Where We Left Off (Middle of Somewhere 3)

I’d already known he was passionate about his work, but I hadn’t fully grasped how many of his coworkers depended on him to be their second set of eyes. How often they e-mailed him looking for help or a reality check. And, for all that he was brusque and honest with them, they respected him for it. One night he’d gotten an e-mail from his coworker Joanne with a cover design attached that she wanted notes on.

“Christ,” he’d muttered, squinting disgustedly at the screen, “that’s horrible.”

“Oh no, what are you going to tell her?” I asked. That was my worst nightmare, basically—being put in the position of having to lie to someone. No one ever believed me, so it always got awkward.

“Uh, I’m going to tell her it’s horrible.”

“What? Oh my god, you can’t say that; it’s so mean!”

Will snorted. “What are you, six? It’s not mean. This is our job, and Joanne’s asking for notes. What good would it do her to tell her it’s good when it’s not?” He said this like it was just that simple and dialed before I could respond.

“Joanne, hey.” He peered at the screen as he talked. “Yeah, I got it. It’s… well, it’s not working at all, huh?” I gaped at him, but his expression and his voice were totally neutral. “Well, yeah, that’s why you sent it to me instead of that ass-kisser, Adamson. So, let’s fix it.”

And he sat at the computer helping her redesign it for two hours. Before they hung up, he said, “I think it looks great, how about you?” And though I couldn’t hear Joanne’s response, Will smiled broadly—a sincere, tired, thoroughly satisfied smile—and simply said, “Good. Night,” before wandering away to shower. He looked more than just proud; he looked… intoxicated. High on being able to have solved a problem, fixed an error, turned something from bad to good.

I was getting pretty good at reading Will’s moods, too, even though I still couldn’t predict them. Sometimes he was grouchy and short for no reason that I could tell. Other times he was upbeat, chatting about his coworkers or telling stories about what he’d seen walking home that day. Sometimes he had bouts of being furious with the world, ranting about everything from health care reform to e-mail etiquette. Other times he was quiet, almost meditative, moving through his own apartment like a ghost.

Sometimes he watched me. I’d look up from doing yoga or pouring coffee, feeling his eyes on me. Half the time he’d keep staring until I flushed with self-consciousness or arousal, because when he looked at me like that, it felt like I belonged to him somehow. The rest of the time he’d look away, scowling, irritated at me for catching him, or irritated at himself for looking in the first place, I couldn’t tell. At other times it was like he forgot I was even there. He’d come around the corner and look genuinely startled to find me there.

And all the time, between us, the air grew thinner.

I could feel it when we stood close, him pouring coffee and me stirring eggs. The way the hairs on my arms stood up when his sleeve brushed mine. The way the back of my neck tingled when he stretched a casual arm behind me on the couch. Sometimes, it was as if he did everything he could to make sure we didn’t make contact. Other times, he’d throw a leg over my knee while we talked like it was nothing, or run his fingers through my hair absently. His touch was electrifying and capricious, and every time it came, the intensity of my reaction startled me.

When I initiated touch with him, I eased into it slowly. I’d pass him his coffee and continue the movement of my hand up to rest on the back of his neck. I’d flip his collar down and keep contact, slowly moving to rest my chin on his shoulder.

One night, when he was standing looking out the window, I tucked my chin into the crook of his neck and he sighed and relaxed into me. I could feel the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt, smell the scent of his skin and his hair. He reached a hand back and threaded it through my hair, keeping me there. We stood like that for what felt like ages, and just when I was about to blurt the question that felt like it was bursting to get out of me—that I knew he said he didn’t want a relationship, but why the hell weren’t we together when we so clearly worked?—I caught a glimpse of him in the window.

He looked vulnerable, his light hair a halo against the night sky. His eyes were closed and he was leaning into me like I was the only thing keeping him upright. When I opened my mouth to ask, I felt rather than saw his reaction. His shoulders tightened, and he shifted the balance of his weight away from me, as if preparing to support himself any second. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shatter the spun-sugar moment, especially as I noticed how tired Will looked.