Not Today, But Someday(26)

“The bathroom’s down the hall?” she asks.

“Second door on your right.”

“Thanks.” My eyes follow her as she walks away. I definitely want her. I’m glad her back is to me, because my attraction is becoming impossible to hide.

“I’m, uhhh–” I stutter, speaking loudly enough for her to hear. “I’m gonna have a smoke on the patio.” I zip up my leather jacket and pull my cap out of one pocket and my cigarettes out of another. One corner of the patio is protected from the elements, so I wander over there, leaning against the wall of the house and lighting up.

The air is freezing, and breathing it in with the cigarette makes my body feel like it’s shutting down. I take that as a good thing, because I was getting a little too worked up in the house with Emi. Shit.

The outside motion detector picks up on my movements, and casts the west side of the lawn in harsh artificial lighting. I’m surprised to see how deep the snow is. Five inches, maybe? That’s more than the news stations had predicted by morning, and it’s still coming down heavily. What if the snow doesn’t clear tomorrow? What if she has to stay through the day, or another night? I’m not sure I can even make it through tonight with her here, without doing something I’ll probably regret.

Maybe a quick shower would help. I imagine her changing in the bathroom.

“Stop it!” I say out loud to myself. I’ve never felt so out of control of this... desire, this need. I dab out the cigarette and put it in the enclosed ashtray tucked in the corner behind a plant. Mom knows I smoke, but I don’t think she knows how often I like to.

When I get back inside, Emi’s standing awkwardly by the cushions I’d set up for her. She’s taken her boots off, and is now in socks, her tight jeans, and both of my t-shirts, which are a little big for her.

“Your shirts make me look like a little boy,” she says, holding out her arms and looking at her chest. I can’t help but laugh at her.

“I apologize. I don’t really have girl clothes here. They’re not so bad.”

She smiles. “Do you ever just slide around the floor in here in your socks?”

“Were you doing that?” I ask, moving the painting of her eye color onto a work bench and setting up a blank canvas.

“Maybe,” she admits.

“Away from the easels?”

“Of course.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Hey, you know they say that smoking stunts your growth.”

“Who says that?”

“The news. Doctors,” she explains.

“So when’d you stop smoking?” I ask her, averting my eyes briefly – but purposefully – to her breasts. In her sweater, they looked ample and pretty, but the shirts do reveal just how small she is. I may not have noticed had she not pointed it out herself.

The look on her face is shock. “What are you implying?” she asks loudly, her eyes bright and playful. “I’m proportionate,” she says, nodding with self-satisfaction.

“Well, I assume that’s where you were steering the conversation. I mean, look at me. Six-two? Does it look like it’s stunted my growth?”

“Height-wise, maybe not,” she says. “But you’re skinny. And who knows what’s under that?” She gestures in my general direction.

I raise my eyebrows at her challenging implication to me. “I know,” I tell her. “Do you want to?” I move my hands to the top button of my jeans, positioning my fingers in a dare.

“No!” she exclaims, laughing and covering her eyes. “I meant, like, muscles.”

I shrug out of my jacket, setting it on the countertop next to the sink, and walk over to where she stands. I remove one of her hands from her face, revealing her still-squinting eyes, and place it on my right bicep. She squeezes tentatively, then moves her other hand down and opens her eyes.

“I guess I’ve seen worse,” she says, trailing her fingers down my arm and over my fingers. I try to catch her hand before it falls, but I’m a split second too late. I don’t think she knows what I was trying to do.

“Just wait until you see my back muscles,” I tell her in a desperate attempt to impress her. “You use a lot of upper body muscles when you paint.”

“Aren’t you freezing already?” she asks, her cheeks becoming blotchy, walking to the counter and picking up my coat. “So maybe smoking hasn’t damaged everything,” she says, handing me the jacket. Her left dimple precedes a sexy grin. I pull the jacket in front of myself quickly, happy to cover up before she sees first hand that smoking hasn’t damaged anything. Misty was very complimentary. I don’t know if there was any truth behind it, but I have no reason to think otherwise. She never really lied to me. She just moved on.

And suddenly, as I had questioned how easy it was for her to leave me behind, I see how it doesn’t have to be difficult when someone else is there instead. She has Clark. Maybe I can have Emi.

“Tired yet?” I ask her.

“Maybe a little. You?”

“Not at all.” Paint before sleep. The routine was ingrained in me. I can rarely sleep without painting first. My mind stays occupied with thoughts until I can empty them out on canvas. Most nights, I’d get between four and six hours. Typically, I’d spend Sundays catching up on my sleep. I decide I can stay up all night, if she can. I’ll have all day to rest. “Mind if I turn some music on?” I ask.