A Little Crazy - Christina Lauren

Thank you for reading! Just a note that later chapters of A Little Crazy

will contain content that is suitable for a mature audience. HAPPY

READING!

­ Christina and Lauren

A little story we wrote a looooong time ago. It's been prettied up and is

complete, so updates should be pretty regular. Thanks for reading!

­ Lo &Christina

[Thank you for reading! Just a note that later chapters of A Little Crazy will contain

content that is suitable for a mature audience. HAPPY READING!

- Christina and Lauren]

Annotation

He's the new mysterious tenant across the street. She's spent her entire life here. Can he

convince her that life isn't a place, but what you keep with you?

Chapter 1

June 3rd

He moved in quietly in the middle of the night. A large truck sat at the dark

curb and three men shuffled boxes and a few pieces of furniture inside.

She watched from her living room, awake as usual.

The truck pulled away with a deep shudder and the street fell silent again.

June 4th

Parents ushered their kids into cars, and husbands kissed wives goodbye at

the doorway. She sat on her stoop, watching the house across the street.

Dusty blue paint curled at the windowsills, and the grass had overgrown

since the previous tenants—a young, scruffy couple—had moved away.

The house had been silent since the last box was unloaded and the door

shut behind polite waves and whispers of thanks.

She waited to see him again, wondering if he was the one who stayed, or if

he was one of the two who left in the truck.

The blue house was never rented for long. Three months, six months. Once

it had been rented for almost a year. The neighborhood had grown tired of

the revolving door of tenants and had learned to ignore the quiet house. Kids

passed it over at Halloween, neighbors borrowed sugar two doors down

instead, and Fourth of July parades never lingered in that yard.

But she always noticed the house. She noticed the transient tenants. The

neighborhood's general disregard made her feel protective of it, defensive.

She felt the house deserved better. She always made a pie for new tenants,

in hopes it would convey to them that it mattered to her they were here, that

someone cared about the house.

June 7th

The asphalt was melting in the heat and the air was distorted close to the

ground. She parked and began unloading groceries when she saw him

again, noticed him deep in his driveway, washing a car she had never seen

before.

It was a late 80s Volvo station wagon: rust colored and dusty. He was

beautiful and shirtless, his arms covered in blues, reds, and yellows. His hair

was damp from sweat and his shorts were drenched with water from the

bucket on the ground. She let her eyes linger on his arms, on the stories told

atop the muscles of his forearms and the taut lines of his biceps. His back

was bare but for words in black along his lower spine.

He stood and stretched, turning to crack his back. Their eyes met and

lingered.

“Hi,” his lips said in a smile.

“Um,” she mumbled, before turning and walking into the house with her

bags.

June 8th

His pie had crust latticed over apricots, blueberries, and scattered purple

plums. Colorful and beautiful. She hoped he wouldn’t notice, and she hoped

he would. She carried it over, hopping barefoot on the hot street, balancing

the pie. She reached the door and knocked once on the familiar wood.

Footsteps slapped along the hardwood and wavy brown hair appeared in the

row of windows before hazel eyes peeked over and then disappeared again.

Several moments of silence passed and she feared he could hear her heart

beating. She also feared he had walked away. The knob turned and he

appeared in front of her. Clean but scruffy. Beautiful but, sadly, clothed. His

ears were stretched with small black bands, his eyebrow pierced with a small

ring, and he had a silver vertical labret in his lower lip.

“Hi.” She smiled, nervous now. “I brought you a pie.”

He blinked from her gaze abruptly and looked down at her hands. “For me?”

he asked, grinning.

She nodded, looking at the blue and red ink spanning his neck. “It’s what I

do whenever someone moves into this house.”

His face registered this, and what looked like disappointment and excitement

mixed over his features. His lips pressed together for a moment, possibly in

recognition that other lips had tasted pies she made just for them. She

hoped the way his eyes brightened meant he’d guessed, correctly, that she

had only ever blended color like this for him.

“I went a little crazy with yours,” she confirmed, nodding to the pie. She

bounced on her toes on the hot porch needing to leave, but wanting to stay.

He took the tin and lifted the corner of his lip as his smile widened. “I like a

little crazy.”

She laughed and turned to leave, waving at him quickly. “Bye, Colorful

Neighbor Guy.”

“Bye, A­little­crazy Neighbor Girl,” he murmured.

She felt his gaze on her the entire way back across the street.

June 9th

His light was on when she woke at 2am, hot and unable to find comfort in

the big house. A steady beat moved from inside his house and across the

heavy air, the sound of his fingers on a drum. She sat on her porch swing,

sipping water, imagining him eating her pie in the middle of the night.

~

She climbed out of bed and pulled a T­shirt over her head, padding to the

door to fetch the paper. On top of the Times was a small piece of white

stationary, folded in fourths.

Bending to retrieve it, she smiled. A drawing of a stick figure, smiling and

holding its belly, was scribbled across it. She laughed, walking back inside.

The rest of the day her thoughts lingered on the man across the street as

she worked in her office. The slightest sound from outside would send her

into the kitchen to peer out the window.

From there, if she bent ever so slightly, she had the perfect view of his little

blue house. She scanned the yard in search of the sound, ready to be

disappointed again, when movement near the fence caught her eye.

He walked around the tall oak in front, a tool box in hand and stopped at one

of the smaller front windows. Shirtless again.

She watched as he bent and focused on his task, completely unaware of her

wide­eyed spying. The muscles of his back flexed and twisted as he finally

forced the old window open. Her eyes were drawn down his torso as he

moved down the length of the house, trying to make out the colored

markings that began along his ribs and disappeared below the waistband of

his shorts. He was so different than anyone she'd ever known before, and

yet in the few minutes they had spent together, she felt inexplicably

comfortable and known.

Reluctantly pushing away from the counter, she sighed and looked at the

clock. She opened the refrigerator and began mechanically removing items

to make dinner, pausing with a smile as the lawn mower started across the

street.

