Funny Feelings (51)

I just shake my head silently, trying to summon the words. Why is this still so hard? This real part of life. Why do I feel like I’m always doing an impression of someone else? Someone funny who doesn’t care about the disapproval. Someone sexy and confident. Someone who communicates, who goes after what she wants.

“Do you really have no idea how fucking beautiful you are? Or how much I care about you, how much you mean to me— to us?” Meyer says.

“My, I do know that you care about me. I mean, you wouldn’t have agreed to this if you didn’t. I do know that but… I’m realizing what’s at risk, here. If this blows up in our faces. I’m realizing how scary it is. And God, okay, fine. I’ll just say it,” I suck in a breath. “For the first time, I’m also really thinking of all the dumb shit I say and do on stage. I feel like I obliterated most of the sex appeal I may have had at some point,” I admit it, my hand flapping up before it slaps against the side of my thigh. I’ve admitted it and I’m angry at it. Angry at the honesty of it.

His response is to laugh. My face dives into a glare. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. Well, maybe a little, I am,” he says. I fold my arms and lift an eyebrow before he moves, backs me against my door and cages me in. I feel my eyes widen, hands clamping down to my sides. He smothers the laugh and sharpens his attention to my face. “When you’re on stage, talking about fecal matter or awkward sex or even that bit about the time you developed a crush on your barista— which makes my blood actually boil, by the way—do you know what I see?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond, his smile going tortured. “I see the way the lights make your eyes sparkle, the way you grin so big I feel it in my sternum. Your hair, Jesus, you have the most incredible hair. I couldn’t give a shit less about hair until I started looking at yours. It’s shiny and smooth, the prettiest color I’ve ever seen. I love it when you do it that one way all wavy. You’ll wear it in a ponytail and I imagine wrapping it around my wrist, letting it slip through my palm.” He lets out a shaky breath and I feel it on my lips. His eyes dip to them. “I see the way your ass looks in whatever it is that you wear that kills me. Do you realize that every time you bend over on stage you stick it in whatever direction I am? It’s agony, I don’t care if you're yards away from me. It’s like a homing beacon, and it’s every single time, Farley Jones. And I try to be a decent guy, I swear I really do, but I’m not a fucking saint,” he shakes his head ruefully. “I imagine you bare and bent over for me at least every single day. You could be up there talking about the various states of your underwear and all I get hung up on is picturing you in your underwear. You’ll do some wacky voice and when you get extra animated, sometimes your hand will slip into a sign, and I’ll think ‘oh my god that was just for me.’ Even though it’s only one word and it’s unintentional, because no one else notices, I latch onto it and hoard it to myself. And later, I take those moments out and examine them. I obsess over them. I think about how you make a joke sometimes and it makes me want to write an entire movie or show based on it because it’s so god damn intelligent and funny and yet it also has this extraordinary heart because it’s you.”

My palms press into my door as my chest rises and falls, my heart twisting and pulling in my throat. I look at his mouth as he wets his lips.

His head tilts and he snags my eyes with his again. “So, if you’re worried about me thinking about you in those terms, if you don’t think I find you painfully sexy, the kind of sexy that haunts and colors my every thought, you’re misinformed. You might be funny, but not even you are funny enough to distract me from all that, Fee.”

And then he bends and leaves a peck on my open, dumbfounded mouth, before he pushes off the door and turns away, leaving me to go on speechless.

He stops again before he turns the corner, and says over his shoulder, “About that other stuff, Fee. I’m scared too. I’m so damn terrified that it’s taken me years and this deal to work up the courage to risk it.” He turns all the way, then, and meets my eyes. “But I figure if it means that much to us both, then we just can’t let something bad happen. We take care of each other like we have from day one, and we’ll be okay,” he nods, like he’s affirming this to himself, too. “Plus, we agreed in the beginning, and no matter what, that stands.”

And he walks away. Just like that. He’s said it out loud and it’s there, an ever present speech bubble hovering above us. And instead of letting it catapult me into thinking what if you’re no good for him, though, and he’s just the only one who doesn’t realize it yet? Because that is the thought that rises, like my mind is some kind of backwards eight ball that’s just been shaken up—I decide to toss it aside for what’s real. I decide to trust my friend and his words, to let them wrap me up and hold me.





22





6 MONTHS AGO





FARLEY


I’m finally setting in for the night, top knot secured in a scrunchie, face cleared of all makeup along with signs of life, slathered in all my “slimes” (as Hazel calls them) when Meyer’s face pops up on my phone screen.

“Yello,” I greet, flopping loose-limbed onto the couch and scrolling for a new Survivor season.