What’s he doing here?
That silent inquiry ricochets inside the walls of my mind as I survey him. Black hoodie, black, fitted jeans, and scuffed, black boots sum up the whole outfit. He has rock star hair today, mussed around his head like he just rolled out of bed. There’s a presence about him. It’s something so unmistakable, patented only to him, that I can’t seem to deny or resist the draw. It has me sitting up a little straighter in my chair. That magnetizing appeal he wields so well is the reason why I stare like he’s the Second Coming. It’s also why when I try to swallow, it feels like the Sahara has made a temporary home inside my mouth.
“Hi,” Regina greets with a tight smile, breaking the awkward silence his entrance ushered in, “welcome to the group.”
He says nothing in response, only hands her a folded piece of paper before he walks away. He has a slow, lazy gait. Unhurried, like time itself should move in accordance to his progression. Dropping my gaze is almost reflexive when he saunters past me. I would hate to be caught looking. Hate for him to discover my odd fascination with him, and become weirded out by it. Tension sets my spine ramrod straight when he takes the seat next to me. Sweat pearls along my skin making me feel oddly cold and hot all at the same time. The next hour and fifteen minutes is sweetly unbearable. Trying to concentrate on sketching becomes a task I can’t commit to. From my peripheral, I see him but not very well. And when I tell myself not to look, the desire to do otherwise is so strong it’s hard to fight it. I find my head turning more than a few times, my eyes trailing the exquisite structure of his face. He has a wide forehead and low, hooded brows set over slumbering eyes. With him sleeping, it’s easier to look at him. I take in his angular jaw, the cleft in his square chin that leads to the grim line of his full mouth. The small, white scar slashing down the corner of his top lip is noticeable this close up. There’s a slight crook in his nose but it barely detracts from his masculine beauty. Resting on blessedly high cheekbones are full, dark lashes that match the jet of his hair. It’s styled in an undercut, trimmed low all around except the top, which he’s gathered in a short ponytail. My eyes return to his mouth, specifically to the scar, and it’s while I’m wondering how he got it that Regina calls the end to the group.
“All right, guys, I’ll see you next week. Great session today.” I wouldn’t know. I’ve been preoccupied gawking at my living muse. While everyone gets up and files out of the room, scraping chairs back and speaking a little too loudly, Maddox remains sleeping. Completely unbothered by the noise. I push away from the table, ready to follow behind everyone else in exiting the room except I find myself lingering back and even before I can process the next thought, my hand is reaching out to him with the intention of waking him up. It’s completely stupid and uncharacteristic of me, and luckily my nerves come into play in the next second, stilling my hand and curbing my short bout of insanity. With my hand still hovering inches from his tattooed shoulder, I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Inferno hot. And maybe it’s my overactive imagination or maybe just wishful thinking, but his skin is like a magnet that exerts a pull on my fingers so powerful I have to curl them into a tight fist to keep myself from touching him.
You need to go.
It’s a simple command that my mind whispers.
Don’t be creepy.
I silently scoff at that.
Too late.
Grateful that his deep sleep has spared him of my eccentricities, I gather my things and vacate the room as fast as I possibly can, only to trip over my feet in the corridor. I’m quick enough in catching myself before I go sprawling to the floor, but it doesn’t save me the embarrassment. The three women who’d been standing near the door chatting understandably snicker as I walk by. It’s with reddened cheeks that I step inside the mercifully empty elevator shaft. I’m reaching over to press the L button when I see him coming. He smoothly makes it inside before the double silver doors close at the center. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to act. All there is is the heavy vibration of infinite silence occasionally interrupted by the whirring wires of the elevator gradually bringing us down to our mutual destination. In this tight, enclosed space, I become too conscious of his force. He’s gravity and I’m merely debris, completely drawn in by his influence. I can feel the irregular beats of my heart knocking against the bars of my rib cage, playing out the rhythm of my unease. With every choppy intake of breath, I take his scent into my lungs. It’s a scent distinct only to him. It’s a mixture of sun, wood, and freshly cut grass. There’s a spicy base note that lingers like melted chocolate on my tongue. It’s hell on wires that lasts too long but isn’t long enough when the elevator finally grounds to a stop. I step out first and I’m proud of myself for fighting the impulse to turn and look behind me. Taking a bracing breath, I conquer the revolving door once more and walk outside. Looking to my left and then my right, I finally see Rachel’s car in the second parking lot as it slowly makes its way to me.