An hour later she had a piping hot pan of lasagna in her oven­mitted hands,

and it occurred to her what she was doing. Without realizing it, she had

prepared two pans and was in the process of securing foil over the glass

dish and getting ready to cross the street and place one on his porch. Before

she could second­guess her actions, she stepped out into the waning sun.

The sound of children playing bounced off the hot pavement. The air was

thick but cooler now, ripe with the smell of freshly cut grass and family

barbecues.

She was surprised by the noticeable difference in the old house. Gone were

the waist high weeds that spiraled around the weathered mailbox, the

overgrown lawn that she used to watch sway in the breeze from the window

seat in her bedroom. The grass was now short and cut in a crisscross

pattern. The flowerbeds were bare but weedless, and the once desolate

looking windows were liberated from their broken blinds, proudly streak­free

and framed by the freshly­sanded blue paint.

Silence greeted her as she hopped up the warm sidewalk, balancing the hot

pan in her arms. She put the dish down and turned, quickly scurrying back to

her house. A lone purple flower, saved from the twisted mass of overgrown

weeds caught her eye as she passed. It struck her how that defiant little

flower seemed to belong. Strong, unusual, and exotic in such ordinary

landscaping.

The next morning, she stepped out onto the porch to retrieve the paper,

once again surprised to find something there waiting for her. Her clean dish

held another folded piece of white stationary. She bent to retrieve it and

laughed out loud, her hand moving to cover her mouth as the sound echoed

in the quiet morning. The paper displayed a simple sketch of two stick

figures eating together.

She glanced up then and met his wide smile from the front window. She

looked down momentarily, blushing, and was greeted by his wave when she

lifted her gaze back to his. She quickly returned his wave and turned back to

the house, already planning their dinner.

Chapter 2

She wasn't quite sure what she was getting into. Her body had been moving

without any voluntary input from her brain, and her knock on the door

sounded louder than usual, even though her arm felt weak with anticipation.

The sound of bare feet padding to the door again spiked her nerves and she

took a stumbling step backwards as it burst open and he stood before her,

gorgeous and grinning.

"Come on in, A Little­Crazy­Neighbor Girl." He made a broad sweeping

gesture with his hand before he noticed that she had stumbled. "Are you

okay? Did I scare you?"

"No." But she laughed nervously anyway.

"Well, I didn't mean to open the door so unexpectedly," he teased, waving

her inside.

"Exactly. Give a girl at least the customary ten seconds."

"See?" He grinned, shaking his head. "This is where I always mess up. I

never know the rules."

She looked around and lost track of what she was going to say in response.

He had started to unpack and the house looked like mayhem. There was

barely any furniture: a couch in the living room, a small coffee table, a few

crates of books. Most of the floor was covered with drums. Scores and

scores of drums.

"Wow," she murmured. "You have a lot of drums."

She bit her lip and groaned inwardly.

"I do, and most of them I haven't seen in over three years. I hope it's not too

loud for the neighbors, but man, I have missed these." He looked wistfully at

a line of tall narrow drums against a wall in what used to be the dining room,

and then shivered back into the present moment, reaching for the bag of

food she carried. "Here, let me get that."

She handed him the bag and wandered into the dining room, letting her

fingers run over the different shapes of wood, gourds, and metal. Some had

bells, strings, and keys. Some were covered in hide, others in fibers. He

came back from the kitchen and watched her pick up a goblet­shaped drum

and run her fingers over the stitching.

"That one is a Djembe," he said, walking toward her and offering her some

wine.

"Where is it from?" She put the drum down next to its twin and took the

glass, swallowing a large sip and begging her body to relax.

He scratched the back of his head, thinking. "Well, you can find them almost

anywhere now. They're used in all sorts of music. But I got these in Africa."

"You've been to Africa?" she asked, not sure why she was so surprised. If

she had to guess, she would say he had been lots of places.

He nodded into his own wine glass. "Yep."

She walked to a pair of large drums shaped almost like wine barrels. "What

are these?"

He swallowed and followed her, running his hand over the taut drum head.

"These are both taiko. This one," he ran his hand over the longer of the two,

"is a nagado­daiko. The other one is a sanchoushime­daiko."

"Let me guess . . . Japan?"

"Yes, Japan," he said, returning her smile and pursing his lips slightly. "And I

am a Drew. A Colorful­Neighbor­Drew." His eyes were relaxed and familiar

and she found it hard to break her gaze from his.

"From the United States?" she asked. He didn't have an obvious accent, but

he didn't sound American, either. His words held a faint lilt, all smooth edges

and soft vowels.

"Hm, I suppose." He shrugged. "Born abroad, sometimes raised here."

"And drumming all over the world, I take it."

Drew nodded. "I try." His vague answers didn't beg more questions, but

when she thought about them, they didn't seem to give her much

information, either. He leaned forward and gave her a playfully stern look.

"Do I get to hear your name? I'm happy to keep calling you A­Little­Crazy

Neighbor Girl, if you like."

She laughed, almost choking on a sip of wine. "Nora. I am a Nora."

~

They made their way around the dining room, talking about his instruments.

He seemed to be thrilled that she was so interested and she couldn't get

enough of his voice, his quiet, easy laughter, and his infectious enthusiasm.

They finished their little circuit and she looked at the door to the kitchen.

"Should I get dinner ready?"

Drew froze and her heart flipped uncomfortably. Had she misunderstood his

drawing? "Oh my God, Crazy­Neighbor Girl. I invited you over and didn't

even think to cook for you."

She laughed, relieved. "I love to cook and rarely get to do it anymore. This

would appear to be a win­win partnership." She went into the kitchen and

began unloading the food. Having no idea what kind of prep equipment she

could expect, she had planned a no­cook meal of chicken sandwiches and

cucumber salad.

"It would indeed." He sighed, relieved. "I'd love to make you dinner in theory,

but I’m useless in the kitchen. I could probably burn water."

