That Thing Between Eli & Gwen

He put it under my leg. “Is there some possible way you could mange to keep still for about twenty minutes? I know it might be hard, but—”

“I don’t know, Dr. Davenport. I am five years old.” I rolled my eyes, shifting my foot again when he left it on the pillow and walked around the couch. “Thank you,” I muttered.

“What was that?” he pressed, even though I was sure he had heard me.

This man is trying to annoy me to death. “I said thank you!” I shouted.

“Okay, jeez, no need to yell.”

Shifting, I turned to look back at him.

He gave me a blank look, holding up a bottle of beer and waving it. “Want some? I also have Coke, and—”

“Do you have vanilla ice cream?” I sounded so excited, I could tell he was fighting back a comment.

“Sadly, I hate vanilla, so that would be a no.”

“How do you hate vanilla? It’s the cornerstone of ice cream.”

“No, that would be chocolate. So, are you saying no to the beer then?”

He was being too nice. “Does it come with a catch?”

“Tell me what happened?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” I faced front again, where he, like all guys I knew, had a massive television hanging on the wall.

“Suit yourself.” He took a seat beside me, popping off the cap and flicking on the TV to a man trying to walk across a tightrope between two mountains.

I turned, not looking at the screen.

“What?”

“Nothing?”

“Why are you looking at me, then?”

“Sorry.” I shifted, staring up at the clock.

“Are you afraid of heights? It’s so bad you can’t even look at it?”

“No.”

“All right. Right now, he’s about 180 feet off the ground—”

“I have a fear of heights.”

“Seriously?”

I glared at him.

He changed the channel to Animal Planet.

“Better?” he asked, nodding to the sea turtles.

“Much.”

“So demanding,” he muttered, drinking his beer.