Page 103 of Maybe You
He leans forward.
And kisses me.
My heart might as well have grown a pair of wings with the way it soars in my chest. His hands cradle my face, and he slowly takes me apart with his mouth.
“That…” I say when he pulls away. I lick my lips. “That is a good ‘morning.’”
His lips twitch.
“Can I take you out to breakfast?” he asks, gaze still locked with mine, intense and somehow sincere.
I nod, trying my best not to seem too eager.
“I’ll go get dressed,” I turn and head back upstairs, where I pull out a pair of my usual sweatpants and pull them on before I take a long-sleeved T-shirt from the second drawer.
Then I pause, look back toward the dresser, and hesitate for way too long over something that is essentially so mundane.
I put the shirt back in the drawer and pull out another one.
Forest green fabric.
Round collar.
Short sleeves.
The conversation I overheard earlier is still making the rounds inside my head.
I can handle whatever baggage Sutton was talking about. I can. But maybe he needs further proof. Maybe he needs to see me handling my own baggage a bit better. Maybe I should stop concentrating on those past voices of people. The ones that pointed and stared and whispered when I walked past them. The ones that whispered “monster” and “freak” when I passed in the hallway.
It’s almost summer, and it’s getting hot, so I should just wear the fucking T-shirt. I toy with the hem until I’m forced to roll my eyes at how dramatic I’m being. I take the shirt and pull it over my head, then quickly head back downstairs before I can change my mind.
Sutton is still at the foot of the stairs, waiting. He looks up when he hears me coming, and his gaze sweeps over me, taking in my bare forearms. His smile widens.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
And we head out.
TWENTY-ONE
On Monday, Sutton comes to work with me. We clean the place and head back to his place, where he blows me against the front door, and I return the favor with him lounging on the living room couch, golden body on full display for me, willing me to do anything I want, try anything I want.
And I stop trying to pretend my heart isn’t about to pound its way out of my chest whenever I see him.
On Tuesday, he meets me on campus, and we grab lunch. He’s dressed in a very proper pair of khakis, and a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The side of his foot seeks mine out while we eat.
I stop going to the library.
Instead, I take my books and notes and my laptop straight to Sutton’s after my last lecture of the day is done. I lay them all out on his dining table and catch myself looking at him while he makes dinner.
He starts bringing his camera with him when we’re out and about, and I try to fight through the discomfort I feel whenever he aims it toward me. He asks me if he should stop, and I say no.
We go to the park, and he takes photos of blue jays and robins and starlings and crows and sparrows, and later, he shows me how to develop the photos and grabs my ass in the darkroom and kisses me in the red glow of the safe light.
He never comes straight out and tells me anything about himself without being self-deprecating or straight-up cruel to himself, but I learn things about him by some strange form of osmosis. All those tiny details and small quirks that make Sutton, Sutton.
I know he has a favorite mug—the blue one with the chipped handle. I know that even though he says he doesn’t have a favorite side of the bed, he gravitates toward the left. He used to swim competitively. He has exactly one houseplant—a philodendron he saved from a trash can when he’d just moved into his place. He rolls his eyes when I christen the plant Phil, but I know he secretly likes it because I’ve caught him smiling when I do it. I know he’s caught on to the fact that I like it when he touches me, because he does it all the time now and seeks me out whenever I try and tell myself not to become too clingy. I know he likes it when I call him Sutt. I know he seems all suave and sophisticated, but on the inside, he’s a bit of a dork.