Page 86 of The Fix-Up
“Was I…? Were we…?” He swallowed audibly. “Did we…?”
I leaned over and snapped on a lamp. “Would never have thought you’d be a cuddler.”
Gil’s head swiveled around the room, looking everywhere and anywhere that wasn’t me. He shoved a hand through his hair. “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do whatever we were doing…together…just now…and, um, well…”
Huffing a laugh, I laid back down. “Seriously. Your face right now. We were sleeping; it doesn’t count.”
“Right. Yeah.” He got up and went to the bathroom, staying there at least ten minutes, and I swore I could hear him talking to himself. When he finally came out, he’d brushed his hair (somehow) and looked much more composed. He paused by my side of the bed. “I apologize. That should not have happened.”
I reached out and touched the back of his hand. He flinched but didn’t pull away. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to invade your personal space.” I was half joking. We’d been in the middle of the bed. That sure seemed like we’d both invaded each other’s personal space. Together. Joint effort.
“Personal bubble,” he muttered as he climbed back into bed, staying as far on his side as humanly possible.
“Oh, right. Personal bubble. Although let the record show when we bumped into each other in the hallway last week, I’m pretty sure you smelled my hair.”
He flipped on his side, giving me his back. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“I bet you are.” I clicked off the lamp and the room was shrouded in darkness again. In silence, too.
I sat up and pounded my pillow and threw myself down again, wriggled around until I found a comfortable sleeping position. Tried to forget how nice it had felt to be held like that. Tried not to think about how much I wished it would happen again.
“Your hair smelled like peaches,” Gil said quietly.
“It’s my shampoo. Peaches and Cream. I can change it if it bothers you.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Don’t change it.”
“Okay,” I said, my voice much breathier than I intended. I wanted to ask him, to see if he could feel this thing growing between us. Somehow this feeling had started, one I refused to name. But each day, it seemed to grow a little stronger. It was terrifying.
“We’ll pretend that didn’t happen, okay?” I said. “It never happened.”
“Right. Never happened.”
“Because nothing can happen,” I said quickly. “I mean, it wouldn’t be right for a lot of reasons. Oliver doesn’t need to get the wrong idea and…and you and me, we want different things, you know, and only one of us is going to get what we want. You’re going back to your life in three months and I’m getting on with mine. So, nothing happened. Or will happen. Not that anything was going to happen.” My face was on fire, and I’d never been happier for darkness.
“I get it,” he said quietly. “We should sleep.”
“Yes. Sleep is good.” I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep. My brain was not listening. I tossed and turned. Went to the bathroom. Stubbed my toe in the process. Laid back down. And still, my brain kept braining. Finally, I gave up. “I can’t sleep.”
He didn’t answer. In fact, after several minutes of silence, I was sure he was so sound asleep he didn’t hear me, so I almost fell out of the bed when he did speak such was my surprise.
“I go to Austin every weekend to see my brother. He’s all alone with Dad gone, and I need to check on him.” His voice was low, practically a whisper, all gravelly and serious.
“What’s his name?”
“Mikey.” He paused and I heard him swallow. I held my breath, part of me hoping he’d continue while another part wished he hadn’t told me, that he wouldn’t give me another reason to like him just a little bit more.
“Mikey.” I should let it go but I turned toward him. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-five.”
I couldn’t stop my gasp. “But I’ve heard you on the phone with him. I thought he was Oliver’s age.”
“He suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car accident, the same accident my mom…” His voice trailed off.
“Oh, Gil,” I breathed and reached out a hand. It brushed against his shoulder, and I kept it there. “I’m so sorry.”
He placed his hand over mine and wrapped his fingers around it, squeezed gently. “It’s been my brother and my dad and me for a long time. Mikey has always lived at home. When my stepdad passed, he wanted me to put Mikey in a group home, said he didn’t want me to feel obligated. ‘He’ll be just fine,’ he told me.”
