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
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