This Is Falling(42)

The water cuts off, and I know she’ll be walking out in two minutes. She hurries every time, and I understand why now. My heart is pounding so hard that I can actually feel it in my temples. Damn, how does one girl make me so unsure of everything? Two hours ago, I was determined, and an hour ago, I still thought this was a good idea. I don’t know anything anymore though. I take a deep breath and walk out of the men’s locker room, moving a few yards away from the women’s exit, where I lean against the wall. I’m sure I’m going to scare her, but I hope she gets over it fast. And I hope she doesn’t punch me!

I’m actually bouncing on my legs, like a boxer ready to enter the ring, when I see her shadow around the corner.

“Don’t get scared,” I say, picking probably the worst moment, the worst tone, and the worst phrase to utter when someone runs into you in the dark. This is confirmed when she flattens herself against the wall, dropping all of her things, just like she did that first time we met. Her hair is wrapped in a towel on top of her head, though it’s sliding off now that I just scared the crap out of her. She’s wearing the same giant T-shirt and shorts she was that first night, too. And my heartbeat is literally doing a drumroll.

“Holy hell, I think I just swallowed my tongue,” she says, her hands pressed to her chest. “For the record, yelling ‘don’t get scared’ in a dark hallway to a girl with some serious post-traumatic-stress issues is a sure fire way to make her think she’s dying.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. I reach down to grab her towel, which has now completely slid off her head. When I stand back up to hand it to her, I’m struck by how absolutely drop-dead gorgeous she is. There isn’t an ounce of makeup on her, and her hair is sopping wet, twisted along the side of her neck and dripping down the front of her white T-shirt. She’s not wearing a bra, and I’m careful not to draw any attention to that fact, because I don’t want her to shift her arms and cover any of that up. I’m a good guy, but I’m not that good.

“Were you…waiting for me?” she asks, her eyes sad and hopeful. This moment, the way she looks right now, makes every frustrating second from the last four days worthwhile.

“I was.” Her eyes widen, just the smallest amount, but it’s enough. “So, you have your Neil ready?”

“I do. I took your advice, ‘Sweet Caroline.’ I’m not so sure it’s going to work though. I don’t really know the words,” she bites her lip, like she’s actually embarrassed that she doesn’t know the lyrics to a Neil Diamond song. Though, I really can’t believe she doesn’t know this one.

“It’s easy. And you’ll know them after you hear the chorus the first time. It’s one of those songs,” I say. I loop my thumbs in my pockets because at this very moment, if I don’t, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself from touching her. Her shirt is now completely soaked on one side, and her nipple is peaking through the material. It’s all I can focus on, that and her lips, which I am fighting not to taste.

She can’t seem to hold my gaze long, and I start to make a challenge out of it, dipping my knees to look at her lowered head when she breaks our connection to concentrate on her feet and the floor. This makes her giggle, and God do I love that sound.

“There she is,” I say, when she takes a normal breath finally and holds my stare long enough to shake her head at my teasing. “You packed yet?”

I’m stalling. I want to stand here in this darkened hallway and have conversations with her about absolutely nothing important for as long as it takes for me to get enough balls to make a statement. That, and I just love listening to her voice. I love looking at her body. I love watching her come out of her shell. And I want to make her whole.

“Is it weird to pack dirty laundry? I was going to do it, but then that just seemed like a waste of time,” she shrugs.

“No, moms love it when we bring home dirty laundry,” I say.

“My dad does the laundry, you sexist pig.” She’s feisty again, and I love the way she’s now standing with her hand on her hip and her head tilted to one side like she just put me in my place. I also love the way her posture stretches her T-shirt across both of her breasts. I no longer need to imagine what they look like because in the ever-so brief glances my eyes make, I am committing every curve to memory. She bends down to pick up her small bag of shampoo and conditioner, and somehow when she stands, the fabric clings to her even more, and I’m no longer able to hide my reaction.

I stare, and I stare long and hard at the perfect roundness and the small pink tips that are poking through the cotton, almost as if they’re trying to reach me. I swallow, and start to lick my lips when I realize how obvious I’m being. I catch my breath, and quickly move my eyes to hers. She doesn’t look upset, but she does look embarrassed, and within a fraction of a second, she looks down and notices her wet shirt and everything it’s revealing. She pulls her towel up in a clump in front of her and squeezes it to her chest, almost ashamed, and I feel like a dick for making her feel so insecure.

“Don’t worry. I…I didn’t really see anything,” I lie, gritting my back teeth together and forcing an apologetic smile. Fuck, I’m making this worse, and she’s starting to look upset.

“Oh my god, I’m pretty sure you did. Oh man…” She’s starting to breathe heavier, like she might pass out. “I…I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize my shirt was that wet. And you must have…uhg!”