Lean On Me #Wattys2016

Part 23

Mateo

"So do you have an agent yet?" She asks as she holds a spoonful of ice cream in front of her mouth. It takes me a minute to process her words because right now all I can think about is how badly I want to be that spoon. She slips it into the mouth I am now familiar with and I watch her perfect lips as she closes them around the cold metal. I thought this wild attraction would wean off, but it doesn't. I want her again and I already know even the next time won't be nearly enough.

"No. I have to finish the novel first." I follow her tongue as she licks the drop of chocolate from her lip.

"How much have you written?" She looks at my ice cream and then moves her spoon to my bowl and retrieves a bite of the mint chip I have instead of her chocolate. "Mmm," she moans and can't help but laugh out loud. "What?" she asks seriously.

"You have no idea do you?" I point my spoon at her and she shakes her head. "You're like a walking wet dream. All bouncing boobs and sexy moans. You can't even eat ice cream without being sexy." I steal a scoop of her chocolate, holding out my bowl to her so she can have more of my mint.

"Yeah right," she rolls her eyes. "My hair is all messy and this outfit is something a tired mom would wear." She tugs at her tight shirt and looks down in disgust at her yoga pants. "I look like I didn't give any shits today about who might see me."

"You're beautiful. You could be wearing a trash bag and I'd still want to have sex with you." I reach over and wipe a small drop of mint ice cream from the corner of her mouth.

"Are you trying to tell me you're into trash bags? Is that some fetish you get off to?" she teases.

"I'm into whatever you're in. Trash bag, yoga pants, lacey panties...." I shrug my shoulder, "Come to think of it, I'm also into nothing. Like you could get naked again and I'd be totally into that." It earns me a light punch to the arm.

"Tell me more about writing. Are you getting close to being ready for an agent?" I'd worry she was just trying to keep the conversation going so it doesn't get awkward, but she's looking at me with a very serious expression and I can see that she genuinely cares about what I have to say. I think about it for a minute.

"I'm about half way through the story. I was stuck for a while, but that changed." I smile and quickly take another bite of ice cream so I don't give away just how happy it makes me to be back at it—and that she is currently my muse.

"That's so cool!" she practically screeches. "How often to do you write?"

"I started the story when I couldn't sleep. I think I created a character with a disability because I was trying to make sense of my own. Sometimes when I get insomnia I write a few chapters. I don't really touch it much during the day." I set my bowl aside.

"Do you know how you are going to end the story?" She scoops the last bite from her bowl and holds it out to me. I take it and then I grab her bowl and wait for her to put her spoon inside. I swallow and lick my lips as I set her bowl to the side with mine. She is patiently waiting for my answer.

"I have no idea." I can see that she's cold, tiny bumps covering her arms and neck. I grab the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around her. "I've never written anything as long as this story. It started in a pretty dark place and I'm just trying to stay true to the characters." I rub my hands up and down her arms on top of the blanket. I can smell the faint scent of apples; the fragrance is something that makes me feel this weird mix of arousal and contentment.

"I'm impressed." She says the words quietly and honestly. I stop my movement and look at her. Her words make me feel proud. Pride is a feeling I used to be very familiar with. I was great at sports my whole life and felt pride for the goals I accomplished playing. Then I felt proud to be a Marine. I guess I never realized how much I missed that feeling until feeling now.

She looks so cute wrapped up in my blanket, her pretty face framed by her dark hair. "I'm in trouble," I reply quietly. I can't fight it any longer and I let my fingers swipe across her forehead, down behind her ear, and along her jaw. She doesn't say anything and I worry for a minute that she might try to bail. We haven't discussed what's happening between us and my words might be all the information she needs to figure out that I'm not so confidently standing on the friends with benefits side of the street as I was the first time we hooked up.

It's not my fault. I've never met anyone like her. She's smart and nurturing, fun and so hot it burns my heart. I tried to keep it casual, but looking at her now I know my words are true. I'm in trouble. I want to touch her all the time. I want to feel her under my fingers and hear all the little sounds she makes. I want to memorize the way her face looks when she's looking at me and I want to know what it's like to fall asleep with her in my arms. If that doesn't show you how much trouble I'm in, I don't know what will.

There's nothing that's going to keep me from handing Ashlyn my heart on a silver platter. I have to focus for a minute to make sure I haven't done it already. It's not like me to get this hooked on a girl. I'd like to say I don't know what it is about her that has me this sprung, but I can't say that. I know what it is. It's the way she understands me already, the way she takes time to wait for me. It's the way she didn't give up on me and pushed me to want more for myself. It's the way I think about her at night and how she's the first thing on my mind in the morning. It's all the little things that have me tripping over myself to see her smile or hear her laugh. I'm so into this girl it's embarrassing.

She lets the blanket fall from around her shoulders and slowly puts her hand on my knee. It's a move that before my injury I wouldn't even consider a come on, but having her do it makes me feel better, proud that she finds me worthy. I don't think there's anything she can do to make me stop falling...but then she slides her hand up to my thigh and the floor of my perfectly comfortable room falls out from beneath my feet. All I can think about is the way my scars must feel beneath her fingertips and the world around me begins to spin. I feel nauseous and overheated all at once. My stomach twists and pushes up towards my throat and my heart stings with the jolt of panic then beats so quickly I worry I might pass out.

I stand up from the couch like it's on fire and step back, stumbling when pain shoots up my leg. I grab the deformed muscle tightly, taking a few half steps until I gain my balance back. I'm afraid to open my mouth for fear that I'll throw up everywhere so I find myself shaking my head instead. No, it's not you. No, I'm not OK. No, I can't do this.

"I'm sorry," she says, her eyes immediately glassing over with tears and I hold up my hand to stop her before her voice laced so deeply with pain and disappointment can pierce my already damaged heart. It's not her fault. I'm the crazy one. I'm the one who can't stand to be touched there and can't seem to get past this. I hate it. It makes me feel weak and unworthy. I take another step back.

I've never been great with words, but I'm absolutely terrible with them when I'm having a panic attack. I can't get my mouth to open and the words I want to say are lost in the spinning and rolling. I try to rub the pain from my thigh, but the heightened awareness the panic brings only makes the pain there more noticeable. I feel the sour burn of vomit at the back of my throat and I know the adrenaline and pain are mixing up a perfect storm of misery. I turn quickly and limp towards the bathroom, closing the door behind me before bending over the toilet. I hear the front door close in the distance, and then my world goes dark as not for the first time since my injury, I pass out. 

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