Page 73 of Collision
“You look wrecked.” He picks me up with his powerful, tattooed arms and puts me gently on the bed. I curl up, dazed. Thomas surprises me once again by pulling back the covers and tucking me in. I stare at him in sheer confusion and it’s only now that I realize he’s still fully clothed.
He heads for the door and for a crazy moment, I think he’s going to try to leave. “You can’t go out there, my mother might see you,” I say. But he only turns off the light and joins me in the bed. As he pulls off his sweatshirt and his sneakers, I begin to feel a little uncomfortable at the idea of being naked—and sober—next to him. Wrapping myself ina quilt, I get out of bed and search the floor for my pajamas. “I need to get dressed. Could you…could you turn around?” I ask shyly.
Lying on the bed, with his arms crossed behind his head, Thomas gives an amused snort. “You do realize you just came in my mouth, right?” he points out arrogantly. I choke, my eyes widening in embarrassment.
“Thomas!” I scold him.
“I’m not gonna turn around, so you do what you have to do.”
“Thanks so much for your understanding!” I sulk. I turn my back to him and wrap myself in the sheet so he can’t see me. I can practically hear him grinning behind me, but I ignore it. Maybe I seem funny to him, or childish, but I don’t care.
“You don’t need my understanding; you need to realize that there’s nothing wrong with you.”
I shake my head. “You couldn’t understand even if you wanted to.” Shielded once more by my pajamas, I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, in front of the TV. “So, while we wait for my mother to go to sleep, we have two options: watch a movie or chill.” Or hash out exactly what just happened between us and what it means. But of course I don’t waste my time asking him about that. He would just dismiss it and the very thought of that hurts me. He stares into my eyes, his own eyes so fathomless it makes butterflies erupt in my stomach.
“Neither of those. I want to talk.”
“What?” I ask in amazement.
He pats the mattress to invite me closer. “C’mere. Tell me a little about yourself.” He smiles sweetly at me. Guarded, I lie down alongside him. The darkness of the room somehow makes the atmosphere more intimate.
“There’s not much to know.” I shrug.
“Did you finish reading that book about the two sisters?”
I nod, surprised that he remembered it.
“Did you like it?” he asks with a crooked smile.
“Very much. But I’m biased, I love everything she wrote. I’d probably fall in love with her shopping list too,” I say dreamily.
“Why do you like her so much?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested.
“Because she used her novels to rebel against the restrictions of English society, and she always did it with the utmost irony and intelligence.” I play with a lock of hair, propping myself up on one elbow.
“Hmm, and let me guess:Pride and Prejudiceis your favorite, right?” He casts an amused glance at the book open and overturned on the nightstand next to me. I had started yet another reread ofPride and Prejudicejust this afternoon. I had to inaugurate the edition that Alex’s mom got for me.
“All of her novels are masterpieces, and the way she draws you into the story is disarming, but yes.” I look up at him. “Pride and Prejudiceholds a special place in my heart.”
“What are her books about?”
“Love.” His face twists derisively, but I ignore him and continue, “Love and all its many facets. Tormented, painful, sometimes impossible. Unconventional, but authentic. Take Elizabeth Bennet for example: she rejects a marriage proposal that would have guaranteed a comfortable future, both for herself and for her family, even going against her mother’s wishes all because she wasn’t in love.” Thomas is paying close attention to me now, although he does have the hint of a smile around his mouth.
“Well, you know how I feel about that.”
Here, Vanessa, just in case you forgot who he was…
“Tell me, what else do you like?”
“I don’t know.” I lie on my back and look up at the ceiling. Biting my lip, I think about what to tell him. “Well, I like books, TV series, journalism fascinates me, I love pistachios…but you may have figured that out.” I look at him, amused and embarrassed at the same time. “I like the rain. The sound. The smell. The feelings it gives me. It is melancholy and romantic. I feel I have a connection with it.”
“Are you like that too? Romantic and melancholy?”
I think about it and then, as naturally as anything, I answer, “Yes.”
He stretches out his arm and gestures for me to come closer. Heslips his arm under my neck as if to act as a pillow, and a shiver runs through my whole body.
Why is he acting this way, so…so…affectionate?
