Page 29 of A Totally Platonic Thing
We woke up all tangled together, my head on Lucas’s shoulder and one of his arms around my back, the other hand resting on top of mine where I’d laid it on his chest at some point when he turned over onto his back.
We’d woken up like that before plenty of times after passing out during a late-night movie. And that morning should have felt different—but it didn’t. Also it did, in a way I couldn’t put my finger on, although that might have been because it felt exactly the same and should have been different.
It confused the hell out of me.
I took a shower, the hot water stinging my ass cheeks a little bit, and I jerked off finally. It didn’t feel quite as satisfying as I’d expected. Lucas hadn’t said anything to me about it and also hadn’t said a word when I closed the bathroom door.
In fact he hadn’t said much, period. He made coffee and settled in with his laptop, working on something for one of his classes, and I poured myself a cup and did the same over on my bed across from him.
Lucas went out to the grocery store and brought home some bread and stuff for lunch, and then he made spaghetti for dinner while I worked on the paper I should have turned in at that class I’d missed the day before.
I’d totally forgotten about that paper. Fingers crossed the TA, who’d seemed fairly easy-going and mellow so far this quarter, would take it on Monday.
Shit, I really had to get it together.
And it stressed me out, finally facing how behind I’d gotten on my schoolwork and how much I’d been ignoring, denying, or flat-out wishing it away over the past couple of months, but with the smell of tomato sauce rising up in the kitchen, Lucas’s off-key whistling while he chopped some onions, and the windows open to let in a warm breeze and the sound of the trees rustling, it started to feel like something I could handle.
Even though I would have freaking killed someone to get my hands on a glass of wine or two to drink while I wrote ten pages on the symbolism of color inThe Great Gatsby. Ugh, Fitzgerald wassooverrated, and oh my God, if I never had to type the word “green” again I swore I could give up wine for life, but I didn’t think I could get through the last four pages without it, either.
When I told Lucas that absentmindedly, forgetting that my drinking was kind of a sore subject for us right now, he laughed at me instead of getting all uptight like I kind of expected once I realized what had left my mouth.
“Emerald, lime, mint, forest, moss…um…viridian!” he finished triumphantly as I gaped at him in mingled shock and annoyance. “Oh yeah. How could I forget grass?”
He went back to stirring the pot of sauce.
“The hell, Lucas?” I demanded. “Are you freaking kidding me right now? All your bedding is different shades of blue, and none of it actually looks right together, but when I told you that last time you said, and I quote, ‘It’s blue, what’s the big deal?’”
The spoon stopped moving for a second as Lucas went still. He started up again, faster than before, staring down into the pot with his brows furrowed like a stupid pot of spaghetti sauce that would practically cook itself needed his utmost attention.
“I had to look up different shades of green one time,” he said, in a weirdly overly casual tone. “I can’t remember why.”
“You had to—okay, you know what? Never mind. Freak. I’m going to finish my paper. I can’t believe you didn’t get me any wine at the store.”
I looked back down at my screen, praying for inspiration. Maybe I should do the color synonyms after all. What the hell, it wasn’t like my paper could be much lamer. The TA might give extra points for an idea no one else had been dumb enough to use, right?
“I may have, actually,” Lucas said. “But if I did, hypothetically, I would’ve left it in my car where you can’t get at it until you finish your paper.” I looked up sharply to find him smiling at me. “Hypothetically.”
The steam from the sauce had fogged up his glasses, and he hadn’t shaved, and he’d spattered some of the sauce on his white t-shirt. His hair stuck up in all directions.
I smiled back at him, because he was the nicest person I’d ever seen. And also the best, what with the whole dinner and secret wine thing.
“You’re awesome. And I’m going to love you forever.” I blew him a big, exaggerated, raspberry-like kiss, he flipped me off, and I was still smiling as I went back to my paper, even though I immediately had to type “green” six more times.
We ate the spaghetti, which was really good, and way better than the first time Lucas had tried to cook for us. Or the tenth or twentieth times, but he’d improved a ton since then, even though I still did about three quarters of the cooking, since I liked it more. I drank my glass of wine and then virtuously stuck the cork back in the bottle and put it in the cabinet for tomorrow.
I started on my endless, neglected stack of reading, and Lucas watched a few episodes of a show he liked and I didn’t.
And every once in a while I’d change position sitting and reading, or stand up to get a drink of water, and my ass would feel a little twinge. I’d look over at Lucas for a second, biting my lip, vivid flashes of the night before cascading through my mind.
Flash, the crack of his hand against my bare skin. Flash again, the feeling of the blanket under my face as Lucas held me down by the neck, his callused fingertips hot and rough against my throat. Another flash, this time the way he’d looked leaning over me after he’d finished, staring down at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
I shook my head and must’ve made a sound, because Lucas looked up from his laptop. “You okay? Time to hit the sack?”
I glanced down at the time. Eleven-fifteen, and it’d be primetime at Aeon right now. The music throbbing, and hot guys out for a Saturday night of cruising. My friends would be there, ready to dance and tell me I looked fabulous and encourage me to get out there and meet someone.
Nope. Homework. I shot Lucas a smile that I hoped didn’t look forced, images of him all commanding and angry and hard-edged the night before still swimming in front of my eyes, superimposed over my calm, relaxed, weekend-messy roommate, the most familiar sight in the world.
“I’m going to finish reading first,” I said. “Too much poetry. It’s not even very good poetry.”
