Funny Feelings (43)

Time fades and goes a bit blurry again, but I manage a cognizant moment when I look across the booth at her. She chews a supremely large bite of her burger with a moan, eyes closed, balloon hat askew, cheese and sauce on her chin.

That’s mine, I think. She’s mine.

It’s as if I’ve said it out loud because her eyes shoot open, and she swallows the bite audibly. “What? You can’t catch me off guard with the eyes like that, My.”

“Like what?”

“They’re like a weapon you wield when you look a certain way. You hit women with that stern gaze and it’s like you’re compelling them to take off their clothes.”

I close them, then open them dramatically as far as they’ll go, stretching them until she starts cackling. When it fades, she sets the burger down with intent, pats her mouth primly with a napkin. “Meyer—”

Raucous cheering and whooping sounds to my left, pulling our attention that way.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE MARRIED!” the woman shouts.

“HEY EVERYONE! THIS IS MY WIFE RIGHT HERE!” the man declares, puffing his chest out proudly. I make the mistake of catching his eye. “I’ve loved this woman for a decade, man,” he declares shakily, his eyes unmistakably filling with tears.

“I’ve loved you longer, baby. As long as I can remember,” the woman wails, before they begin making out violently.

“Je-sus.” I wince when they almost topple over. I look back to see Fee wearing a sad expression as she watches them.

She raises a wobbly finger their way. “That’s what I want,” she says. And it catches me so off guard that I scoff at her.

“You want to have some shitty, drunken wedding in Vegas?”

“No. I want someone to love me enough to be completely stupid with me. To do something stupid like get married in Vegas. Or put it on one of those signs carried by a plane in the sky. Sing me a terrible song at a karaoke bar in front of a crowd. I want to be stupid, embarrassing with love.” She swipes an eye and laughs hollowly. “I’m sure that sounds dumb to you. To someone who’s so perfectly balanced and measured and smart, like you are.” She rolls her eyes before she digs the heels of her palms under them and wipes angrily.

Her statement hits me like a sharp elbow to the side, expelling oxygen and the following words…

“You’re the only person I’ve ever been stupid with, Fee,” I say.

Her eyes snap up to me in shock, searching.

The balloon hat jiggles, trembles. Slides further down before she readjusts it.

“We probably need to get back to my room. Early flight,” she whispers, eyes darting between mine.

I sigh, nodding firmly. You absolute idiot, Meyer. “Okay. I’ll walk you back.”

We take care of the bill and ride up the elevator in silence, the only noise coming occasionally from the rubber of the balloon against the skin of my palm as I try not to crush the fucking thing.

I walk her to her room, help her with her key after her fifth failed try. It’s obvious that I freaked her out with my comment.

We get inside and she tosses her hat before I slip into the bathroom, trying to take a moment to come up with the words to fix this. But, when I reemerge, I find her struggling with the strap of her heel, teetering dangerously. “Woah, hang on there,” I go to her, try to steady her by the shoulders. But my reflexes are off, so when she tries to slap a palm to my shoulder it ends up pushing me, our feet tangling. I feel myself going over, so on instinct I wrap her up and twist so I take the brunt of our weight. We flop onto the bed in a knot of limbs, chest to chest. Every curve of her settled against me. Our eyes meet, wide and confused, as she pants out a quick breath that lands on my lips.

Her scent reminds me of those fucking s’mores bars she makes and I lick my lips, starved. It’s sweet, but there’s something smoky, even under the alcohol, and my mouth waters. Her bourbon eyes blink slowly, long black lashes resting on her cheeks a moment before they sear into me again. And then, almost imperceptible, she leans, tilting just so, just a click. And I’m being pulled to it, can’t fight it as much as I could fight gravity in this moment, despite alarm bells blaring through my brain. Less than two inches away. So many oversized drinks…

POP

We jolt up and apart, her balloon hat deflating with a winded wail that goes on for hours.

She lets out a frustrated sound and starts fidgeting with her hands, kicking off her shoes angrily. One bounces off the nightstand. “Fucking salt and booze and planes. My fingers are swelling,” she starts yanking on a ring. “Dammit!” she chokes out through a sob.

“Fee. Hang on okay? Just, shh,” I try to soothe her, and myself, and deescalate whatever this situation is that has left all our nerve endings exposed and frayed.

“I can’t get it off— I can’t!” She continues jerking with trembling hands.

“Fee. Take a deep breath.”

“I. Can’t.” She digs her nails into a finger and starts to yank again until I grab her hands and pull them apart.

And then I do something that I can only attribute to alcohol, instinct, and sheer insanity. I take the finger she’s been abusing and slip it into my mouth. I tuck my teeth around the ring and work it off her finger.

I’ve hinted at my feelings with a reckless statement that she kindly didn’t push me on (that clearly wasn’t reciprocated), almost kissed her, and now I’ve sucked her finger off like a lover. I pull the ring out of my mouth and slap it in her palm, her finger shining, the tang of metal and salt on my tongue. I close her fist around it before I mutter a throttled-sounding “goodnight,” and turn to bolt.