Nora looked over her shoulder at him, interrupting her hunt for utensils, and

laughed. "If you could do that, you'd be a scientific genius."

"I suppose I would. I'm sorry I haven't really unpacked much yet,” he said,

nodding to more boxes stacked in a corner. Is there anything I can do to

help?"

"There isn't much to do," she assured him, putting the food on paper plates

she had packed. "You can tell me a story, though. There's no way you've got

that many drums without getting a few stories in the process."

"Hm, that's true," he murmured. He took their plates and walked to the living

room, putting the food on the coffee table. He sat down on the floor and

looked up, wincing. "Is this okay? I don't really have much furniture."

"It's fine." She grinned, flopping down across from him and looking at him

expectantly.

"Story?" He scratched his cheek absently and her eyes were drawn to the

labret below his full lip. He watched her looking at him and smiled.

Nora blinked back up to his eyes. "Story."

And with that, their dinners began. Quietly, comfortably, and with their eyes

on each other nearly constantly.

The first story Drew ever told her was of his trip to Ghana when he was

twenty and traveling with an African music ensemble from college. He'd

gone shopping with his best friend for some light­weight clothing, not

bothering to research clothing customs in the region. When he arrived with

his suitcase full of shorts, his host family teased him that he would be

shunned from the men’s table and should sit with the boys.

"That suited me just fine," he laughed, pouring them both more wine. "I sat

with the boys and learned more drumming from them in four hours than

anyone else learned in the entire trip. I told my host father that next time,

even if I came back when I was fifty, I was bringing nothing but shorts."

Nora laughed with him, easily picturing him sitting on a stoop with some

boys, drums in their laps as they taught Drew how to play the instruments of

the region. "Have you been back?"

"Not to Ghana," he said, looking away. "But I've been back to the continent

several times."

She finished her sandwich and leaned back on the heels of her hands. "I

imagine you've picked up a lot of great music there."

He looked past her, far away for a moment, and then his eyes met hers

again. Her body suddenly felt leaden, as if she were having one of those

moments that she would remember for the rest of her life, exactly like this.

She felt calmed by the wine, but charged by the way he was looking at her.

She started to stand. "I should probably get home. I have a busy day

tomorrow."

"Me too," he groaned. "I'm going to start painting the house."

“You are?"

He took in her excited expression. "You really love this house."

"I do," she said, defensively. "It's a great house. The people who live here

are always so nice and no one notices the tenants because they aren't in the

PTA or coaching the kids' teams."

He laughed, shaking his head. "I think this house needs a guardian like you."

She grinned at that, putting the leftovers in his fridge even though he

protested. "You're going to need food when you're painting tomorrow," she

insisted, winking. "It's really for the house's sake that I'm leaving you food."

"Ah, well in that case, I can't refuse. I know how attached you two are to

each other." She felt his hand gently grip her arm as she grabbed her bag.

"Thanks for dinner, Nora. You're welcome over any night."

She looked out the kitchen window, thinking. "If you like, I could bring dinner

tomorrow. I mean, you'll probably be pretty wiped . . ."

"I'd love that," he said, letting his hand slowly drop from her arm. "Seven?"

“Seven.”

Chapter 3

June 13th

“So how do you fill your days?” Drew asked, scooping up the last bit of soup

with a chunk of bread. “Besides feeding hungry men that is.”

Nora smiled. “I work, I garden . . . I watch cooking shows.” She swirled her

spoon in her soup and shrugged, realizing how incredibly ordinary that

sounded.

“When you work, do you work on anything in particular, A­Little­Crazy

neighbor girl?” he teased, lowering his chin to meet her eyes. She couldn’t

keep from smiling.

“I’m a freelance editor,” she began, resting her spoon across her plate.

“What do you do?”

“I help people,” he stated simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the

world.

"By playing the drums?"

He wiped his mouth, placing his napkin on the table before leaning back on

his hands, a hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Sometimes."

"Why do you do that?” she asked, watching him through narrowed eyes.

His smile broadened. “Do what?”

“Never really answer anything?”

He leaned toward her, arms folded on the table, his gaze meeting hers. “I’ll

answer any question,” he said softly, his fingers reaching out to brush a stray

piece of hair from her eyes. He tucked it behind her ear, his index finger

tracing her jaw briefly as he retreated. “You just have to ask.”

Nora felt her pulse quicken at his proximity and took a deep breath to steady

herself.

"Okay," she said, drawing the word out and attempting to keep the slight

tremor from her voice. "Do you do anything in particular?"

Sitting back, he regarded her for a moment before running a hand through

his hair. "I travel a lot," he started, motioning to his instruments. "And, I'm a

doctor."

"How is that possible? I mean . . . wouldn't you need to be in one place?"

"Well, I go where I'm needed. If there is a humanitarian crisis in Thailand, I

go to Thailand. After the Wenchuan earthquake in China, I went to China for

several months. And whenever I can, I go to Africa. Because there is more

work there for me than I can possibly handle, and I never feel finished."

Aware of her stunned silence, he leaned forward again, propping his arms

on his knees.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked, his soft eyes full of genuine

interest.

She shook her head distractedly. “In this town, my whole life. Across the

street, three years.”

His eyebrows rose.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s . . .” he trailed off and shrugged. “I don’t know, just hard for me to

comprehend. Don’t you ever get the urge to leave? To see new things?”

She considered this as her eyes followed the vivid blue ink that wound up his

forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his T­shirt. A river perhaps.

From what she'd seen, his tattoos were all that way. Not shapes or drawings

from a book, but his memories. Scenes of mountains and rivers, lush trees

and thick vines. Art that told a story.

She met his eyes again. “My life is here."

"But is your life a place? Or is your life made up of the few important things

you can carry with you?"

Nora sat back, resting against a box behind her. "I guess I never thought

about it that way. I suppose my world has consisted of what I've known—this

town, my home. I've never ventured beyond it."