“Next time,” I gasp sharply, my eyes wide, “you should just touch me.” He delivers the words with hushed gruffness. The whisper of his warm breath against my ear and neck sends a foreign sensation ribboning down my spine. He walks away in the same instant Rachel pulls up. My skin is prickling, my heart racing erratically. Standing paralyzed on the sidewalk, I watch his retreating back. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he steadily makes his way to the parking lot until he disappears from my view.
“Aylee, sweetheart, are you okay?” It takes Rachel’s inquiry to snap me out of my temporary paralysis. Opening the rear door, I glide inside and firmly close it behind me.
“Yeah.” I buckle my seat belt. “I’m okay.”
Anxious to see if she’ll mention Maddox, I wait with bated breath.
“How was therapy?”
A quiet exhale deflates my body as I slump back into the seat. “Fine.” I’ve never been very forthcoming with my replies about therapy anyway, so when I answer back with one-word syllables it isn’t anything unusual. But I’m distracted. My gaze is focused outside the tinted window. Rachel has to take the next left to navigate out of the hospital parking lot. Unconsciously, I move closer to the door, turn my head completely now, as my gaze bounces around. Searching…searching for a glimpse of him. Nothing. He’s nowhere to be found.
A part of me thinks I just imagined the scene that plays over and over again long after we get home, have dinner, and I wash up for bed. Sleep doesn’t come. I’m at the nook of my windowsill, my legs in a lotus position, cradling my sketchpad. His image is in shadowed charcoal and crosshatching. But as usual, my sketch pales in comparison to the real thing. Yet my fingers trace down his cheek, and though it’s the rough texture of the page that greets my fingers, I close my eyes and imagine the radiating heat of his flesh beneath my fingertips.
Next time…you should just touch me.
The gravely intonation of his voice is an echo inside the catacombs of my mind, so real that I open my eyes to stupidly look around my room for him. Bringing the pencil to the corner of my mouth, I mindlessly chew on it as I analyze the words and the manner in which they were said. They seemed pretty straightforward and yet I want to know what he meant. Is there even any great meaning to them? Or am I putting too much emphasis on this? He was teasing, obviously. But he and I barely interacted before this for it to be a casual thing. We share a class together, astronomy, which he rarely shows up to. We don’t know each other well enough to tease. I don’t even think he knows my name.
No, but he knows you exist, my mind is quick to supply.
Next time…you should just touch me.
Would I? Could I? The idea of touching him—
The distinct creak just outside my bedroom door puts an immediate halt to my thoughts. I stay very still even while my heart begins a canter that quickly turns to a gallop. Bile surges up, hot and sour, it coats the back of my throat with acid. Revulsion has me pulling the pencil out of my mouth to bring it to my forearm. The one with the thick, ugly scar. I scrap the leaded tip slowly up and down my arm, going just a little deeper each time, like that will get rid of the sensation of tiny little maggots wriggling just beneath my flesh. My eyes crawl to my doorway, the two black shadows of a set of feet interrupting the flow of light beneath my door tells me it’s no one else but Tim. If it were Rachel or Sarah, they would’ve said something by now. Tim—Tim is always quiet. A flesh and blood ghost haunting my doorway. Silent like the rest of the house at this time of night. The scratch of the pencil gets faster when he grips the doorknob and turns it. It’s locked. He tries it again.
Turn. Click. Click.
Turn. Click. Click.
Turn. Click. Click.
I count a hundred seconds while he stands there.
Go away.
Go away.
