Page 20 of Brash for It
“Relax,” I state, tone flat.I flip the light off, leaving the lamp on in case she needs to go to the bathroom and gets mixed up in a new place.The room goes soft.“We’re both adults.I can sleep beside you without sex.”I slide in on my side—my side out of habit, not ownership—and let the mattress dip under my weight.“Unless that’s what you want.”
Her breath hitches.“I?—”
I huff, amused despite myself.“I’m messing with you.Chill, Kristen.”I tilt my head on the pillow so I can see the outline of her face.“Go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Watch me help.”I reach for her without asking—slow, careful, giving her time to shake me off.She doesn’t.I hook an arm under her shoulders and pull, draping her half across my chest until her ear’s over my heartbeat and her legs tangle with mine.She goes rigid for a count of three.Then I feel it—one muscle at a time letting go, like a line of dominoes falling and then quietly settled.
“This is weird,” she says into my skin.
“Yeah.”
“I barely know you.”
“You know enough.”I slide my palm into her hair, fingers working through damp strands absently.Not sexual.Although it easily could be.The woman is beautiful and under other circumstances I would absolutely want to fuck her.She’s in a mess though and I don’t do messes.Instead tonight I’m going to be a friend and that friend will stroke her hair.Soothing, like you do to a nervous dog or a kid after nightmares.She sighs without meaning to.The sound curls through my ribs and loosens something I didn’t know was tight.
“It’s been a long day,” I share into the ceiling.“Sleep.”My hand keeps moving—slow, steady passes that have nothing to do with heat and everything to do with rhythm.Her breath evens.The tremble in it fades.The weight of her settles different when her body finally agrees to rest.
She’s asleep faster than I expect, and deeper.I can tell by the way her face goes slack against me, by the way her fingers unkink from the death-grip on my shirt.There’s a tiny snore that she’ll deny to her grave.It makes my mouth tilt in the dark.I keep stroking her hair long after she’s gone under because my hand doesn’t want to stop and I don’t have to explain myself to anybody in my own bed.
The room hums the familiar background music—fridge motor, a car out on the street, the sigh of the AC kicking into another cycle.For once, the quiet doesn’t crawl over me making me feel raw.It fits.
I stare at the ceiling and let the day replay itself in reverse—the tow hook clanking, her face when the phone didn’t work, the way she reached for me without believing she was doing it.
I’m not a hero.
I’m not a knight to save the princess.
I’m not even good most days.
I’m my mother’s son.
I’m a man who knows what to do when someone’s falling.You catch.You set ‘em on their feet.
Then I move the hell on.Except my arm’s full of contradiction and she smells like eucalyptus and something that’s just her, and moving on isn’t what happens.Instead I let myself enjoy holding her.Sleep finally comes to me slowly.I take it when it arrives.
Six
Pretty Boy
I wakebefore the sun because I always do.Years of runs and nights on couches train the body to grab rest in fistfuls and get out before the world starts yelling.The room sits gray-blue.Kristen’s still draped over me like I’m a piece of furniture she trusts.Her mouth is open a fraction.Her breath is soft and regular.
I don’t move for a while.It’s not out of care, but it is a choice.There’s a kind of quiet you don’t break because it feels like a crime to do so.My arm tingles.I let it.
When I finally shift, I do it slow, easing out from under her and tucking the pillow beneath her cheek so she doesn’t lose the warm shape.She sighs once, frowns in her sleep, then goes smooth again.
Coffee is muscle memory.Grounds.Water.Flip the switch.The machine coughs itself into usefulness.My phone blinks on the counter.
One message from Tripp:You alive or drunk?
Another from Crunch with a picture of takeout and the captionMarried life: 10/10 recommend.I type back to Tripp:Alive.Working.
I leave Crunch on read because I am thankful my brother is happy and healthy.If he wants to celebrate marrying Jennissey every day until his last breath, I’ll take every message.There was a time I wasn’t sure Crunch would make it.The drugs had a grip on him in a way none of us could reach him.Now he’s sober and living a full life with the only woman he’s ever loved.
By the time the smell hits the bedroom, she stirs.I hear it from the kitchen—the soft huff, the rustle of blanket.I imagine what her brain is feeling.It’s the coming to with recognition of the moment a mind that’s been running opens an eye and doesn’t immediately start sprinting.I pour two mugs of coffee.I don’t ask how she takes it, I’m not a short order cook or a waiter.I set out sugar and milk like a civilized human so my mother’s lessons stuck in my head will leave me alone, but I’m not mixing the damn drink for her.
She appears in the doorway with my shirt hanging off one shoulder and a crease on her cheek from the seam of the pillowcase.She blinks at me like she forgot where she was and doesn’t hate remembering.Then her face does this thing—remembers everything else—and the light flickers.