"Maybe you just haven't found what you want to keep with you."

June 16th

"Pulled pork . . ." Nora smiled, putting a plate in front of him. "But watch out: I

put habaneros in the simmering sauce."

"Spicy," he said with a silly accent and grinned, leaning over to inhale

deeply. "You're spoiling me."

"I never get to cook like this anymore. I miss it." She shrugged and sat down

across from him on the floor, draping her napkin on her lap.

“The houses in this neighborhood are pretty big. Have you ever had a

roommate?” he asked, stabbing a bite with a fork and avoiding her eyes.

“My boyfriend and I bought the house together.”

His head shot up and their eyes met. “Oh. I . . .” he looked around the house

as if to understand why she would be there and not at home.

“He moved out a few months ago,” she explained into her wine glass.

“I’m sorry.” Drew ran a hand through his hair and leaned his elbow on the

low table, wincing in apology.

She put her glass down and smiled back. “I’m not. We weren’t a good fit.”

She laughed, remembering. “Not at all.”

“How did you know?”

"We were together for eight years," she mumbled. "We met in high school.

First love isn't always best love."

"So, what . . . ? You grew apart, or were just not right for each other after all

or . . . ?"

“He liked going to the bar and playing darts every Friday. He liked watching

the same news channel every night, only ever read books from two different

authors, ever. He liked predictable sex.” She watched him carefully as she

buried this important admission in her list; she saw his jaw twitch. “He liked

getting take­out every Wednesday and listening to the same album in the car

on every road trip. I didn’t.”

“You don’t seem to be averse to habit,” he teased, nodding toward their

dinner, indicating their new routine.

“I love habit. It's the particular habit that matters. I also love to incorporate

something new into routine.”

“Ah yes. You started with blueberries and apricots, and worked up to

habaneros.” Drew smiled, reaching for his glass. “You are a positive

daredevil of habit.”

“Exactly,” she giggled.

They were quiet for a moment. He stared at his glass and his eyes shot up

to meet hers. A flash of desire was immediately replaced with a warm smile.

He dragged his tongue ring along his upper lip unconsciously. His eyes were

slow to relax.

“What about you?” she asked quietly.

“What about me what?” His voice was gentle and her heart pounded.

“What about you and . . . girlfriends?”

“Never really had one,” he shrugged.

“What? Even in college?”

“Well, at least not what I think you mean. I’ve been with women, Nora.” He

smiled, almost apologetically. “In college I was focused on school and music.

I dated, but not much more. And now that I travel so much . . . no one has

really made me want to stay put.” He shrugged, taking a long sip of wine.

"It's hard to build relationships because I move often. It's also hard to open

myself up over and over again. It gets exhausting. I like what I do, even

though sometimes it's lonely. Unfortunately I'm averse to constancy, so I

need to move around." He winced a little and took a bite of his dinner. She

watched him chew, watched him enjoy the dinner she had made them,

watched him relax into the familiar moment there, with her.

"There is constancy in your life," she pointed out, daring him to react. "You're

committed to your lifestyle, at least."

He nodded, swallowing quickly in order to answer. "Being averse to

constancy is not the same as being averse to commitment. My aversion is

about geography, not romance."

Their gazes remained locked for the longest silence they had ever shared.

Her heart seemed prepared to push its way up her throat, out of her body.

"You're so beautiful," he said. “I can’t stop wanting to look at you.”

It took her several seconds before she could respond, and when she did, her

voice sounded to her like it was coming from somewhere else in the room. "I

know what you mean."

Drew leaned forward, maintaining eye contact. She was unable to look

away. "I've never said that to anyone before," he whispered, wearing a

small, happy smile.

She finally managed to break his gaze and sat forward, grabbing her wine

glass. "You're going to break my heart." She laughed a little, trying to make it

sound like she was kidding.

"I don't want to."

They stared at each other for a moment before she put her glass down and

fidgeted with her napkin.

"Wow, that got heavy," he laughed, running his hands through his hair.

June 17th

The next night she made a pasta salad with fresh mozzarella and heirloom

tomatoes.

"God, I love your cooking," he mumbled into a bite. He always hummed and

closed his eyes when he chewed something that tasted good. She wondered

if he knew he did that.

"The tomatoes are from my garden. So is the basil."

"The tomatoes are amazing," he sighed. "What are they called? They're so

colorful, they have to have some crazy fruit names like Wild Woman and Big

Bird."

Nora laughed and nodded. "The purple ones are Cherokee. The yellow ones

are Banana Legs. The green ones—my favorites—are Green Zebra."

He mouthed, "Banana Legs," and chuckled, shaking his head as if it made

perfect sense.

She watched him eat and he looked up at her and smiled before leaning to

take another bite. She felt a twist of anxiety and excitement mingling in her

chest. She didn't know how she could feel this way for someone she had

only just met. He seemed to be taking everything in stride so easily. His

desire to see her every night was a simple fact to him, uncomplicated. He

loved their time together as he loved this dinner: something to be enjoyed

while he had it in front of him.

He looked up at her again and saw her watching his lips. "What?" He smiled

but his eyes simmered with something heavy and warm. He licked his lips

slowly, teasing. "Are you watching me eat?"

She felt him toying with her, daring her to admit to the layer that continually

thickened with each of their nights together.

She let her eyes drop to her hands and laughed, but it sounded forced. She

wanted to let the tension out of the space between them, wanted a bare

admission that they both felt this pull, this inexplicable draw, but she was

terrified to know whether it meant something different to him. She wondered

how many women he left behind all over the world to feel like she did.

She blinked to clear her head. “What made you choose your tattoos and

piercings?” she asked quietly.

He lifted his arm and inspected it. “I love every home I have, no matter how

long I’m there. I like keeping some of it with me.” One tattoo on his shoulder

was of a small tree bearing yellow fruit. The tattoo on the inside of his

forearm was a man’s face, old, wrinkled, and patient.

