And he’s staying in the house?
I drift to sleep, thinking about the nearly naked stranger in the bathroom; thinking mostly of his near nakedness.
Four
Gentry
In truth, I knew exactly who she was when I asked her. But she seemed so embarrassed and off kilter and well, frankly, it was sexy—really sexy. So, I wanted to ruffle her up a bit more. Just for fun. Harper told me yesterday that Lyla was coming, and while I didn’t expect to meet her for the first time standing in the bathroom in my boxer briefs while flossing, well…sometimes shit happens and you roll with it.
I feel like I have the distinct advantage of knowing much more about her than she knows about me. Nan and Paw talk about her all the time. Brag, really. Not that I mind. I like their stories about Lyla. Harper’s told me about her too. I was careful to avoid asking a lot of questions, though. I didn’t want to seem too nosy.
Settling into my bed, I pull my book from the nightstand and replay the bathroom scene in my mind. I can hear her in there now, and visions of her in those tiny pajama shorts keep flashing through my head.
Stop it, Gentry. You perv.
Shaking my head in an effort to rid myself of these thoughts, I refocus my attention on the book and stare down at the words on the paper.
What book is this again? Fuck.
The words blur almost immediately and I’m unable to concentrate. I pinch the bridge of my nose and rub the hair along my jawline.
I can do this; I can focus. I can absolutely not think about Lyla—and apparently my lust for her. I cannot think about how I want to walk over to her room, knock on her door, and attempt to kiss her face off when she opens it.
No, Gentry. No. You can’t do that.
She may not appreciate me attempting to suck her face off. My lust for Lyla Whitney is very real and very deeply rooted in the fact that her body is something that belongs in a museum. A dirty, sexy museum for the blind so you can feel your way around. Because if there was ever a body built for touching, it’s hers. Just looking at it makes me think terribly delicious things. Most of which I’m pretty sure are legal in most states but I can’t be sure until I do the research.
When Nan had taken out one of her photo albums and flipped through Lyla’s section, I felt like trash. Actual trash. No, trash juice. Here Nan was—the sweetest, kindest old lady— showing me pictures of her lovely granddaughter, and I was staring down at eighteen-year-old Lyla in a sleek prom dress feeling like a dirty old man. Nan had flipped through senior pictures, of Lyla running during her cross-country meets, her college graduation, and then a vacation where she was in a bikini something like ninety percent of the time, and I felt like I was going to die. I finally had to make an excuse to stop looking at the photos. I was a dirty bird, the dirtiest of birds, in need of a cold ass shower.
So, naturally, when Harper announced Lyla’s impending arrival, my palms started sweating, my throat dried up, and all my clothes itched. I was excited—really excited. My mouth had basically been dry all the way up until I saw her in person. And let me tell you, the photos didn’t do her justice.
Her big, hazel eyes impaled me. And her lips. Good god, her lips are the perfect shade of pink I’ve ever seen. I want to bite them—no, I need to bite them. I had half a mind to try right there in the bathroom after about forty-three seconds, but I resisted my urges for this thing called being a fucking gentleman and not a creep.
I set my book back down on the table because it’s clear I’m not getting anywhere with that tonight. Then I hear the bathroom door open and shut, followed by Lyla’s feet moving quietly across the floor before her door opens and closes. I resist the desire to leap from my bed and bound after her like an idiot.
What am I, some kind of lust-sick puppy?
Get ahold of yourself, man.
I’m glad I managed to keep my composure in the bathroom but there are only maybe two hundred and twenty-seven more possible interactions over the next few days with countless conversations and opportunities to be an idiot.
Awesome.
Lying down in my bed, I reach back and stack my pillows before turning my lamp off. Then it’s just me and the dark. I really hate these times. In time, I learned to push myself past tired before getting in bed so sleep would come quickly. But on nights like these, with too much on my mind, I stare up at my ceiling.
My thoughts drift from Lyla to Cassie and back to Lyla. What an odd mix of emotions.
I don’t have leftover romantic feelings for Cassie, but a loss is still a loss and the accompanying emotions still linger. Many nights, I find myself examining what Cassie and I had, what went wrong, and how it ended the way it did.
Now, it’s like a tennis match in my mind. Lust on one side and loss on the other. I let the ball volley back and forth a few times before planting it firmly on lust’s side, deciding it’s far less severe for bedtime thoughts.
I finally fall asleep, thoughts of Lyla arresting any others.
As I doze off, I wonder if it’s possible, if I have even the smallest chance to be with her. Sure, I know she isn’t here to stay. I know she has to go home eventually. But while she is here, while we can, why not? People can have fun, enjoy each other. And then people can shake hands at the end and go their separate ways and there is nothing wrong with that.
A man has to try, anyway.
Five
Lyla
I smell bacon. Eggs. Baked goods. But most importantly, I smell coffee—the nectar of the gods. I roll and stretch, forgetting for a moment too long where I am before I stretch right off my bed.
That’s right.
I lose my bearings, roll to my right, and fall off the bed. Because this is not my queen pillowtop in my Boston apartment. It is the full-size bed in my former bedroom in the backwoods of Kentucky. And I land with a graceless thud on the cold hardwood floor, not even an area rug between us. If I wasn’t awake before, I am now. I still want coffee, but I don’t need it at this point.
I lie there on the floor for a few seconds and then hear the door to my room fly open somewhere behind my head. I look up, the door essentially upside down to me now, and see Harper and Gentry in the doorway.
Great. Just Great.
“What happened?” Harper asks, her eyes searching over my body, trying to make sense of why exactly I’m on the floor.
I cover my face with my hands. “I fell,” I say flatly.
“Off the bed?” she asks, her amusement beginning to crack through her concerned surface.
“Yep.” I sigh.
I hear her laughing and look up again. Gentry is attempting a concerned expression. His lips are pressed too hard into a line. He’s trying—and failing—to keep himself from laughing and I don’t know him well enough for this. I remind myself I don’t actually know him at all, which makes it worse.
I point my finger at him. “You. Stop laughing,” I demand.
He holds his hands up in mock innocence.
I remember I don’t like him and it’s easier this time because he’s fully dressed.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Lyla, this is Gentry. Gentry, this is Lyla,” my sister says. She gestures to Gentry and then to me in turn and I growl.