just... don't say them."

“What do you mean?”  I asked as I held his hand, which I brought to my lips to kiss.

"I overthink, I guess." He shrugged.

"Like you think about saying something, then you start overthinking it?"

"I'm just used to being quiet, and I forget that sometimes that might be worse than me talking."

"I just want to know you." I dipped my chin to my chest.

"I'm sorry." He stroked my palm.

"Why can't you come on my bus?" I asked him again.

"Maisy, you know how tortuous that would be.  You'll be fine with Holland."

"I know, I know."

"It's only a few weeks… and then you'll be home…" his voice trailed off, as did his gaze, like he was pondering how my time would be spent after my short tour in the UK.

"You could come see me at home?" I offered. 

"That would not be okay."

"But we could work something out? Somewhere else?"

"I'd like that... If you wanted, I mean. I'd like to try..." His eyes looked onto me, into the depths of my response, like what I said next was something of importance.  Like it was something he was waiting for me to acknowledge or inform.

"Jon," I began, but the heat in his eyes caused me, for once, to scrutinize my response, "Jon, I like you in my life, I'm not ready for that to end.  Anytime soon." 

I held his gaze as he nodded, and I could see a perking in his upper lip as he blew out a breath. 

He cleared his throat, "when I first got this job, my boss sent me a file on you.  Just basic info, your schedule for the week, my initial protocols, just - papers and such."  He arched his back for a moment. "Your picture... a picture of you was inside... and I thought to myself, 'wow, she's an angel…’ and a drew my finger down your face... and I had to literally stop for a minute, to take it all in and mentally stop myself, because… it felt so wrong... to look at you like that. And I thought I'd squandered it... but when we first met," he looked down and smiled.  

"When we first met, I knew..." He paused again, and I made sure to keep quiet, not to disturb the flow of his words in which I'd previously been deprived.

"I knew I was so screwed. You gave me this little half smile as your mom introduced us and all I could think was, 'fuck, can I do this job?'"  

Shrivers ran up my skin, and down to my belly.

He looked at me and pressed his lips closed, as if signaling he was done, but then he added, "and then I listened to your music," he shook his head and waved away some air with his hand.

And I smiled, and laughed, and said, "Is that what that was?  I really thought you hated me!"

"Well, I didn't mean to make you feel that way, I was just trying to do my job.”

"And when did you listen to my music?"

A hue rose to his cheeks I haven't been privy to before, as he answered, "after that.  After the first time we met."

"And what did you hear?"

"Well, it was 'bad guy' first. The video," he admitted, drawing his eyes up like a bow and he looked at me then, like there was something I should know.

"In the beginning, the first shot, there's that bodyguard guy!"

"Oh," I laughed. 

"And sometimes he is awkwardly staring at you!"

My laughter continued.

"And I felt like the biggest creep!  I couldn't listen to anymore that night."

I couldn't stop laughing as I tried to say, "I remember shooting that day, and I kept thinking, like, 'I wish my bodyguard was this hot.'" 

And somehow I seemed to laugh harder, deep rollings causing me to buckle over as tears sprang from my eyes.

"Don't laugh at me!" He exclaimed, but he grabbed my sides and I laughed harder yet, a high squeak escaped my lips.

"Quit it," he teased as he tickled me some more.

"Stop!" I sputtered out, as I moved my hands to his stomach, trying to give him some payback, but when I touched the fabric over his abdomen he seemed to turn himself off, and pull fully away.

My eyes had little tears in them, and I batted them off to look at Jon's face, because the tension in the room had risen, and I needed to figure out why.

Jon's hands were in his lap and I reached over to give his shoulder a touch of encouragement, but as soon as contact was made, he flinched away and stood with his hand on the back of his neck.

He paced in a quick circle. For a few moments he lifted his closed eyes to the ceiling, then he rushed over and down and placed his head on my thighs.

I looked at his head, his hair, billowing about in its softness. I looked at my hands open and in the air, shocked and confused but with a breath inhaled, I found I could stroke his locks.

They felt so soft today, free of product or worry.

"You okay?" I asked lightly combing his hair.

"I'm fine." He whispered after a deep breath and I wondered if he used breath subconsciously, as a tool, like I in my music, it was an accessory to his few words.  Like a button on a blazer, a small detail giving something else away. 

"That… a second ago, that seemed something other than fine."

"I'm sorry." Barely any breath at all.

"Well, I'd like to know what you're thinking, if you're not ready now, just know if you ever are… I'd listen."

He was breathing in now, deeper, over and over. And I couldn't see his face at all, just his hair and the air he was breathing in, as his body hung still.

"I just don't like to be tickled." And with this phrase he sent hot, tight air into my thigh.

And I wondered why this was, but knew to let it be, as I grazed his hair and told him twice, soothingly, "well, now I know… now I know."