“Who is that?”

He ran a long index finger over it. “My grandfather.”

Without realizing what she was doing, she reached up and stroked the ring

on his eyebrow. Instead of flinching or moving away, he leaned into her

hand, his eyes closing. Warmth spread from her fingertips and radiated

down her arm. Her heart hammered like one of his drums beneath his

hands, and she held her breath, resisting the urge to run her fingers down

his face, down his neck and bare shoulder, along his shoulder to his broad,

weathered hands.

She watched his face relax under her touch and slowly moved her hand

away. “And that?”

It was a long moment before he spoke, and when he did it sounded sleepy

and relaxed. “I think it suits me.” He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“You, on the other hand, are best completely undecorated.”

She felt the heat behind his words, the meaning of more than just tattoos or

piercings. The tension between them was laid bare and she ached to touch

him again. Perhaps because she knew he would leave and it felt safe, or

perhaps because she knew she was falling in love with him, she wanted him

to know her, to really see her in a way no one else had.

His eyes moved down her neck to her shoulder and back up. She took the

napkin from his hand and pulled his fingers to her, cupping his hand around

her breast, pressing his index and middle fingers against her nipple, letting

him feel the metal there.

He hissed in a breath, spreading his hand wider and pressing his palm

against her piercing. His thumb swept back and forth over the side of her

breast. She held her hand over his, watching his face freeze in an

expression of longing.

She guided him away and gently handed him his paper napkin, but he

immediately dropped it, his hand still molded in a curve. He stared at it

before meeting her gaze.

"Nora?" His voice was hoarse. She imagined she saw his pulse racing

beneath a mountain tattoo that stretched across his neck: a small crack in

their fault line had been carved.

She wanted to crawl into his lap and press her lips to that pulse.

“Let me get these,” she said instead, ducking her head and gathering the

dishes.

Chapter 4

June 21st

“What are you making?” Drew’s voice, nearer than Nora expected, caused

her to jump slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, his hands coming to rest on her

hips. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She swallowed, certain he was able to hear it. “You didn’t. I mean . . . I just

wasn’t paying attention.” Nora’s hand stilled on the cutting board, the limes

momentarily forgotten. The heat from his palms filtered through the thin

cotton of her skirt and her eyes closed as his thumbs slipped beneath, drew

small circles on her lower back.

“I just needed to grab something.” His hands lingered on her hips a moment

longer, easing her over slightly to reach two glasses from the overhead

cabinet. He smiled a cute half smile, his eyes meeting hers briefly as he

closed the cupboard door.

Still standing closer than he needed to, he peered over her shoulder. “Salad

tonight?”

“Thai chicken salad with peanuts and limes,” she answered, turning her

head to see him.

He was so close, and he smelled so damn good, like soap, and sunshine

and something oddly Drew­like and rugged . . . paint or the faint trace of

gasoline. Just enough to remind her of his hands, and how often he worked

with them.

Her nose brushed his jaw, the rough texture of his unshaven face abrasive

against her skin. She leaned into him slightly, her lips mere inches from his

neck. He swallowed and she was unable to look away, hypnotized by the

way his Adam's apple moved and the muscles flexed along his throat. Her

breath caught as he pressed into her, her body now trapped between his

and the counter. She felt his lips move to her hair, that simple chaste gesture

more intimate than any heated kiss she’d ever experienced.

“You want this?” he questioned, his voice low and the sound reverberating

through his chest. She tilted her chin toward him, the movement bringing her

mouth to his jaw. She brushed her lips from side to side, enjoying the coarse

texture against her skin, and pressed the softest kiss there.

The persistent beep of the kitchen timer filled the air, pulling her from the

moment. He exhaled deeply and pushed away from the counter, her body

feeling the loss instantly.

"Why do you come back here?” she asked, catching her breath and

watching as he pulled out a plate for each of them. “How long do you stay?"

"I come back here to rest, see my family, see my dentist, get all the requisite

blood tests . . ."

"Blood tests?" she stopped moving and then nodded awkwardly when she

understood. "Oh," she mumbled, slicing the limes.

He stepped in front of her and stilled her hand. "What does 'oh' mean?"

His face told her she misunderstood but until his voice explained, she wasn't

pushing.

"It's just the smart thing to do after visiting developing countries," he urged

quietly.

"No, I get it," she nodded.

She could feel him watching her as she shredded the lettuce.

"What's going on with us, Nora?" His voice was unobtrusive and calm. Too

unobtrusive and too calm. She was a tornado inside, full of all of the things

she couldn't keep together. She felt like everything she knew was being

uprooted and thrown.

"I don't know," she whispered, willing whatever it was to stay put between

them and not keep melting into another layer of tension. "Nothing?"

He leaned forward and waited until she looked at him. She knew her eyes

gave it all away—every bit of desire—but also the fear she felt. Being this

close to him was like standing at the lip of a canyon and knowing she

wouldn’t be able to keep from leaping forward.

But he pulled her back from the edge. "Okay," he murmured, smiling sadly

and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Okay, sweet thing. I hear you."

She could feel him watching her cook and several times she knew he started

to speak but then stopped. Hesitation was rare for him, and it made her

nervous that he had something to say that he was anxious to bring up.

"So, have you done all those things?" she asked in a mumble, knowing her

question would unfortunately show her the hourglass flipping, her time with

Drew coming to a close.

"What things?" he asked, confused.

"Dentist, family, blood," she said quietly, pushing the lettuce into a bowl.

"Oh, yeah. Dentist and blood are done. Family is in Australia this time.

Mostly this trip I wanted to come here and work on the house. I've neglected

it way too long, as you have surely noticed."

She dropped the knife and turned to him. "What are you talking about?”

Drew stared at her for a beat before understanding softened his eyes. He

pulled at his eyebrow ring absently. "I figured you knew I owned the house . .

