Page 96 of Falling Backwards
“Jeans are coming off,” he just about murmurs, confirming my thoughts.“Avert your gaze.”After a beat: “Or don’t.”
With that tone, it doesn’tsoundlike he’s still mocking me for staring at him, but there’s no way he’s not.
At least, that’s what I insist to myself because the alternative is….
Unsure that I can handle seeing him in only underwear, even for just a few seconds, I dig through the pullovers and find his thermal shirt beneath them.I grab it and blindly thrust it out to him, sending a hanger clattering to the floor.“Here,” I offer.
He takes the shirt and, to my surprise, passes me the sweatpants.The fabric settles pleasantly in my hands.I try to focus on that, but my peripheral vision tells me he’s pulling the shirt on; I feel both relieved and disappointed.
Once he’s covered up again, I try to give the sweatpants back, but he says, “Keep holding them.Please.”
Now I send him a curious look.“Why?”
His hands drop to finally undo his jeans.I swing my eyes away again and hear his zipper and his, “I can’t take off one set of pants and put on another at the same time.”
Obviously, he’s right, but I’m so flustered that I reach for my typical impatience with him rather than going for understanding.“Well, why did you get the sweatpants off the hanger if you weren’t ready to put them on yet?It would’ve been more efficient to—”
“Is thereanythingyou won’t nitpick?”Now I hear the rush of his jeans being removed…and I try not to let my peripheral vision catch that too.
I remember to bend over and retrieve the shirt hanger I knocked to the floor, then remember where it came from.“It also would’ve been more efficient to hang this stuff up when you were done with it instead of just tossing it over here.”
As I’m picking up one of the pullovers so I can put it on the hanger, his jeans land here, too, right over my hand and forearm.It feels like a,‘Stop picking up after me,’thing plus a,‘Watch me tossmorestuff over there,’thing.But what my brain latches on to is how warm the jeans are from being on his body.
Stop being stupid, Maggie.
He takes the sweatpants from me, and I still don’t let my eyes go his way even a little bit.I keep them trained on my task of hanging up the pullovers, warm jeans nudged aside.
But it seems the rest of me just won’t let the moment go.My ears pick up on the sounds of his breaths as he puts the pants on, and faint chill bumps come up on me because my hair is fluttering a bit from his various nearby movements…and because I’m remembering his murmur from a minute ago:‘Avert your gaze.Or don’t.’
Sostupid.This isLukeI’m being so affected by.
It’s like this little turn our trip has taken has sapped me of some of my sense.Good Lord.
But honestly…
“These are all right, huh?”he asks.I take the invitation to look, and I try not to spend too long soaking up how‘all right’is an understatement.The sweatpants fit him as well as his jeans do.
…who could blame a pretend-girlfriend, right?
“Yep,” I answer.
“Cool.”
I drop my eyes to the hangered pullovers and start nitpicking, indeed, at the tiny bits of lint on them; he’s already de-pantsing again.
But when he sneezes, I involuntarily shift my gaze in his direction as I say, “Bless you,” and I catch sight of his exposed calves and low-cut socks.
Damn it, he appears to have nice legs too.
“Thanks,” he says.
My eyes fly wide with panic that I—
Oh, wait, no.No, I didn’t say that out loud,I realize.He’s thanking me for the,‘Bless you.’That’s all.
I sigh.
The sweatpants land next to me, on top of his jeans.He moves on to the next pair, and while I give this one some time to lose whatever warmth they’re holding, I carefully pull his jeans free.Seems best to have them ready for him once he’s done trying things on.
