He rested his forearms on the table, his head canted. “How so?”
With his genuine curiosity aimed at me, some of my bravery slinked to my toes. “Well…” My Chuck Taylors bounced against the marble floor. “You’re serious and intense, but I know you’re capable of being light-hearted once you let your guard down.” At least with me. I took pride in that. “You change into formal clothes when you have company. Yet your tattoo tells me you’re not as rigid as you seem.” I realized my slip when his muscles seized.
“How do you know I have a tattoo?” he asked carefully, before I could answer, his eyes jumped over my shoulder to the pool.
“I don’t watch you,” I stammered. “I happened to see you one night as I passed my window.”
He didn’t believe me. He flopped back lifeless in his chair, staring at me. I pushed up to leave, and a hand rested on my forearm.
“Stay.” He pulled his hand back, running the other through his black hair. “What am I saying?”
“We can watch a movie,” I said over him. Not wanting him to overthink his request and come to his senses.
He frowned through his confusion. “A movie?”
“Yeah, you know, those things that have people called actors in them?”
He let out a tired laugh in spite of himself. “All right, Mr. Michealson—”
“Phoenix.” The cleft in his chin deepened when he smiled, and I breathed through the cluster of butterflies flapping their wings in my stomach.
“You’re eighteen. The night is still young. Shouldn’t you be out with friends? Or maybe a nice young lady?”
It somehow felt important to not tell him then that I was gay. “Nope. No plans.”
He absently situated the knife and fork near his plate. “What we don’t seek out can’t hurt us. Or evolve us.”
Mr. Wicked had a way of talking to himself while speaking to me. As if through my trivial teenage insecurities or dilemmas he gained answers to some hidden questions within himself. Like we were one and the same. But that couldn’t be. I stared his loneliness in the eye and rethought my last statement.
“You and I have been interacting quite a bit outside of school.”
“Not much.” I shrugged. “We’re neighbors. It’d be unrealistic to not get to know each other. To not speak outside of school.”
“A movie night?”
“I won’t tell.” My voice went husky without permission, and I turned away from his widened stare, preparing for his dismissal of me. And of any more nights like this.
“What movie did you have in mind, Phoenix?” he said, resigned.
My head snapped around, and his expression begged me to not make more of his agreement than needed.
We went into the living room and found something we both agreed on. I made mention of his hideous, uncomfortable sofa, and he admitted that he’d had it since college, and since Emily hated it, he’d told her it was his departed maternal grandfather’s, so she couldn’t insist on him getting rid of it. “You are wicked,” I’d said with humor.
“Just don’t fall asleep on it. It’ll do a number on your back.” His lips quirked upward. “Does your mother know where you are? It’s pretty late.” He appeared guilt stricken. Like he only now realized he never thought to ask about how late our talks went into the night, and if my mom should mind.
“She’s working overnight at the hospital. What about Emily? Do you need to let her know I’m here?” I asked in hopes that his answer would earn me more insight into their odd dynamic.
“She’s on an overnight business trip.”
“So technically, we could have a sleepover.” I tried to come across like the notion of that wasn’t a big deal, but I could tell it made him uncomfortable. He gave one of his non-committal grunts before taking a seat, and I mentally chastised myself before folding my hands in my lap and facing the screen.
I’m not sure how much of the movie I’d made it through before going against his warning and falling asleep, but when he slid an arm behind my knees and one behind my back and hefted me up and into his chest, I’d never been more happy that I disobeyed an order in all my life. I pressed my face into his chest and breathed him in, hoping he’d think I was unaware of my own actions. Being in his arms made me feel insignificant, in a good way. A feather in the hands of a giant.
My father would carry me in from the car after a long drive much the same way. He’d bet the last slice of pizza on our next “sneaky Friday” that I couldn’t remain awake. Win or lose, I’d end up with that slice.
In Mr. Wicked’s arms I was protected. If I imagined we were in a forest, I’d reach a hand out and run it over the tops of the trees as we passed. I’d peek behind his shoulder and see large craters in the earth that housed his footprints. Already, I loved being overwhelmed by him.
When he laid me down in what I assumed to be the guest room, covered me and turned to leave, I opened my eyes in time to see him at the threshold of the room. Tension rode along his back as he gripped the door handle with one hand and the frame with the other. I pretended to still be asleep when his gaze returned to me. I could feel him standing there. Watching. I tried to keep my breathing even, but every second that passed with him seeming to be making some decision, my lungs burned with the need to take in gulping breath after breath. Waves of his emotions hit me, the tide threatening to drown me. I wanted to understand what he was feeling, but I couldn’t put a name to it. Except it felt like he was struggling with himself and losing the war. Then, he left, the door clicking closed.