“Poor Jericho. Always so serious and in control,” she chides quietly, “That just makes me want to figure out how to wear you down. You’re like my human Rubik’s Cube. So many ways to twist and turn, but only one way to win.”
I blink, trying to decipher if that was a compliment or what. Most people aren’t interested in busting through my tendency toward seriousness. Either they didn’t want to play the long game required to figure me out, or—like my ex-wife—they thought I should just learn to be less of a control freak.
“Don’t call me Jericho,” I mutter. It’s the only thing I can think of to say because I suddenly want her to stop looking at me.
Anya just smiles patiently. “Okay,” she whispers.
Silence takes over. I’m not sure what to say or how to make this moment feel less like we’re naked on the inside, and not just on the outside. The problem is, I think Anya is too good at this. At seeing right through me and letting that one word she just said—okay—somehow sound like permission for me to be me, no questions asked. A guy might find that liberating, I guess… if it didn’t also feel a little like being flayed alive.
My baser instincts kick in when I can’t take anymore, shouting that there is one way to fix this—and that’s by fucking until neither of us can form sentences. I lay a hard kiss on her, and Anya returns it, sliding her hands up into my hair and wrapping her legs around me again. We keep going until I realize that we’re about one perfect nudge away from needing a condom. Which would be great if I had the time but there’s macaroni-and-cheese I’m about to be late for. I drag my mouth away from hers and do my best to untangle our limbs from each other.
“I have to go,” I sigh.
Her eyes are heavy-lidded but she nods. “I get it.” Then she worries her bottom lip and looks away quickly. I furrow up my forehead.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking about how to say this thing I need to say.”
Fucking great. She has something to say and she’s not sure how to say it? That’s never a good thing.
I send her a flat look. “I suggest you just say it. That's usually what works best.”
“I guess I need to know what just happened here.” I raise a brow at her and she rolls her eyes. “Not like that. I know what happened; I just don’t know what it means.”
Automatically, I flinch. Not because of what she’s saying, but because I don’t have an answer for her. I didn’t exactly plot this out or think it through before it happened. An hour ago, I was working off an impulse, one that lead to another impulse, and then another. Now I’m sitting here feeling satisfied, confused, excited, and frustrated. I don’t know what to do with all of that, or how to figure out what it means, but I do know one thing: I’m not interested in going back to what we’ve been doing for the past few weeks. She’s here for the summer, I’m here until I can afford to move out, and it’s pretty fucking obvious that we want each other. I may have thought it was a good idea to keep everything neighborly while she was here, but I was wrong. That was a dumb idea. The worst one I’ve had in a long time. Because of it, I worried about things that don’t matter and lost out on more time with Anya.
I shrug a shoulder and shake my head. “All I know is that I want to keep seeing you for as long as you’re here.” Gently, I brush a lock of hair off her forehead. “But I’m still pretty fucked up from my divorce and I’m not ready to get into anything serious with someone. I don’t know where that leaves us.”
“I’d say that means we’re on the same page. I need to be single for a while, so I’m not in the market for anything more than casual either. I think that we should just enjoy each other while we’re here and leave it at that.”
Surprisingly, her answer isn’t as awesome as it sounds. My brain says that it’s great we’re both in the same place and want the same thing, but the sinking feeling in my gut doesn’t match up. I think that last part—where she’s basically saying that we’re already planning how this ends—is the problem, but I’m not going to turn over that rock. I give her a nod and force myself to smile.
“Are you around tomorrow? I’m off work, so I could come by if you want. We can order that takeout you wanted.”
“Sounds good,” she says, then swats me on the arm. “But tonight you need to get out of here. I mean, you have mac and cheese waiting for you. And I hear it’s your favorite.”
“Don’t hate on my love for mac and cheese, because my mom’s is hard to beat. She uses four kinds of cheese and chopped green chilies, then tops the whole thing with buttered bread crumbs and big chunks of bacon.”
Anya groans and closes her eyes. “It’s not nice to tease a woman who’s starving. You better leave before I cover you in buttered bread crumbs.”
“You could come over. I’m sure she made enough for—”
The invitation is out of my mouth before I have a chance to realize how weird that would be. Anya and I showing up at my parents’, trying not to make it obvious we just screwed each other’s brains out, while we dish up our plates and make small talk. Luckily, Anya’s eyes flip open and she sends me a dry look.
“Not happening. I have a life rule about not dining out when I have sex hair. And I definitely don’t sit down at a dinner table with the parents of whoever caused the sex hair.” She shoves on my chest gently. “Go home.”
My gut sinks again but I ignore it, even when part of me knows that in a different time and different place, the two of us might have a chance for more. Today, though, this is the best we can get… so I’ll take it.
8
Anya
In the suburbs, there is one day every week when the truth of who your neighbors are becomes obvious. And that day is trash day. This when your neighbors see who you really are, and everyone is separated into very distinct groups. The organized households and the hot messes, the rule-followers and the outlaws, and—most importantly—the recyclers and the wasteful slackers. Palo Verde Heights, of course, is no different.
I became came part of the hot mess category by nearly forgetting it’s trash day altogether. That explains why I’m currently barefoot and darting down the driveway in my pj’s to drag the bin to the curb at the very last minute. Missing the trash truck is probably considered a cardinal sin in the suburbs and I’m not interested in a lecture from the hedge-clipping CPA’s on that topic, so I’m not about to screw this up only a few weeks into my housesitting gig. They’ve yet to speak to me at all, but I’m thinking that might get them to ring the doorbell.
I’m halfway down the driveway when I spot the one neighbor I would happily open the door for—just like I have nearly every night this week. JT jogs my way, dressed yet again like he’s going to do something sweaty and sexy, grinning at me the entire way. Before I even have a chance to say hello, his mouth is on mine in a good morning kiss that makes me wish I wasn’t wearing ratty pajamas with Cookie Monster printed all over them and wrangling a trash can. This isn’t exactly my best look.