Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

So, if last night was the end, then it was the end. And if it wasn’t, if I get to see him again, cool.

I repeated that mantra over and over until I actually started to believe it, until the cool girl I was trying to be started to manifest herself.

For the rest of the week, I didn’t pay much attention to Liam. We’d smile across the room at each other from time to time, and we’d always say good morning or see you later, depending on if we ran into each other before or after class. Sometimes we’d walk together for a while, talking a bit, laughing at each other’s shallow conversation and jokes. But I didn’t ask him to hang out again. Instead, I played it cool, and any time I wanted to fall into a pile of mush at his feet, I exited the conversation and removed myself before I could.

On Friday after class, Liam walked me all the way to the museum, grabbing a panini with me on the way.

“Busy tonight?” he asked around a mouthful.

I shrugged. “No set plans.”

“Wanna hang?”

My heart skipped a beat before pounding loud in my ears.

“Sure,” I said nonchalantly.

“Cool. I’ll swing by your place, maybe we can grab dinner or drinks or something.”

“Alright.”

“See you then.”

“See you.”

And he did swing by later, just as he said. But we didn’t get dinner, nor did we get drinks. In fact, we didn’t leave my room at all — not until well past one in the morning when I was fast asleep, and I felt Liam press a kiss to my forehead before quietly getting dressed and letting himself out.

As soon as he was gone, my eyes popped open, heart racing, breaths no more than shallow sips of air.

Oh my-lanta, I’m actually doing it, I thought to myself, giggling and wrapping myself up in my sheets. I didn’t ask him to stay. I didn’t ask when I’d see him again. I just let him leave, and I convinced myself I was one-hundred-percent fine with him leaving, too.

I fell asleep with a satisfied smile on my face, and an even more satisfied ache between my legs.

And a gold medal for naïvete.

The Art of Blurring Lines

So that’s how June passed.

The days grew longer, the nights hotter, and I spent every waking moment either with Liam, or thinking about him.

My work didn’t suffer from the new focus. If anything, it was a major benefit. Because when I wasn’t with Liam, I was trying to distract myself from my thoughts of him, so I’d throw myself into studying, into sketching, into painting or volunteering for an extra shift at the museum. I spent time with Angela, exploring nearby Tuscan cities, and I felt a sense of relief when it came time to go to sleep, thankful that I’d survived another day without giving in to my urge to ask Liam to spend time with me.

I always left that to him.

I figured out that was the way to keep myself safe, to just let him call the shots. Sometimes, we’d see each other before or after class for just a few moments before we’d go our separate ways. Sometimes when we both were out, he’d give me a head nod from across the room before going back to whoever he was with, and I’d turn my attention back to Angela, acting like I didn’t care, either.

But other times, it felt like Liam couldn’t stay away from me, no matter if he wanted to.

I’d catch him watching me all through class, his dark eyes under furrowed brows, cheeks between his teeth like he wanted so badly to look away but physically couldn’t. Those were the days he’d walk me to the museum, or barely make it through his greeting after class before he asked when he could see me.

And on the nights we were together, time stopped, the world slowed to a crawling spin, and even the universe itself seemed to take a breath of pause.

Sometimes we’d go out for dinner and drinks, only to end up back at his place, him exploring me, me discovering him. Sometimes we’d never leave the room at all — his or mine, depending.

But on my favorite nights, we’d paint.

The first time it happened was at my place. I’d had a stack of thin canvases between my headboard and the wall, and Liam had peeled one out, propping it up on my dresser against the wall. He left the room long enough to grab one of our barstools from the kitchen, and then he’d set my easel up next to him and patted the seat.

I put on The Bends Radiohead album, and for the first six songs or so, we didn’t say a word. It was nothing but the sound of brush against canvas and Thom Yorke’s falsetto, a beautiful combination. But about ten seconds into “Just,” Liam sat back, appraising his canvas, and then he turned and looked at me.