Thomas & January (Sleepless 2)

He drew his fingers through my hair roughly and cupped my face in his palms, but he didn’t lean in for a kiss like I expected him to. Instead, he brought those hands across my face and down my neck to my shoulders then back up.

“And what a beautiful canvas to paint.”

The conductor came over the speaker and spoke in French before relaying the same message in heavily accented English.

“I have no idea what he just said,” Tom said, shrugging his shoulders

“He welcomed us aboard and mentioned that it’s thirteen twenty-three now and that we should be arriving at Gare Du Norde at approximately sixteen forty-seven in the afternoon.”

“What? How in the world did you understand that?” Tom asked, bewildered.

“I speak French,” I told the window, staring at the deck as we departed the station.

“You speak French?”

“Yeah, I didn’t tell you that?” I turned to him, confused at myself.

“No, you failed to mention that you’re bilingual.”

“Oh, I’m not bilingual,” I told him, a smirk tugging at my lips.

“No?”

“I’m multilingual. I speak four languages.”

Tom stared at me as if he didn’t believe me. He couldn’t look away; he stared hard into my eyes begging for an explanation.

“It’s not a big deal. Kids are sponges,” I offered. He still didn’t understand. “I wanted to work for the U.N. as a translator when I was little, so during the summers I learned different languages. It was worth it because it comes in handy though I’d never work for the U.N. now.”

“Amazing.”

“Meh, not so much, I learned some crazy things about the United Nations and decided they weren’t exactly the...”

“I wasn’t calling the U.N. amazing, January. I was calling you amazing. You’re amazing. Incredible, actually. Every time you make me forget that you’re extraordinary with your down-to-earth ways, something else blindsides me and reminds me just how out of my league you really are.”

I sat up a bit and scooted closer into his side. I could not believe what he’d just said. I grabbed his arm and leaned into his body. I needed him to feel what he needed to hear. “You’re out of my league? You’ve got to be joking, Tom.”

“Hell no, I’m not joking. You are way out of my league, January.”

“This is going to be a problem, I can tell,” I teased him.

“It is?”

“Yes, because you keep forgetting what an incredible musician you are and how talented you are at your job. How everyone in this business calls Seven, desperate to contact you so they can steal you away. You’re a rock star, yet you’re oblivious to it because you’re always on the road. It’s stupid, but it is what it is. Trust me, Thomas Eriksson, I play in the minors and you’re the hypothetical starting pitcher for a team who won the World Series five years consecutive. You’re so big league it makes my head spin.”

He grinned at me. “That’s utter bullshit but I love you for saying it.”

I opened my mouth to argue with him but he stopped me by pressing his lips to mine and I forgot my own name let alone whatever argument I had.

The English countryside held enough charms to distract us from conversation. We fell into a comfortable silence save for our shared earbuds. We listened to the entire Aim and Ignite album. The only contact we made was physical. Tom lined my palms with his index finger over and over, making me sleepier than my medicine was.

When we entered France, he nudged me in the ribs. “All the graffiti’s in French.”

“Imagine that,” I teased him.

It got quiet again as we examined the new countryside.

“Talk to me,” I told him, breaking the silence.