Page 36 of Napkins and Other Distractions
He chuckles. “Not really. A little, but along with OCD, I have mysophobia—a fear of germs.” He runs his hand over his head. “Shaving is more streamlined. Clean. I love it.”
“Plus, it’s fucking sexy,” I blurt out. Oops.
Vincent’s head dips, but he doesn’t move his feet away from my massaging hands.
“Thanks. Not everyone thinks so.”
“Those people are idiots,” I say, gently tugging his other sock off. “No offense.”
Vincent grins and tilts his head back, seemingly lost in having his feet rubbed. His Adam’s apple pokes out, the supple skin of his neck taunting me. Right now, I’m grateful his feet are on my thighs, not my groin.
“So, earlier today, at school,” I say, squeezing the arch of his foot, “and at Gillian’s … does that happen often?”
“It can.” His head still rests on the top of the sofa cushion. “I can go days, even weeks, with nothing and then have multiple incidents in a day.” His foot relaxes under my care. “Like today.”
A slight sting blossoms in the back of my throat, and sweat dots the top of my hairline. Was this partly my fault?
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Vincent’s head pulls up, and my fingers pause their work.
“Kent, please don’t take this as a hit to your ego, but this”—he points to himself—“had nothing to do with you.”
I want to believe him.
“Whatdoesit have to do with?”
He returns his head back, closes his eyes, and his soft eyelashes curl toward the ceiling. I resume massaging his gorgeous feet. As I rub each toe, I’m amazed by the incredible softness of his feet. Something stirs inside me, but I reassure myself that it’s just a friendly foot massage.
“People assume my parents didn’t love me. Or there was some traumatic event. But that’s not the case. My parents are wonderful—my father’s infatuation with goats aside. It just kind of happens.”
My thumb runs down the underside of his foot. The arch of his foot has a supple texture, inviting me to trail my fingers over it. Vincent’s voice becomes low and honeyed. My lips turn up, knowing my hands are having this effect on him.
“When I was little, maybe four or five, I remember standing in front of the toilet waiting to pee. I started counting the flowers on the wallpaper. Pink peonies. So many fucking peonies. When I finished, I moved on to the tiles on the floor. White octagons. I couldn’t leave the bathroom until I’d counted them all. Twice. To check. If I lost track, I started over.”
“Did your parents know?”
“Not then, but they figured it out soon enough.” Vincent rolls his head back and forth on the cushion. “It started with counting. Then, I went through a ‘symmetry’ phase.”
“Symmetry?”
“Everything had to be even. Odd numbers were the bane of my existence. Still can be. If I counted something that wasn’t an even number, I counted again, expecting a different result. The need for things to be even. Aligned. Arranged. That became … quite distracting, and my parents caught on quickly.”
A smile dawns on my lips, and a whir spins in my stomach. An intense longing to wrap my arms around Vincent and hold him close almost overcomes me.
“I still prefer even numbers. And by prefer, I mean require.”
A yawn overtakes his face, and glancing at my watch, I realize I’ve probably overstayed my welcome. I lost track of time and somehow became rooted to the sofa.
“I should go,” I say, reluctantly pulling my hands away from his bare feet, already missing the sensation of their warmth.
“I’m sorry, I’m talking your ear off,” he says, pulling his legs under him. The moment his toes disappear, my hands itch to grab them. Hold them. Feel them. Taste them.
“I’m a talker. And I enjoy talking to you,” I say. “But it’s late. I should go.”
“Do you want to stay?”
“But we’re, we’re, not, you’re not, me, um … ” I stammer. Even stationary, I manage to be clumsy, tripping over my words. I could stay on his couch. Friends do that.
