Where We Left Off (Middle of Somewhere 3)

“I have it on good authority there’s a perfectly functional library you could throw yourself out of,” he teased.

“Yeah, but everyone’s at the library this time of year, so it’s not even that quiet. Besides, I’m guaranteed to run into someone I know there.”

“Aren’t you quite the social butterfly.”

“And then they’ll want to talk, and I don’t wanna be rude….”

“Ugh, the horror.” Will sighed. Getting caught in small talk was basically his worst nightmare, so I figured that one would get him. I waited, tapping my foot and biting my lip.

“Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

Damn it, I should’ve known better than to try and float any kind of passive-aggressive shit with Will. He always dismantled it, and then I felt like an idiot for trying.

“Um, maybe I could… come over and do work at your place?”

Will snorted. Clearly he’d known what I was angling for all along.

“Yeah, sure, come over.”

“Omigod, thank you so much. That’s awesome.”

THE NEXT evening after I got done with my shift at Mug Shots, I went right to Will’s. He was just getting home from work as I turned the corner to his building and we rode the elevator up to his apartment together.

I found myself imagining what it’d be like if we lived together. We’d get home around the same time, both eager to see each other. Maybe some days we’d meet like this on the street, the pleasant surprise of seeing your boyfriend washing over us both. We’d fall into step and hold hands in the elevator. Or maybe we’d get home within a few minutes of each other and chat about our days while Will changed out of his work clothes for the evening. Maybe we’d take a shower together (which would lead to messing around in the shower), or cook dinner together (which would lead to messing around in the kitchen), or order takeout and watch TV together (which would lead to messing around on the couch).

In reality, Will bitched about one of his coworkers in the elevator and shut himself in his room the second we were in his front door. He did not invite me to shower with him or participate in changing his clothes. And he didn’t seem to have any plans whatsoever for making dinner, as evidenced by the fact that he grabbed a beer and a box of dry cereal and flopped onto the couch to consume them without speaking to me.

I put my backpack down on the floor next to the desk that sat beside the drafting table I’d helped Will bring up from his storage unit last month. Now it was covered with sketches, graphics, and samples of typography.

I started in on my work, hoping he’d get hungry for real food eventually, because I hadn’t eaten since before work and I was starving.

After an hour or so, Will came over and sat at the drafting table, our chairs side by side. He didn’t say anything, but he sharpened a pencil and started to work on one of the sketches. I could practically feel his whole vibe change from the moment he came over to when he settled into his work. He relaxed into his chair, and his pencil moved effortlessly over the paper. Even his breathing changed. He seemed the way I feel when I leave yoga.

I’d been going with Gretchen three times a week ever since that first class, and I would never joke about it being just for hippies again. I loved it. I could walk into the room feeling stressed as hell—scattered and anxious, or tired and grouchy—and walk out feeling calmer, more relaxed, and more energized.

I snuck a look at Will while he was concentrating. His full lips were parted, and he was hunched over his drawing, shoulders slumped forward, neck bent. His hair fell in his eyes and his ankles were kind of hooked around the front legs of his chair. It all looked very uncomfortable, but his expression was one of total absorption. His eyes were locked on the pencil lines before him even as he blew the hair out of his face.

I took a chance and rose, moving behind him. In a moment when he’d lifted his pencil from the page, I slid my hands onto his shoulders, pulling gently to straighten his posture the way my yoga teacher moved our shoulder blades together to counteract the posture of living hunched over our computers. I squeezed gently at first, not sure if he’d whirl around in a fury at being interrupted or shrug me off.

Instead, when I began to press into the knots in his muscles with my thumbs, Will softened under my hands and took a deep breath. I let my hands follow the lines of his body, rubbing up his neck and through his hair. I massaged along his spine, feeling his back press closer to me with each breath. When I leaned in and put my weight behind it, Will groaned and the sound sent a bolt of arousal through me. I leaned a little closer and smelled his hair and the scent that was just him.