Miles: Are you busy?
Me: Always busy. What’s up?
Miles: I need your help. Won’t take long.
Me: Be there in five.
I should have given myself ten minutes rather than five, because I haven’t had a shower today. After a ten-hour shift last night, I’m sure I need one. If I knew he was home, a shower would have been my top priority, but I thought he wasn’t due back until tomorrow.
I pull my hair up into a loose bun and change from my pajama bottoms into a pair of jeans. It’s not quite noon yet, but I’m embarrassed to admit I was still in bed.
He yells for me to come in after I knock on his door, so I push it open. He’s standing on a chair next to one of the living-room windows. He glances down at me, then nods his head toward a chair.
“Grab that chair and push it right there,” he says, pointing to a spot a few feet away from him. “I’m trying to measure these, but I’ve never bought curtains before. I don’t know if I’m supposed to measure the outside frame or the actual window itself.”
Well, I’ll be damned. He’s buying curtains.
I scoot the chair to the other side of the window and climb up onto it. He hands me one end of the measuring tape and begins to pull.
“It all depends on what kind of curtains you want, so I’d get measurements for both,” I suggest.
He’s dressed casually again in a pair of jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Somehow the dark blue in his shirt make his eyes look less blue. It makes them look clear. See-through, almost, but I know that’s impossible. His eyes are anything but see-through with that wall he keeps up behind them.
He enters the measurement into his phone, and then we take a second measurement. Once he’s got both entered into his phone, we step down and push the chairs back under the table.
“What about a rug?” he asks, staring at the floor beneath the table. “You think I should get a rug?”
I shrug. “Depends on what you like.”
He nods his head slowly, still staring down at the bare floor.
“I don’t know what I like anymore,” he says quietly. He tosses the tape measure onto the couch and looks at me. “You want to come?”
I refrain from immediately nodding. “Where to?”
He brushes his hair off his forehead and reaches for his jacket tossed over the back of his couch. “Wherever people buy curtains.”
I should say no. Picking out curtains is something couples do. Picking out curtains is something friends do. Picking out curtains is not something Miles and Tate should do if they want to stick to their rules, but I absolutely, positively, most definitely don’t want to do anything else.
I shrug to make my answer appear much more casual than it is. “Sure. Let me lock my door.”
•••
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask him once we’re on the elevator. I’m trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but I can’t deny the desire I have for him to reach out and touch me. A kiss, a hug . . . anything. We’re standing on opposite sides of the elevator, though. We haven’t touched since the night we first had sex. We haven’t even spoken or texted since then, either.
“Black?” he says, unsure of his own answer. “I like black.”
I shake my head. “You can’t decorate with black curtains. You need color. Maybe something close to black but not black.”
“Navy?” he asks. I notice his eyes aren’t focused on mine anymore. His eyes are scrolling slowly from my neck all the way down to my feet. Everywhere his eyes focus, I can feel it.
“Navy might work,” I say quietly. I’m pretty sure this conversation is only taking place for the sake of having conversation. I can see by the way he’s looking at me that neither of us is thinking about colors or curtains or rugs right now.
“Do you have to work tonight, Tate?”
I nod. I like that he’s thinking about tonight, and I love how he ends most of his questions with my name. I love how he says my name. I should require him to say my name every time he speaks to me. “I don’t have to be in until ten.”
The elevator reaches the bottom floor, and we both move to the doors at the same time. His hand connects with the small of my back, and the current that moves through me is undeniable. I’ve had crushes on guys before, hell, I’ve even been in love with guys before, but none of their touches have ever been able to make me respond the way his do.
As soon as I step off the elevator, his hand leaves my back. I’m more aware of the absence of his touch now than before he even touched me. Each little bit I get, I crave it that much more.
Cap isn’t in his usual spot. That’s not surprising, though, considering it’s only noon. He’s not much of a morning person. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.
“You feel like walking?” Miles asks.
I tell him yes, despite the fact that it’s cold out. I prefer walking, and we’re near several stores that would work for what he’s looking for. I suggest a store I passed a couple of weeks ago that’s only two blocks from where we are.
“After you,” he says, holding the door open for me. I step outside and pull my coat a little tighter around me. I highly doubt Miles is the type of guy who holds hands in public, so I don’t even worry about making my hands available to him. I hug myself to keep warm, and we begin walking side-by-side.
We’re quiet most of the way, but I’m fine with it. I’m not someone who feels the need for constant conversation, and I’m learning that he might be the same way.
“It’s right up here,” I say, pointing to the right when we reach a crosswalk. I glance down at an elderly man seated on the sidewalk, bundled up in a tattered, thin coat. His eyes are closed, and the gloves on his shivering hands are rifled with holes.
I’ve always been sympathetic to people who have nothing and nowhere to go. Corbin hates that I can never pass homeless people without giving them money or food. He says the majority of them are homeless because they have addictions and that when I give them money, it only feeds those addictions.
