Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

Inside our room, that being half the problem, I find the cause of my annoyance sprawled out on the bed with one hand tucked behind his head, and the other flipping through channels. And surprise surprise, he’s in his underwear and a t-shirt. Without context, I sometimes forget how big he is––until I see him taking up most of the king size bed I’m supposed to be sharing with him.

“Umm, this is––inappropriate,” I say, my tone broadcasting my incredulity. I didn’t grow up with brothers. My dorm in college was sex segregated. I’ve been with one man my entire life! This is NOT OKAY.

With a completely straight face he says, “Why?”

“How about you put some clothes on.”

“I have clothes on.” The fact that he’s completely earnest when he says this would’ve had me doubled over in laughter if I wasn’t so put off. Should I tell him that I have great view of his balls and pubes from this angle?

“Again, does Barneys not sell underwear? What you’re wearing is not underwear. It’s considered a scrap of cloth––barely.”

A deep v carves itself on his brow. “I don’t like underwear. And you’ve seen me in these before.”

The hint of sarcasm insinuating that I’m the one being unreasonable burrows under my skin. “Yeah, and I didn’t care for it then, either.”

Without pausing, he boldly continues, “I’m wearing a t-shirt,” and then adds, “for you.” Heavy emphasis on the last two words.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I press my index finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the dull ache growing larger by the second. “You said I would have my own room.”

“Change of plans. Roll with it.”

Roll with it? I can feel the heat rolling up my neck. “I thought this was an asinine idea to begin with, but I deferred to you because I thought just maybe your judgment wasn’t as impaired as I had originally thought. I’m not rolling with jack shit. I work for you. I’m the help, remember? We’re not besties. I didn’t pinky swear to share a bunk at summer camp. I don’t owe you any favors.”

His deep exhale lasts a good five minutes. Then I get a blink, another blink, then more silence. “I’m sorry I said you were the help. I didn’t mean anything by it.” His voice is low…remorseful. “I’ll go tell Barry that we’re not staying.” He sits up, his legs swinging over the side of the bed. “I’ll put some clothes on,” he mumbles. I might as well be sticking hot needles under his nails. Just when I think my life can’t get any stranger. Inexplicably, I’m gripped by an overwhelming urge to laugh.

“So I look like the villain?”

“I’ll tell him we need––privacy.”

It’s my turn to exhale deeply. I’m such a frigging pushover it’s disgusting. “Forget it. I’m not troubling them on their wedding day.” He turns and stares, his gaze expectant. “But you’re putting pants on.” A quick nod and he’s up, rummaging through his large duffel bag. He pulls out a pair of threadbare bottoms and shoves them on.

“What time do we have to be ready by?”

“Four.”

That gives me two hours to try and sleep the headache away. “I’m going to take a nap. If Sam needs me wake me up, but I think he’ll be busy with his new girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Cute girl with long, curly hair.”

“Phoebe. Barry and Leslie’s daughter.”

Grabbing my lounge pants and t-shirt, I walk into into the bathroom to change as any normal person would when sharing a room with a man they are not routinely sharing bodily fluids with. Upon my return, Calvin is in the same spot I left him in, lounging back on the bed like he’s the Sultan of Brunei waitin’ on his harem. I watch his eyes work their way down the length of my body and chalk this up to him being male, and therefore, simple.

“This is the line you do not cross under any circumstance,” I state, drawing an imaginary line down the center of the bed. He says nothing, though I notice a subtle twitch of his lips. Lying down with my back to him, I set the alarm on my phone and fall quickly asleep.

Why is my cat scratching my head?

“Dooozzzer, get de fud off,” I mumble, drifting in and out of consciousness. The scratching sensation on my head persists. Frigging cat. Then I catch a whiff of laundry detergent and…man. This piques my interest. Prying my eyes open one at a time, I realize I am not, in fact, on my pillow, nor is my cat even in the general vicinity. It’s a beard scratching my head.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I peel my face off a hard, t-shirt covered chest, my cheek sweaty, a little spittle on the side of my mouth, and look up. Damn. He’s staring down at me, his expression relaxed. As if it’s perfectly normal for me to be sleeping with my entire body wrapped around him like I’m a baby orangutan clutching its mother with my arm thrown over his waist and my leg straddling his…