Page 61 of There's Pumpkin About You
“And where did you sleep that night?”
He shrugs. “The spare room.”
“Why not put me in there?” I ask, moving closer to him.
He shrugs again, looking somewhat uncomfortable.
I think I know why. I think I know the reason without him vocalizing it. I’m pretty sure that he wanted me to be comfortable, and Gus in his own caring way thought that in order to do so, I needed to be placed where he himself felt comfortable. In my own house, my spare room consists of a dust-covered mattress and some boxes of stuff that Adam forgot to take with him. When Oakleigh stays over—usually after several glasses of wine—she sleeps in my bed with me.
I take a seat beside him but he doesn’t look over. He looks down at his hand and watches it as it plays with a loose piece of thread on his jeans.
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow?” I ask.
He nods once, moving over to the dresser and pulling one out.
“Do you want me to give you some privacy?” he asks as he hands it over.
“Do you want to give me some privacy?” I ask with a smirk.
“That’s a complicated question, sweetheart.”
I stand and turn around, quickly pulling my top up over my head before I have the chance to chicken out. I unbutton my jeans and shuffle them down past my hips and I smile to myself when I hear Gus’s breath hitch. I challenge myself, deciding to take it one step further and unclip the clasp of my bra, letting it fall to the ground.
“Are you trying to kill me, sweetheart?”
“What is it that’ll kill you, exactly—the lack of clothes, or the fact that my clothes are on the floor?”
“Both,” he snarls.
My laugh floats around the room as I slowly reach for the shirt, giving Gus as much time as possible to ogle and stare at my bare back, letting him imagine what else I must be hiding from him.
I’m so focused on my actions that I haven’t even realized he’s moved closer, so close that I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. I freeze, waiting to see what it is that he’ll do.
“What happened?” he asks, lightly tracing a finger down the scar behind my right shoulder.
“My own fault,” I breathe. “I slipped in the shower and the edge of it dug in and cut me pretty bad. It was years ago.”
His fingers slide down, taking his sweet time and sending endless shivers up and down my spine. My breathing shortens, moving in and out in rapid spurts. His hands are rough and they cause a delicious amount of friction as they travel down my spine.
“You have another one,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
I twist round. “Another one?”
“Beauty spot.”
I pull the shirt over my head, letting it fall over my body and shield me from his intensity.
I turn myself around completely. “What is it that has you so obsessed with them?”
He stares at the one above my lip. “You don’t like them. At least, I think you don’t.”
“So?”
“So youshouldlike it. There’s a less than one percent chance of you having it. I know what it’s like to have somethingthatrare and hate it at times. Did you know that there is only a one point seven percent chance of someone being born with Autism? Sometimes when people decide to use the word ‘disorder’, I end up agreeing with them because I despise being different. I still hate that I get overstimulated by the tiniest things, or that sometimes I feel like such a walking, talking contradiction. I feel like a freak. I don’t want you feeling like that.”
My heart hurts for him. I can’t imagine feeling so uneasy in your own skin to the point that you’re hyper-fixated on your differences. Living in a town where you feel excluded purely because the way you function is different to those around you.
“That can’t be easy.”