Honestly, I don’t care if that’s the case. If someone is homeless because he has a need for something that is stronger than his need for a home, it doesn’t deter me in the least. Maybe it’s because I’m a nurse, but I don’t believe addiction is a choice. Addiction is an illness, and it pains me to see people forced to live this way because they’re unable to help themselves.
I would give him money if I had brought my purse.
I realize I’m no longer walking when I feel Miles steal a glance back in my direction. He’s watching me watch the old man, so I pick up my pace and catch back up with him. I don’t say anything to defend the troubled expression on my face. It’s pointless. I’ve been through it enough with Corbin to know that I don’t have the desire to try to change all the opinions I disagree with.
“This is it,” I say, coming to a pause in front of the store.
Miles stops walking and inspects the display inside the store window. “Do you like that?” he asks, pointing at the window. I take a step closer and look at it with him. It’s a bedroom display, but there are elements in it that he’s looking for. The rug on the floor is gray with several geometric shapes in various shades of blue and black. It actually looks like something that would fit his taste.
The curtains aren’t navy, though. They’re a slate gray, with one solid white line running vertically down the left side of the panel.
“I do like it,” I reply.
He steps in front of me and opens the door to let me walk in first. A saleswoman is making her way toward the front before the door even closes behind us. She asks if she can help us find anything. Miles points to the window. “I want those curtains. Four of them. And the rug.”
The saleswoman smiles and motions for us to follow her. “What width and height do you need?”
Miles pulls his phone out and reads off the measurements to her. She helps him pick out curtain rods and then tells us she’ll be a few minutes. She heads to the back and leaves us alone at the register. I look around, suddenly developing the urge to pick out decorations for my own place. I plan on staying with Corbin for a couple more months, but it wouldn’t hurt to have an idea of what I’ll want for my own place when I do finally move out. I’m hoping it’ll be just as easy to shop when that time comes as it was for Miles today.
“I’ve never seen anyone shop this fast,” I tell him.
“Disappointed?”
I quickly shake my head. If there’s one thing I don’t do well as a girl, it’s shop. I’m actually relieved it only took him a minute.
“You think I should look around longer?” he asks. He’s leaning against the counter now, watching me. I like the way he looks at me—like I’m the most interesting thing in the store.
“If you like what you already picked out, I wouldn’t keep looking. When you know, you know.”
I meet his gaze, and the second I do, my mouth gets dry. He’s concentrating on me, and the serious look on his face makes me feel uncomfortable and nervous and interesting, all at once. He pushes off the counter and takes a step toward me.
“Come here.” His fingers reach down and wrap around mine, and he begins to pull me behind him.
My pulse is being ridiculous. It’s sad, really.
They’re just fingers, Tate. Don’t let them affect you like this.
He continues walking until he reaches a wooden trifold screen, decorated with Asian writing on the outside. It’s the kind of screen people place in the corners of bedrooms. I never understood them. My mother has one, and I doubt she’s ever once stepped behind it to change clothes.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He turns and faces me, still holding on to my hand. He grins and steps behind the screen, pulling me with him so we’re both shielded from the rest of the store. I can’t help but laugh, because it feels like we’re in high school, hiding from the teacher.
His finger meets my lips. “Shh,” he whispers, smiling down at me while he stares at my mouth.
I immediately stop laughing but not because I don’t find this amusing anymore. I stop laughing because as soon as his finger is pressed against my lips, I forget how to laugh.
I forget everything.
Right now, the only thing I can focus on is his finger as it slides softly down my mouth and chin. His eyes follow the tip of his finger as it keeps moving, trailing gently down my throat, all the way to my chest, down, down, down to my stomach.
That one finger feels as if it’s touching me with the sensation of a thousand hands. My lungs and their inability to keep up are signs of that.
His eyes are still focused on his finger as it comes to a pause at the top of my jeans, right above the button. His finger isn’t even making contact with my skin, but you wouldn’t know that based on the rapid response of my pulse. His entire hand comes into play now as he lightly traces my stomach over the top of my shirt until his hand meets my waist. Both of his hands grip my hips and pull me forward, securing me against him.
His eyes close briefly, and when he opens them again, he’s no longer looking down. He’s looking straight at me.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you walked through my front door today,” he says.
His confession makes me smile. “You have incredible patience.”
His right hand leaves my hip, and he brings it up to the side of my head, touching my hair as softly as possible. He begins to shake his head in slow disagreement. “If I had incredible patience, you wouldn’t be with me right now.”
I latch on to that sentence and immediately try to figure out the meaning behind it, but the second his lips touch mine, I’m no longer interested in the words that left his mouth. I’m only interested in his mouth and how it feels when it invades mine.
His kiss is slow and calm—the complete opposite of my pulse. His right hand moves to the back of my head, and his left hand slips around to my lower back. He explores my mouth patiently, as if he plans on keeping me behind this partition for the rest of the day.
