Page 35 of Only and Forever
Right up to the moment Clint showed his face, I was firmly prepared to turn down Viggo’s roommate offer. I’ve already lived with someone who I was attracted to (and ended up sleeping with)—it blew up in my faceepically. The irony, that the person with whom everything imploded was the very person who showed up and made me realize living with Viggo would be nothing like living with Clint.
As Clint crashed our meal and Viggo stood up for me, all I could think was, this person is good. And kind. And yes, he’s also very hot and I’d thoroughly enjoy sleeping with him, which would otherwise immediately strike him from the list of eligible roommates, but I’mnotgoing to sleep with him, not going to throw my emotionless-sex self at a die-hard romantic. In fact, agreeing to be roommates is the best way to avoid that temptation,ifViggo is even interested in sleeping with me.
Even if he is, Viggo is a gentleman. He won’t hit on me while we’re living together, while I’m working at his store and he’s helping me with my book, while clear boundaries are in place. I’ll respect those boundaries, too.
I’ll be his... friend, maybe. And maybe he’ll be mine. That will be enough. It’ll probably be more than I’ve ever had in the way of support and consistency in my domestic life. I can simply be grateful for that.
Asserting my offer, I thrust out my hand even farther. Cohabitants. Coworkers. Friendly roomies. Nothing more.
Viggo stares at my hand, a smile tugging at his mouth. “We’re gonna shake on this? Like a business deal?”
“It is a business deal,” I tell him. “I help you with the store. You help me with my book; let me crash at your place until...” I wrack my brain. We need a clear end date—I have to finish this book already, and I can’t live indefinitely with someone whom I’m this attracted to. “Until the wedding. Two months, then I’ll be on my way. That’s a deal.”
Viggo bites his lip, staring at me.
“But we’re friends, Lu.” He slides his hand along mine, palm grazing palm, fingertips whispering over my wrist. “Doesn’t that make this... a bit different from a business deal?”
I swallow nervously, unsettled by how turned on I’m getting when only his fingers graze my skin in light, lulling circles. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. He’s just like this—touchy, talky, warm. “I guess...” I exhale slowly, getting my bearings. “I guess that’s more than a business deal. It’s... a mutually beneficial, platonic season of support.”
His smile deepens. “I like the sound of that.”
“Good.” I nod once. Twice. I’m flustered. I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m riveted by his gaze, his hand holding mine, the flood of warmth that’s lingered in my veins ever since he stood up for me in the restaurant.
“So,” he says softly, “we gonna talk about how you’re doing, after that asswipe in there harassed you?”
“Nope.” I try to tug my hand away, but Viggo holds it, not sotight that I couldn’t yank it out if I wanted, just enough to send a message.
Stay with me. Talk to me.
I’m so used to pulling back, shutting down, retreating. I’ve never had someone ask me howIfeel, whatIneed. I’m the one who’s done that for others. Who showed up for Mom when Dad broke her heart again, who answered Dad’s texts begging for ideas about trips to plan, gifts to send Mom, whatever he could do to get back in her good graces. Who bailed out my brother Harry when he made a mess of things, cleaned up those messes with money and promises it wouldn’t happen again. Who took care of Charlie, who’s gone wedding-dress shopping with her and helped her make choices Mom and Dad should be helping her make, except they’re both too absorbed in their own bullshit to see how much their daughter needs them. Who handled my friend group’s rental finances, groceries, meal planning, upkeep, who was the quiet listener, the shoulder to cry on, the receptacle and vessel for what everyone else needed.
I don’t have needs. