And there's Miles, lying on a lounge chair in his boxers, paperback book in his hands. He's not so much reading as staring off into space with a tortured expression.
I know almost nothing about the Miles behind the sharp wit. He was trying to pry me apart last night. Maybe it wasn't on purpose, but he wanted more from me. He wanted to hear about Rosie and all the other things that still hurt.
But why? Either this is casual or it's more. I need to know which it is. I need to know if it's safe to let him in.
I want to pry him apart, look at all the places he hurts, and put him back together.
Maybe we can have that intimacy. Maybe this can be more.
I find the bathroom. There's a box of disposable toothbrushes under the counter. I try to think up an explanation besides a harem of equally disposable women, but I fail.
The rest of the house is just as beautiful as its surroundings. Everything is clean, bright, and beige. The rooms are huge, the ceilings are high, the furniture is understated. It's like the mansion version of an Apple store. There's something untouchable about this place, like no one lives here. And there's Miles, in the backyard, looking just as untouchable as the clean glass table.
He stirs as I pull the sliding door open. His eyes find mine.
There's a weight in my chest. I shouldn't want so badly to ask how he feels, to
know how he hurts and what I can do to take it away.
He pushes off the seat and stretches his arms over his head. His boxers slide down his stomach ever so slightly. They're an inch above his...
"Good morning." He takes three steps towards me. "You must've slept well. It's almost noon."
"You should've woken me."
He slides his hand around my waist. "I did. You had some choice words about it."
"Like asking what the hell you're doing inviting me for sex then taking me to some strange house to sleep?"
"Similar, but with a lot more insults and profanity." His lips curl into a smile. "You're cute when you swear."
How is it possible I don't remember any of this? I must've been half asleep. I only hope I gave Miles the lecture he really deserves. I take a deep breath. "Thank you."
His eyes find mine. His expression shifts. Not playful or sarcastic but serious. Like he really is worried about me. "Are you okay?"
Cool, calm, composed. That's what he does, so that's what I'll do. "You wrote that song. You know what it's like to lose everything that matters to you."
He nods.
"Are you okay?"
"Fair point."
That's it. No admission of feelings. No hurt on his face. There's no sign anyone or anything has ever hurt Miles. He's so utterly unflappable.
He asked me to talk. I can ask him the same thing.
I stare into his clear blue eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He shifts his weight between his legs. "I don't talk about that with anyone."
The statement is a lead wall. There's no getting past it or around it. This must be how he felt last night—locked out of my head and my heart. It stings in a way it shouldn't. Not given how casual this is supposed to be.
I take a step towards the kitchen. "Do you have anything with caffeine?"
He nods to the coffeemaker sitting on the counter inside. "It's a few hours old."
So he's been up for a few hours. This image flashes through my mind—Miles lying on that lounge chair, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his thoughts drifting away.