I’m summoning every last bit of willpower I can find in order to keep myself from wrapping my arms and legs around him. I’m trying to find the patience he somehow shows, but it’s hard when his fingers and hands and lips can pull these kinds of physical reactions out of me.
The door to the back room opens, and the click of the saleswoman’s heels can be heard against the floor. He stops kissing me, and my heart cries out. Luckily, the cry can only be felt, not heard.
Rather than pulling away to walk back to the counter, he brings both his hands to my face and holds me still while he looks at me in silence for several seconds. His thumbs brush lightly across my jaw, and he releases a soft breath. His brows furrow, and his eyes close. He presses his forehead to mine, still holding on to my face, and I can feel his internal struggle.
“Tate.”
He says my name so quietly I can feel his regret in the words he hasn’t even spoken yet. “I like . . .” He opens his eyes and looks at me. “I like kissing you, Tate.”
I don’t know why that sentence seemed hard for him to say, but his voice trailed off toward the end as though he was attempting to stop himself from finishing his words.
As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he releases me and quickly steps around the partition as if he’s trying to escape from his own confession.
I like kissing you, Tate.
Despite the regret I think he feels for saying them, I’m pretty sure I’ll be silently repeating those words for the rest of the day.
I spend a good ten minutes mindlessly browsing, running his compliment through my head over and over while I wait for him to finish his transaction. He’s handing over his credit card when I reach the counter.
“We’ll have these delivered within the hour,” the saleswoman says. She hands him back his credit card and begins to take the bags off the counter to place them behind her. He takes one of the bags from her when she begins to lift it. “I’ll take this one,” he says.
He turns and faces me. “Ready?”
We make our way outside, and it somehow feels as if it dropped twenty degrees since we were last out here. That may just be because he made things seem a lot warmer inside.
We reach the corner, and I begin to head back in the direction of the apartment complex, but I notice he’s stopped walking. I turn around, and he’s pulling something out of the bag he’s holding. He tears away a tag, and a blanket unfolds.
No, he didn’t.
He holds the blanket out to the old man still there bundled up on the sidewalk. The man looks up at him and takes the blanket. Neither of them says a word.
Miles walks to a nearby trash can and tosses the empty bag into it, then heads back toward me while staring down at the ground. He doesn’t even make eye contact with me when we both begin walking in the direction of the apartment complex.
I want to tell him thank you, but I don’t. If I tell him thank you, it would seem like I assume he did that for me.
I know he didn’t do it for me.
He did it for the man who was cold.
•••
Miles asked me to go home as soon as we returned. He said he didn’t want me to see his apartment until he had everything decorated, which was good, because I had a lot of homework to catch up on anyway. I didn’t really have time carved out of my schedule to hang up curtains, so I appreciated that he didn’t expect my help.
He seemed a little bit excited about hanging up new curtains. As excited as Miles can seem, anyway.
It’s been several hours now. I have to be at work in less than three hours, and as soon as I begin to wonder if he’s even going to ask me to come back over, I receive a text from him.
Miles: Have you eaten yet?
Me: Yes.
I’m suddenly disappointed that I already ate dinner. But I got tired of waiting for him, and he never said anything about dinner plans.
Me: Corbin made meat loaf last night before he left. You want me to bring you a plate?
Miles: I’d love that. Starving. Come look now.
I make him a plate and wrap it in foil before heading across the hall. He’s opening the door before I even knock. He takes the plate out of my hands. “Wait here,” he says. He steps inside his apartment and returns seconds later without the plate. “Ready?”
I have no idea how I know he’s excited, because he’s not smiling. I can hear it in his voice, though. There’s a subtle change, and it makes me smile, knowing something as simple as hanging up some curtains makes him feel good. I don’t know why, but it seems as if there isn’t a lot in his life that makes him feel good, so I like that this does.
He opens the door all the way, and I take a few steps into the apartment. The curtains are up, and even though it’s a small change, it feels huge. Knowing he’s lived here for four years and he’s just now putting up curtains gives the whole apartment a different feel.
“You made a good choice,” I tell him, admiring how well the curtains match what little I know about his personality.
I look down at the rug, and he can see the confusion as it crosses my face.
“I know it’s supposed to go under the table,” he says, looking down at it. “It will. Eventually.”
It’s positioned in an odd spot. It’s not in the center of the room or even in front of the couch. I’m confused about why he placed it where he did if he knows where it would look the best.
“I left it there because I was hoping we could christen it first.”
I look back up at him and see the adorably hopeful expression on his face. It makes me smile. “I like that idea,” I say, looking back down at the rug.
A long silence passes between us. I’m not sure if he wants to christen the rug right this minute or if he wants to eat first. I’m fine with either. As long as his plan fits within my three-hour time frame.
We’re both still staring at the rug when he speaks again. “I’ll eat later,” he says, answering the question that was silently running through my head.
He pulls off his shirt, and I kick off my shoes, and the rest of our clothes eventually end up together, next to the rug.
