Medicine Man

“Do I look like a kid to you?” I swallow but gravity is working against me. “I can’t believe I let you pull me into this.”

“Exercise is good. It’s healthy, okay? We’re being healthy. We’re being productive with our day.”

I clench my eyes shut, the muscles in my calves probably starting to erupt in flames. “Shut up. You’re only doing this because you think you’re putting on weight.”

It’s true. This morning, Renn knocked at my wall to tell me her favorite top is fitting her tight around the tits. She called it the underarm/bust fat.

“My clothes don’t fit,” she practically shrieks. “It’s a disaster, Willow. I get anxious when my clothes don’t fit. So shut up. We’re doing this.”

My throat’s drying up and I feel like I’m going to pass out on the ground. The sun’s not helping. I fucking hate the sun. Hate it. The rays are piercing me like needles, making me prickle and sweat.

“I can’t… I can’t breathe.” I heave again and blow at my bangs.

“You just did, you moron. Just hold the pose for a few seconds. Don’t you like the burn in your muscles? Your ankles. Feel the burn in your ankles.”

“I don’t care about my stupid ankles.” I grit my teeth, sweat going into my eyes. “I’m dying. Dying.”

Renn blows a puff of air, dismissing my concern. “You wish.”

I snort. “God, I hate you right now.”

I do. I so do.

Why am I not reading like Penny or feeding the birds like Vi? Or why am I not at the library, reading a dozen new Harry Potter books? Yes. They finally listened to me, and now the library has the entire series of Harry Potter. Isn’t that wonderful?

But instead of petting those paperbacks and smelling their pages, I’m here. Why? I have no clue. I don’t even know how I got roped into this. Except Renn said something to me at breakfast and I said yes without listening since I was lost in my own head. So here I am. Standing on my head.

All because Simon Blackwood kissed me.

And then he ran away.

Well, he gave me time to escape without being seen but still. What does it mean that he kissed me? Does it mean that he likes me now? Has he always liked me? Why did he say no to the date, then?

What happened between us?

Damn it.

All of these questions are making me dizzy and this stupid yoga is not helping. I keep replaying it in my head. He kissed me. We kissed each other. I tasted him. He tasted me. I touched him. He touched me. I felt his arousal. I almost jacked him off with my stomach.

He cured me with his mouth.

I can’t stop thinking about particularly that. How his lips made me feel happier than I’ve ever been in my life. His kiss was a massive dose of lithium, lighting up the dark places in my brain.

That’s what I dreamed about when I fell asleep in my bed last night. Him lighting me up, chasing away the darkness by just being him.

My personal hero. Designed just for me.

I woke up this morning, my hands stuck between my legs and my panties shoved to the side, thinking about him.

But then, we almost got caught.

Oh gosh, my heart still jumps thinking about that. That knock is the kind of sound I’ll never forget.

I haven’t seen him since then, though, and I don’t know what it means. Do I hunt him down so we can talk about this? So we can figure this out? Or do I go see him for our appointment this evening?

What am I supposed to do?

My thoughts come to a halt when I see wingtips in my line of vision. Instantly, I spring up from my contorted position, but I forgot about the dizziness and I get a wicked head rush, almost toppling me over.

But a hand on my wrist stops me from falling.

“You okay?” Simon asks, pulling me upright.

I blink, adjusting my eyes to the sun, even though I’ve been under it for almost an hour now. Blowing on my bangs, I nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

He studies me for a few seconds, probably making sure that I’m really okay before letting me go. He doesn’t look away from me, however. He watches me like he was doing yesterday in his office, only today, his stare feels like a weight.

A physical thing. It’s as if that’s all he can do: watch. And nothing else. So, he’s pouring all his intensity into it.

“Hi,” I say, waving my hand lamely, hoping he’ll say something, praying it doesn’t look like I’m staring at his lips.

Because I am. In the direct sunlight, his lips are shining. They look even softer. Did I really have them on mine yesterday? Did he really kiss me? I lick my own lips as if his flavor still lingers there.