Head Over Feels

It doesn’t matter that we’re surrounded by others; she makes me feel like I’m the only one who matters. I’ve come to realize she’s the best part of my day.

Opening the cabinet this fine Saturday morning, I grin like an idiot. Tealey Bell occupies more than my thoughts. She’s managed to move into my place and claim space of her own. My life prior is now full of empty memories.

“Good morning.”

“Fuck.” I slam the cabinet door shut, startled. I take a breath, and say, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“I didn’t sneak,” she says, grinning. “I walked right in. No sneaking involved.” Moving to the fridge, she laughs. “Guess we’re even. What were you doing staring into the cabinet anyway? If the mugs bother you that much, I can pack them back up and keep them in my room.” She turns her back as she reaches for the creamer—the creamer that also showed up with the mugs.

“No.”

Straightening, she scrunches her nose. “All right. Settle down. I’ll leave the mugs.” It’s incredible that she just got me to convince her to leave her cups. Then I spy the sly grin that creases her cheeks.

“Well played.”

She shrugs. “What can I say?”

“Got Rhubarb?” I read the front of her T-shirt.

Glancing down, she runs her hand over her chest. My jaw slacks. Oblivious, she says, “It’s an underrated vegetable if you ask me.”

I narrow my eyes in confusion. “Did I miss the rhubarb bashing?”

“No,” she replies on an upbeat. “Just showing my support.” Handing me a mug, she asks, “Coffee?”

Taking it, I spin it so I can read what she’s given me. “Let’s bone?”

Let’s. Bone.

“Uh, mm, er . . .” I readjust, not even subtly, because damn, is Tealey flirting with me? “Um.”

“It’s funny,” she says. “He’s a skeleton.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Touching my arm, she goes on about where she found this “gem” and how it cracks her up. But my mind has jumped at the opportunity that the mug provided and is in the process of undressing her. She looks from the cup to me and then gasps. “Oh, God. Let’s bone. Did you think I was asking? Oh, my God. So embarrassing.”

“No, it’s okay. I know you were only joking. It’s funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.” Nothing sounds real about my nervous laughter.

She stops to stare at me, placing one of her hands on her hips. “I wasn’t flirting. I know you’re thinking I was, but trust me, Welly, I’m usually more clever than ‘let’s bone.’ God, I hope so.”

I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have to use a line to get a guy to bed. “I didn’t know women used lines?”

“I’m sure they use them on you all the time. What gets your attention?”

You. Fuck, that was close. I run my hand through my hair, glad I’ve retained some self-control. “I’d have to think about it, but my place or yours usually works.”

Her mouth drops open. “For anyone?” Her arms flail. “All they have to do is approach you and ask if you want to have sex, and it’s an automatic yes from you?”

Detecting a note of disgust, I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “No,” I reply flatly. “I don’t have sex with everyone who asks, insinuates, or flat-out hits on me.”

“Asking your place or mine is straight up hitting on you.”

“Tealey, I hate this fucking term, but I’m not the manwhore you think I am. Fuck, I haven’t had sex in a while.”

“I hate that term, too. Doesn’t make you a whore because you like sex whether you’re a man or a woman.” I can respect her principles, but she’s traveling down the wrong path in this conversation. Then she asks, “How long has it been?”

“Okay, slow your roll. That’s not what I was—”

“Last week? Last night? Last month?” A twinkle dances in her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I’m better off not know—”

“More than a month ago.”

“Oh,” she says, her eyebrows raising. Why’d I say anything? I don’t normally need approval regarding my sex life, but for some reason, I want hers. “I—it’s been longer for me.”

The two of us stand there with no embarrassment to hide, so we both nod and turn back to the task in front of us. She pours creamer into her coffee, and I’m quickly reminded of how she teased me about my love of mustard. I ask, “Do you even like coffee?”

“What do you mean? I love coffee.” She takes a sip.

“You added a shooter to that cup of cream.”

“What can I say? I also love creamer.” After blowing on the top of the liquid, she takes several small sips with her eyes on me. She has a stubborn streak, and I guess creamer is the war she’s choosing to challenge me on.

“How can it be hot with that much cold creamer in it?”