As Charles explained, gesturing vaguely toward his computer monitor at an e-mail I’d clearly missed in the hustle of finals, total panic set in. Because I realized that I hadn’t even thought about what I was doing for January term. Or, I’d thought about it in the vague way that happened when my mom mentioned something about Christmas or people in the dining hall talked about plans for winter break. But I had failed to actually do anything about it.
Which is why instead of being facedown on my bed, I found myself knocking on Will’s door with my fingers crossed, my heart in my throat, and my duffel bag over my shoulder.
“Did you finish?” he asked, not seeming surprised to see me as he waved me inside.
“Yeah. Um. Haha, about that. Funny story.”
I told Will the situation, my panic mounting as I got to the part about how I’d totally fucked up and forgotten to make plans.
Will looked at me skeptically.
“I was just so stressed about all the finals stuff, and stuff with physics. I didn’t even notice the e-mail, I swear!”
Suddenly it was less important that I find somewhere to stay for January term. I mean, really, I could go back to Michigan if I needed to. I could take the bus again, or my mom would probably be able to scrape up plane fare for me. It was more that, standing here in Will’s apartment after spending the last week so close to him, the idea of leaving him for a month—of not getting to hear him make pronouncements or bitch about things, of not smelling him fresh out of the shower, of not feeling his eyes on me—was unbearable.
“Jesus! Fine, just stay here,” he said. “Holy puppy dog eyes, Batman.” He shook his head at me and took my duffel bag, putting it next to the couch.
“Wait, really! Oh my god, Will, thank you! You won’t regret it, I swear! I’ll do the dishes, I’ll do… um, you know, other chores. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I flung myself into his arms, intensely relieved, and now thrilled to have my life unavoidably intertwined with Will’s for the next month.
Will fell backward onto the couch, and I landed half on his lap and half on the floor with an “Oof.”
“Ouch, Jesus!”
“Sorry, sorry.”
Will dragged me up and kind of wiggled over at the same time, and I ended up lying on top of him. God, he smelled amazing.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” I said softly, our mouths an inch apart. His lips were parted, and he was half smiling at me. I wanted him so badly. Wanted to absorb him into my skin and get under his. To feel every inch of him welcome me. I slid my hand to his jaw, leaned in slowly, and kissed him.
His eyelids fluttered shut as his mouth opened to mine. There was the slick heat of his tongue and the rasp of his stubbled chin, and my brain short-circuited in like point five seconds. I could feel his pulse speed up against my fingertips and I pressed against it, the line of his jaw sharp beneath soft skin. Everything about Will was sharp wrapped in soft or vice versa.
He groaned and grabbed me by the biceps. “Saying you could stay was not the same as saying we were going to—”
“No, I know that. I know.” But I ran my knuckles over his cheekbone and kissed him again, and he didn’t stop me.
WE FELL into a rhythm, orbiting around each other like twin satellites. Whether we were cooking, eating, showering, watching TV, or just coexisting, I was always aware of Will. Always attuned.
I learned things about Will by living with him that I’d only seen hints of before. Will could be easygoing and fun, but hated to be scrutinized, so the second I drew too much attention to him, his defenses would snap into place. Sometimes it was sharpness, sometimes silence or irritation. Sometimes it was bravado or flirtation. Sometimes teasing. Whatever the patina, though, it was a cover for the Will that I was getting to know in the times when he wasn’t self-conscious. It was like his apartment was his haven, and when I paid too much overt attention, he acted like he did when people stared at him on the streets.
I learned that he was an amazing problem solver, able to look at a complex system and sort it out easily. He was extremely visual, so he solved those problems by writing things down or drawing them out, unraveling things and putting them in an order that was most logical (not to mention aesthetically pleasing) as he’d done with my finals schedule. Every endeavor, no matter how insignificant, was driven by that same logic of optimization. From the way he did laundry to the order of how he gathered the trash, it was a ballet of economy and grace, never a wasted gesture, always the shortest distance between two points.