."

"How would I know that?"

He shrugged and his hand dropped and slapped against his thigh softly. "I

mean, you saw me working on it. I painted it, fixed the windows, did some

work inside . . . I figured you would know it was mine."

Nora realized immediately that all the signs were obvious and that

everything he had done since he'd been back showed that he was more than

just a passing tenant. She was embarrassed for not putting it together and

frustrated that she had to ask him everything, that nothing personal was ever

offered.

"Why don't you want me to know you?" she said, looking at his feet against

the kitchen tile.

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"I have to ask you everything. You offer nothing voluntarily. I feel like it

doesn't occur to you to help me get to know you."

He stared at her and then looked away, out the window behind her. "It

doesn't," he said simply. "I don't know how to...do this." He waved at the

space between them. "But you tell me there's nothing going on between us

and so I figure it's just me misreading everything. But Nora, I feel something

and I don't know what to do with it. I'm not perfect."

She realized that she had thought that, in a way. She had believed that since

he was well­traveled and educated and always seemed so comfortable in his

own skin that he would know how to do this. She trusted him to guide her

until he was gone, assuming that he came up against this often, this starting

to get close to someone and then having to leave. She believed—despite

what he'd told her—that wherever he went there was a woman, and dinners,

and tension, and then, ultimately . . . a departure.

"You haven't done this before?" she whispered.

"No," Drew insisted. "Almost everything about this is a first for me."

She ran her hands into her hair and tied it up in a loose bun on her head.

"Oh."

July 13th

“I’m going to China.” His voice was barely audible.

Her heart froze in her chest but somehow her hands continued to move,

robotically forming the falafel into balls.

“When?” She tried to keep her voice light and interested. Instead she

sounded anxious and shaken.

“Soon.” It wasn't even a whisper. She was surprised the sound made it to

her ears.

“Why?” She looked up and out the kitchen window. She couldn’t see him in

the reflection; he had stepped to the side so she couldn’t see his face.

He was silent.

“Drew?”

She didn’t hear him but suddenly he was there behind her before she could

turn around. He stepped closer and pushed her hair to the side, letting his

lips rest against the curve of her ear. His hips fit to her lower back, his

fingers trembled on her skin.

“Do you want me to say ‘because I’m scared?’ or ‘I’m not that guy?’ Is that

why you think I’m leaving?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, watching them in the window. He loomed over her,

his expression so tender it made her ache somewhere deep in her chest.

She let the most selfish words out: "You can be a doctor anywhere."

Drew placed his hands over her back, splaying his fingers across her ribs as

far as he could, testing to see how much of her he could encase.

Nora felt tiny in his hands. She was sure he would break all of her.

“I’m going because it’s what I do. I travel. I practice medicine.” His voice was

neither defensive nor apologetic. He wasn’t leaving her. He was leaving to

go help others. She hated the tight curl of resentment than pulled at her

stomach. “Nora, talk to me.”

"I'm scared," she admitted. She was scared to be apart. She was scared he

wouldn't come back. She was scared he would come back, but different.

"I know."

"You're not?" she asked.

She could feel his body moving in a one­shouldered shrug behind her.

Without words to explain, the gesture felt too casual. It was not at all the

reaction she was having and it made her feel even more defeated.

“Please don’t start this.” She heard the pleading in her voice and almost

welcomed it. She had no more strength if he touched her again.

Drew pressed his lips to her neck and she felt the cool air between them as

he stepped away just as she began to lean back into him.

“Okay.” His hand was the last part of his body to leave her as it lost contact

with her hip.

She finished cooking dinner and they sat in silence for the first time, staring

at their plates and pushing their food around.

“I’ll get the dishes,” he said, although he didn't move to get up. She could

hear the question in his voice . . . he wanted her to stay.

“Okay.” She broke her own heart: “Good night.”

He sounded disappointed, but not surprised. “Good night.”

Chapter 5

July 14­15th

Nora didn’t see him the next night. She spent it in her room, not eating,

sitting on the floor, and trying not to think about him.

The soft drumming that blew across the street distracted her all night. She

didn't want to cover the sound with radio or television or even her hands over

her ears, but it made her chest hurt, made her remember his stories, his

fingers, the lilting rhythm of his speech. Probably no one else on the block

heard the music over the crickets and crackling wind. Maybe the rhythm of

his music was like the house itself—only noticed and appreciated by her,

something that had to be attended to actively to be seen or heard. He was a

magnet to her; anything he did she would notice. It only made sense that the

house was his. She had always belonged to him and had never known it.

Nora cooked the next day. She cooked for them—maybe out of habit, but

more out of a naked, conscious need to imagine that he would be in that

house tonight, and the next night, and every night after that. She layered

phyllo dough over kale, squash, and various Spanish cheeses. She made it

delicate and hearty and colorful. She made it something they would both

want, something that would bring them together with comfort and spice,

novelty and familiarity. She knew he wouldn't get to eat it if she didn't take it

to him, but she was nothing if not constant. She wondered idly if she would

cook for him every night of forever, even when he was being inconstant

elsewhere.

It came out of the oven bubbling hot, steaming, golden, and beautiful.

The door rumbled with the movement of feet up the front steps. He didn’t

need to knock, and he knew it; she felt him on the porch. She dropped her

dishtowel and went to the door, opening it and letting in the humid night air,

the smell of him.

Drew stood on the doorstep, scruffy and distraught.

“Are you scared that I’m not that guy?” he asked, his eyes begging.

“Yes.”

He moved toward her and she took a step back, overwhelmed by what she

wanted from him and terrified that he was going to give it to her.

He walked her back, pressed her against the closet door, his hands planted

next to her head.

“You make me want to stay here,” he whispered, running a hand down her

bare arm. “You make me wonder what’s important.”

“You make me want to leave with you,” she admitted, finally. She felt her

brow furrow, felt her eyes sting with tears. She was so naked for him. It felt

like there was no floor underneath her feet.

