Page 50 of Roommating

I’m not sure who’s more excited to be here: me or them. The children’s shining faces look up at me in awe with their mouths hanging open as I readLola at the Library. I channel Nana Lena reading to me and vary the tone of my voice while pointing at the pictures. Joy fills me like helium in a fresh balloon, but I freeze when I look beyond the children toward the back of the room, where Adam has stopped shelving middle-grade books to watch me. Our eyes lock and I stumble over my words. I quickly return my attention to the kids who, aside from one little girl who’s staring at the ceiling and bouncing on the mat like there are ants in her pants, are engaged with the story and answering my questions in that adorable high-pitched voice I adore.

Except now that I know Adam’s listening, I can’t get my mind or body to focus and it’s unnerving. We’ve kept to our agreement not to fool around again, and there have been no postmidnight seminaked rendezvous in the bathroom. But it doesn’t mean I don’t play back every sensation and observation of that night at the end of eachday when I lie down for bed—his mouth hungry against mine, my frenzied need while I ground against him, the black dots of his eyes dilating with desire, the soft moans I couldn’t hold back.

Somehow I make it to the end of the book and watch as the children race back to their parents, who I can tell wish I’d “babysit” a little longer. The guardian of Bouncing Girl in particular gives me a pleading look as she tries to gently pry a bunch of the girl’s hair out of her mouth. I offer a sympathetic glance and turn away, making eye contact with Adam, who’s approaching me all smiley.

Butterflies take flight in my belly, and I silently tell them to go fuck themselves. I mirror his expression and pretend I’m not at all affected when he closes the space between us to kissing distance.

“Great job.”

“You think?”

“You had them riveted.” He wrinkles his nose. “Except for that one girl.”

I breathe out a laugh. “You can’t please everyone.”

His cheeks dimple. “I’ve almost finishedThe Hunger Games.Any time this week to discuss again? I already putCatching Fireon hold.”

Despite the satisfaction I feel over making a match between person and book, disappointment settles in. There’s no way Adam would follow up on our buddy read if he was also struggling in the aftermath of our dry humping. I don’t know if I can sit with him on the couch and debate the worst district and why it’s obviously district two and not climb on his lap again, but he clearly doesn’t share my concern. “Um. I’m not sure…”

I’m saved from making up an excuse when a little girl races by us. Right on her tail is a little boy around the same age. They’re both shrieking in what looks like a game of chase.

“No running in the library,” I call after them. To Adam I say, “Where are their guardians?”

He shrugs and watches in awe as the kids, who appear to be about six years old with matching sandy-colored curly hair, hers spilling out of a ponytail, race up and down the aisle. I consider getting Penny, whose years as a youth librarian have presumably trained her in how to deal with rowdy, misbehaving children but want to prove I’ve got this on my own.

They finally stop running, huddled together by the picture books, but continue to squeal in decidedly not library-appropriate volumes.

I approach them with a calm smile. “I’m glad you’re both enjoying yourselves but remember to use your library voices,” I whisper, aiming to teach by example. My eyes catch on the practically full Kool-Aid juice pouches in both of their hands.

The girl looks at her juice and back to me. “You want?”

I don’t bother telling her that food and drink are prohibited at the library, but I’ll remind their guardian if they ever make an appearance. “No thank you, but it’s very nice of you to offer.”

“Aren’t you thirsty?” she asks while her partner in crime watches with rapt interest.

The hairs on my arms stand up. “No.”

“Your shirt is!” She aims the juice pouch at my slouchy boatneck pale yellow sweater and squeezes out red liquid like it’s an art project and my shirt is her canvas. While I’m still rooted to the spot in apparent shock, she yells to her friend, “Do him! Do him!”

I watch in horror as the little boy, following the instructions of his leader, shoots his juice pouch right at Adam’s face. Juice hits his forehead and neck. He opens his mouth as if to protest and is rewarded with a healthy shot of fruit punch. The girl returns her attention tome, and by the time my defensive instincts spark up and I think to shield my chest with my hands, it’s too late.

“I never liked this sweater much anyway,” I say to Adam, though I’m lying.

The children’s father finally showed up, conveniently after both juice pouches were already empty. He apologized profusely and, while forgiveness didn’t come easy while looking and smelling like a fruit punch experiment gone wrong, Adam and I handled ourselves gracefully and are now in the employee bathroom cleaning up.

“I’m seeing boarding school for those kids in the future,” Adam says, leaning his hip against the sink.

“For her, definitely. Maybe he can be saved.” I catch Adam’s reflection in the mirror and wince. The front of his hair is matted from juice. I pull a paper towel from the dispenser and wet it with water. Then I stand on my tippy-toes and clean it off before it dries and gets sticky. My eyes meet his. “You’ll live.”

He does a circle of my face with his eyes and smiles softly. “I suspect you will too.”

As a blush warms my cheeks, I lower my gaze to the balls of my feet and look down at my sweater. “I can’t wear this all day. Maybe Jenny will let me…”

Before I can finish the sentence, Adam pulls off his midnight-blue Henley. The movement causes the white T-shirt underneath to ride over his belly and display a glimpse of tight bare skin. While I’m still recovering from that, he pulls the T-shirt off over his head as well and hands it to me. “Wear this.”

I stare at it… at him. Once again we’re in a small bathroom, and Adam’s not wearing a shirt.

“It’s fresh out of the laundry, aside from the few hours I wore it this morning.”

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