Page 69 of Bad at Love
He can’t possibly know what this means. He can’t know what…
“Please don’t cry,” he says softly.
And I am crying. Tears spill down my cheeks.
“I’m just so…” I try to say, my chest filling, my heart exploding. I’ve never felt such love for him before.
Love.
Love.
I love you.
The feeling should startle me, shock me, but I’ve never felt more awake, more alive, more…anything, than right now.
The fact that he would do that for me, take care of my father when I couldn’t, it’s like he’s taken my pain for me. He held it, carried it so I wouldn’t have to, just for a moment. But it was a moment I’ll never forget.
I am so grateful.
Sograteful.
And so in love with him.
I swallow the feeling down, knowing I have to keep it from him. Because this isn’t how a friend loves a friend. This is how a lover loves a lover. And we aren’t even that. Knowing me, we might never be that.
Still, when we pull up to my house, I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want him to go home.
“Stay with me?” I ask him quietly. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”
He’s stunned. “Are you sure?”
“I just need a friend right now,” I tell him so I won’t scare him.
He nods, his mouth forming an “oh.” “Of course,” he says after a beat. “Anything you need.”
Normally I would be extremely nervous about Laz spending the night. I’m talking popping back some pills, breathing into a paper bag kind of nervous.
But at this point, I am so spent, emotionally and physically, that I can’t be anxious at all. In fact, I’m craving him more than anything.
We head into the studio and I flick on the lights. The place is a mess but I don’t care. All I care about is that bed in the corner and the promise of his warm body beside me.
Wordlessly, I grab my night shirt and a pair of pajama pants from the dresser and head straight into the bathroom to change.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back at me. My eyes are swollen, puffy, bloodshot. I’m pale as a ghost. Dark circles ring my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever looked worse.
But as I step out into the bedroom, I don’t care.
The lights are off except for the faint bedside lamp. Laz is standing by the bed, in his long T-shirt that nearly covers his black boxer briefs. Part of me wishes his shirt was off so I could properly ogle him (and by ogle, I mean get a good look at what kind of heat he’s packing) so I have to settle for a brief evaluation of his legs. Men’s legs are usually meh, but Laz has some good ones. I know he hits the gym and he must spend a lot of time on them because his calves are defined and his thigh muscles are thick and taut. I’ve seen his legs before, obviously when he’s in shorts at the beach but this time I feel like I can look at him differently, in all the ways I never let myself before.
“Which side is yours?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.
“The left.”
I walk over, conscious of my breasts swaying under the loose shirt and then get under the covers.
He goes around the other side and does the same.
It’s the first time we’ve been in bed together and I’m shocked at how natural it feels. How good. How right.