His gaze lingered on hers for a moment before his eyes dropped to watch

both of his hands move to anchor her wrists to the door with his thumb and

index finger. He had a small bandage on his wrist and she started to ask if

he was okay, but he looked up at her and leaned forward, letting his lips

hover in front of hers, mere millimeters from touching her skin.

“Do you think you can love me?” His voice was strained. “Just like this?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Very much,” he nodded, spreading her legs with his knee and leaning into

her. He raised his hands and pressed them against her cheeks, wiping her

tears with each of his thumbs. They were warm and calloused, and his touch

felt achingly familiar.

He felt like home against her skin.

Leaning in, he bridged the short distance and pressed a single soft kiss to

her lips, then pulled back to look at her. “I never once asked you to leave.”

He kissed her again, longer this time, but still chaste. “I would never have

asked you to leave. I’ve never been as lonely as I was last night.”

This time, she closed the small space between them. His mouth was warm

and welcoming and she felt the breath leave his lungs in surprise, the air

moving across her skin. Nora moaned as she felt his lips fully against hers,

his taste, his smell wrapping around her. His hands cradled her face, his

thumbs brushing in feather light strokes along her jaw.

Her hands trembled as she brought them from her sides, unsure as she

placed them against his chest. Hard muscle flexed beneath her fingers, and

his hands wound into her hair, his fingertips massaging her scalp as he

deepened his kiss. He was at once desperate and tender and her heart tore

with the knowledge that this might be the only time they would be together.

Sliding her hands down his chest, she let her nails drag softly along his

stomach. His breath caught as she reached the waist band of his jeans,

slipping her fingers under the hem of his shirt.

Drew was warm and smooth beneath her fingertips as she traced his torso.

Her mouth became more urgent, teasing, searching and silently pleading

with him to take more. As if sensing her need, he pulled away from her lips,

his teeth dragging along the column of her throat.

Without a word, she pushed him away slightly and began walking

backwards, leading him down the hall toward her bedroom. Drew pulled his

hands from her hair, letting them linger as he moved them down her body,

stopping at her waist.

He only looked away when they reached her room, and he took in the sight

of the dim light from a lamp spreading across her bedspread.

Looking back to her, he ran a finger down her neck to her collarbone. “Can I

see you?” he asked, hazel eyes searching hers.

She nodded, shivering as callused fingers moved down her side, beneath

her top and grazed the soft skin of her stomach. He slid his hands up along

her ribs, the thin material of her tank top gathering under his fingertips, and

pulled it up and over her head. A ragged breath escaped his mouth as he

looked at her, his fingertips brushing along her neck, over her breastbone,

and down between her breasts.

“Can I see you?” she whispered, her lips brushing along the cotton of his Tshirt.

“Yes,” he said into her hair.

She freed him of his shirt, her eyes taking in the beautiful colors and pictures

painted into his flesh. She traced along each image, trying to memorize

them.

He let his hands run from her shoulder and down to her hand, pulling her

fingers to his lips. “Nora . . .”

She led him toward the bed, their hands exploring, learning the planes of

each other’s bodies. He removed her bra and bent to take one nipple into his

mouth before moving to the other. His tongue, his breath and the hoarse

sounds he made against her skin felt unreal, unleashing, unlike anything

she’d felt before. Her hands threaded into his hair as she watched him, his

gaze meeting hers as he caught and lifted her silver nipple ring with his

tongue, hooking his barbell through and pulling gently. Her head fell back

and she moaned, finally, finally seeing the image she had fantasized about

every night since meeting him.

Her hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning them slowly,

feeling his lips move over her chest and to her shoulders, sucking tiny

fleeting marks into her skin. His hands began to work her yoga pants down

her hips.

“I need to see you,” she whispered.

Their hands became impatient, pulling down the remaining clothing between

them, and greedily touching everything. His fingers moved between her legs,

spreading her as he growled and shook, whispering his secrets—his need

for her, the restraint it took, his obsession with the red of her mouth and the

smooth perfect skin on her neck—he touched her as if he was feeling her

again after so long, memorizing every slide of skin, every sound she made.

It was a frenzied moment, his hand was at first hesitant and then ravenous,

finding a rhythm moving over her and into her, circling his thumb there,

pressing and hard just where she needed him.

Nora clawed at his back, bit his lips and arched into him as she begged him

for deeper and faster and nothing,

nothing

nothing had ever felt so good. Hunger built in her belly and she could feel

that relief, that perfect radiant explosion building where he touched her,

where his rough fingers hit her deep, both sweet and savage in their perfect

rhythm. Drew gripped her leg, curling it up around his waist with his free

hand as she ground against him, crying out when she came.

His fingers slowed, slipped out of her and over her, gently petting as if he

didn’t want to stop. “Yeah?” he confirmed, pressing a kiss into the soft skin

of her neck.

She nodded against him, clutching his shoulders. “Yeah. God.”

He smiled into a kiss, sweet and cocky—so clearly hers it nearly took her

breath away. It was almost as if her release calmed them both and allowed

them to slow down, their kisses shifting to languid, his movements more

measured as he lowered her leg and rubbed her hip.

She ran her hand down his stomach and lower, feeling him twitch beneath

her first, tentative touch.

Their foreheads touched as they looked down at her fingers feathering his

shape and tracing the piercing there.

“Did it hurt?” she asked in a whisper, ghosting her fingertip over the

horizontal bar.

“A little,” he admitted quietly, always honest, never verbose.

“Does . . . this hurt?” She wrapped her fingers around him loosely and

squeezed.

“Hurt?” he whispered, letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. He shook

his head slightly. “Not at all.”

Nora found herself wanting to move her hand, but not sure what to do. They

stared at her fingers around him, and he seemed to be content just with this

level of contact, this level of stimulation. He was always so patient with her,

never pushing.

