It’s confusing to be half prisoner, half guest, to be half lover and half stranger. Maybe I am showing my age, maybe it’s my inexperience that makes it feel so cold and detached, but I hate it.
Brant climbs into bed on his side. He doesn’t move toward me, but I’m so aware of his proximity. I guess since I pretended to be asleep, I shouldn’t be surprised that he doesn’t bother me, but the longer he doesn’t touch me, the more anxious I get.
Finally, I give up and roll over to face him. He looks over at me in surprise but doesn’t say anything.
That’s all right, because my mind is full and I can carry the conversation. “What kind of girl do you like?”
His eyebrows rise, like that’s maybe the last thing he expected me to ask. “Why?”
I shrug. “Just curious. Am I anything like someone you’d date, or do you usually go for women who aren’t anything like me?”
“I don’t really date.”
That is at once disappointing and a relief. It’s a relief because that means it’s not necessarily personal—it’s not that he doesn’t want me, it’s that he doesn’t want to be with anybody—but disappointing because… well, I think I might have some kind of ill-fated crush on him.
“Why not?” I inquire.
“I don’t have the time or the interest, I guess.”
“You don’t like having someone around to regularly have sex with? To have dinner with and spend your days off with?”
“Well, no, I like all that.”
“Isn’t that dating?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow. “What parts aren’t you interested in?”
“Conversations like these,” he offers dryly.
I give him a deadpan look. “Hysterical.”
He cracks a smile, then scoots closer on the bed. “Where’s all this coming from?”
It seems painfully obvious to me where it’s coming from, and I can’t believe it isn’t plainly obvious to him, too. “I feel like you’re like Edward and I’m your Vivian. You’re so used to being alone and stuck in your ways, you won’t make room in your life for someone else, even if she’s super flexible and you enjoy being with her. At least, I think you’ve enjoyed being with me this weekend.”
“Of course I have.”
“So, am I ever going to see you again after you drop me off tomorrow?” I demand.
Seemingly at a loss for what to say, he answers, “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know? It’s up to you, isn’t it? It’s certainly not up to me. None of this has been up to me. You just barge into my life and do whatever you want, and I’m perfectly accommodating, going along with everything, and still I get discarded.”
Scowling, he echoes, “Discarded?”
“It’s bullshit,” I state, annoyed at him all over again. I roll over, not wanting to look at him anymore, and haul the bed sheet up around me like it can shield me.
It doesn’t. Brant scoots all the way over until he’s pressed up against me, then he slides an arm around my waist and tugs me tightly against his body. “You sure are crabby tonight,” he tells me.
“I feel like I’m being dumped, and I didn’t even get the relationship first,” I tell him, just as grouchy as he accused me of being.
“I think your pregnancy hormones might be making you crazy,” he suggests. “I don’t know where all of this is coming from. Everything isn’t up to me. I just offered to let you move into my cabin, didn’t I? I’d certainly see you on occasion if you did, but that’s up to you, not me.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I offer back more quietly. The reminder of his generous offer makes me feel guilty for being so mad at him, even if he did say some stupid things. He’s a good guy and he made me a thoughtful offer, it’s just… I want him to like me, and I can’t get past the disappointment of realizing maybe he simply doesn’t.
Absently tracing shapes on my skin with his fingertips, he asks patiently, “What’s the problem, Alyssa?”
“Maybe I want more,” I say quietly.
“More,” he repeats, like he’s rolling the word around, trying to decide what it means.
“I don’t want to be just your neighbor, or a problem you’re fixing,” I tell him, my heart practically pounding out of my chest as I say these things. I’m tempted to roll back over so I can look him in the face and observe his reactions, but I keep my back to him for just that reason. Maybe I don’t want to see his thoughts as they roll across his face, not about this.
He’s quiet for a minute, then asks, “What do you want to be?”
I swallow, resting my hand over his on my waist, then turn over to brave meeting his gaze. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.”
I scoot closer, sliding my smooth leg between his and wrapping my arm around his waist. “I think you’re a great man, and I like being here with you.” I lean in, pressing a kiss to his chest, then I look up at him from beneath my eyelashes. “I like keeping your belly full and your balls empty.”