Page 21 of Christmas Crisis
When I detailed this vision of my future to Leo, he’d listened with no judgment and, to my great pleasure, no surprise.
“You don’t have to sell me on the idea that you’re multidimensional,” he said. “I know there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye. But you need to extend some grace. You’re impossible not to love immediately, so you have to forgive people if they neglect to dig deeper.” He winked.
“You did,” I challenged.
“That’s because I know what it’s like to have people decide they know you at a glance.”
Another enigmatic statement. I didn’t push him to break it down because I felt sure I’d get the whole Leo eventually. He’d been giving himself to me in chunks, and I knew the missing pieces would come.
On New Year’s, his urgency in asking to be friends had surprised me. I’d been feeling the same pull toward him, although I hadn’t articulated it quite as clearly in my mind. He’d done us both a favor by putting it on the table the way he had.
When he’d offered to let me stay with him, I’d thought maybe he felt something romantic between us. I’d certainly been drawn to him. But in his apartment that first day, when I stood in my towel and our eyes met, he hadn’t crooked a finger or leered. Nope. He’d simply admired me, the way someone would with a painting or a fancy restaurant meal.
Leo sent classic mixed signals over those initial days. But he seemed so oblivious to his own behavior that I couldn’t fault him. I’d tried to figure out where his head was at by throwing out a few feelers—lingering glances, snuggling into him, letting him wrap his arm around my shoulders—but his responses were never more than friendly.
Yet he also wasn’t pushing me away or discouraging those touches. He appeared to revel in our closeness. Where most guys would interpret my knees bent into their thighs or my head ontheir shoulder as an invitation, Leo seemed to stop processing beyond,man, I really like having your head on my shoulder,orit’s so cool how comfortable I am with my arm around you.
He said he didn’t have many friends. Maybe he was just bad at knowing where typical boundaries lined up? Or maybe I was wrong, questioning whether exchanging cutesy nicknames and being so touchy-feely signaled something more than platonic vibes?
I’d spent those days in his apartment wondering and was grateful that his ultimate request had been definitive.
We should be better friends.
Just friends.
Now, over two months later, our relationship was more intimate than any other friendship I’d had. I’d even told him things I’d never told Maureen and Marley.
And I felt certain it was the same for him. He texted me about his job, how he sometimes experienced moral panic over renovating homes in wealthy neighborhoods when unhoused people lived in tents blocks away. He watched a lot of cable news, listened to a ton of podcasts, and worried about the state of the world. I reassured him that he had the right to earn a living, that his concern was a sign of decency, that he wasn’t alone in his worries, and that he shouldn’t feel guilty about enjoying life.
As I dusted my already spotless shelves, I thought about how Leo radiated light and goodness, despite his fears and misgivings. We had that in common. The difference was that when we were together, neither of us had to pretend to be cheerful.
We fit together naturally. Made each other better.
Because I wasn’t a plastic doll. And he wasn’t a superhero.
Leo arrived late at night.He’d driven straight through from Tacoma, his truck rumbling in after one in the morning. Before I’d even had a chance to show him around my small apartment, he took one look at the pull-out and barely kicked off his boots before crashing out. He would be here for three days, and we’d be able to spend all that time together since I’d taken the time off from my part-time job at a retail shop near campus.
He was still sleeping when I checked on him before taking a shower the following morning, but I came out of my bedroom after getting dressed to find him sitting up, rubbing his eyes. The blanket pooled around his waist. He’d taken his shirt off during the night, and I felt a very not-platonic stirring in my belly at the sight of his pecs flexing as he groaned and stretched his arms above his head. His pink nipples were quarter-sized, covered with a mat of hair that matched the dirty blond on his head. I peeked lower to see he still wore his jeans, top button undone.
I gulped down my reaction. He wasn’t trying to be sexy. He really wasn’t. There was only one of us in this room who realized how hot it was for a built guy with bed head and hooded eyes to stretch and roll his shoulders, forcing all that toned, tanned muscle to bunch and ripple.
Jesus. I needed to stop.
“Mornin’,” he said, scratching his stomach lazily before following it up with, “Disneyland?”
Huh?“Disneyland?”
“Mm-hmm.” He smiled.
“As in, that’s what you want to do today?”
“Yep. If you want to, of course.”
“I mean, you’re the out-of-town guest. Therefore, you get to run the show.” I leaned against the archway to the kitchen, folding my arms. “You’ve never been?”
“When I was a kid, but I’ve always wanted to go again. I know you live here, so maybe it’s old news, but I thought it might be fun.”
I tapped my lips thoughtfully. “I think it’s still early enough to make it worth our while. Let’s go see Mickey.”