She pulled her head up and their eyes met. His were heavy and dark and his

breathing was choppy. Lust spiked beneath her breastbone and ran down

her abdomen.

“Show me?”

His eyes dropped to the space between them and he rested his forehead

against hers again, covering her hand with his own. He shifted her grip up

slightly before squeezing his hand around her fingers, tightening her grip.

With a slow, smooth movement, he shifted their hands down, pulling his

foreskin over his piercing in the process, and back up again, covering the

head of his cock.

“You don't have to be tentative,” he murmured. “It just makes me . . .

sensitive.”

She repeated the action and felt his hand loosen and then release hers. Her

thumb reached his tip and she flicked it gently over the top, spreading the

moisture around before stroking down again, his skin covering the piercing

quickly in the downward movement. He moaned and his head fell back,

throat bobbing as he swallowed heavily.

“God,” he groaned in a trembling breath. His hands moved up to cup her

face, pulling her toward him and kissing her roughly. “That feels . . .” he

trailed off, running his teeth over her bottom lip, nipping, licking.

She felt bolstered by his reaction and gripped him tighter, increasing her

pace. He sighed against her lips and she watched his eyes roll closed. His

lips moved with hers almost as if they had been kissing like this for years

instead of hours, and she took a step closer to him to feel her chest brushing

against his, her arm moving between them.

The feeling of his piercing under the base of her thumb as her hand moved

down and up, of his foreskin slipping easily over the head of his cock, was

the most delicious sensation she could imagine. She felt a surge of

confidence, for the first time she was certain that she could ask a lover for

what she wanted, that she could be honest about what she needed.

“I want it on my skin,” she whispered.

Without needing further explanation he grunted quietly, and his words came

out in a tight moan. “Where?”

“My chest.”

He stepped forward and she stepped backward until the back of her knees

hit the edge of the bed. She kissed him, pulling his bottom lip into her mouth

and letting out a whimper around it. “You feel so good in my hand. Does this

feel good?”

He let out a short, tight laugh, communicating everything he needed to in

that single, overwhelmed sound. She sat in front of him, her eyes level with

his stomach. He stepped between her legs, bracing his hands on her

shoulder as they both watched her hand glide over him.

“I'm so . . .” he whispered. “You . . .”

She leaned forward and licked a bead of precum from the tip of his cock and

sat up again to watch, needing to see what she did to him. “I want to feel you

come.” She looked up at him. “I want to see it.”

That finally did him in.

He twitched in her hands and his fingers gripped her shoulders, digging,

anchoring. Drew’s voice caught on her name and his entire body froze

before she saw and felt him coming on her chest, on her neck.

“Fuck,” she breathed at the same time he did.

He stood still in front of her, his head bent and resting on top of hers.

“Yeah?” she whispered, looking up at him with a smile.

Drew grinned, dazed. “Yeah. Christ, Nora.”

She held him in her hand, feeling his body relax. “Stay with me tonight,” she

said, leaning forward to kiss his navel. “Stay and . . . be with me?”

Drew nodded, stepping back and disappearing for a moment before

returning with a damp washcloth from the bathroom to clean her up.

They crawled into the bed, pulling a sheet over their bodies and letting their

limbs tangle with a familiarity akin to years together. He buried his face in her

hair and she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face into his

chest.

“Look,” he said, kissing her hair. “We fit.”

She stretched to kiss his chin and then remembered. “What is this?” she

asked, rubbing the gauze on his wrist.

“A truth from my most recent home.”

Always such simple answers. His tone was casual but it was still a sharp

reminder that he was leaving.

“Drew?” she asked quietly and he hummed in response. “How long will you

be gone?”

He was completely still against her for a long moment. “At least six months.”

Nora froze, feeling her throat close. “When?”

She felt him swallow heavily against her forehead. His voice shook.

“Tomorrow. They needed someone who could come right away. I had it in

my paperwork that I could be a last­minute resource if need be.” He pulled

back to look at her and kissed her, long and slow. “That was true until

recently.”

That was finally too much for her. “Why didn't you come over last night?” her

voice broke. “We wasted a day and I didn't even know!”

Drew held her and whispered softly as she cried against him, clutching his

back with her nails.

“Please,” she whimpered, pulling him over her. “God, please.”

He moved fluidly, brushing the hair from her face and looking down at her.

“Do you have protection?”

“I'm still on the pill,” she whispered, stroking his arm he used to prop his

body above her. “I've been tested . . .”

“Me too,” he smiled and she laughed quietly, remembering the jealousy that

had ripped through her when he mentioned his regular blood work.

“I've only been with one person,” she admitted, biting her lip. She felt like she

needed to explain. She wanted him to know what he meant to her before he

left.

“I want to be the only one that matters.”

She reached down and took him in her hand, rubbing her thumb over his

piercing, pulling his foreskin over his head and taut again.

“Fuck,” he choked.

She rubbed him along her slick skin before pressing down and letting him

push inside her. They both moaned, their mouths coming together in the

same slow rhythm as his movements in her. She pulled her legs up along his

sides, her knees at the side of his chest, causing him to slip deeper.

“I love you.” He spoke the words into the corner of her mouth.

“Already . . . so much.”

Drew pulled her hand up next to her shoulder and held it there, resting his

forehead against hers as he moved over her.

“Will you come back to me?”

“Of course,” he whispered.

It was the last thing she asked him, their words giving way to soft breaths

and quiet, urgent sounds. He moved in and out of her in the shortest of

increments, preferring instead to stay as deep and connected as he could

while he was here.

“Oh God,” she gasped.

“I know.”

“I'm close . . . I'm . . .”

He covered her mouth with his, her wild sounds spreading only as far as the

space between them.

July 16th

Drew was reluctant to sleep, but she begged him to try. He fell asleep almost

as soon as he gave his body permission, his head curled against her chest,

his arm bent at her waist, one hand on her breast.

For hours she couldn't sleep. She

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 473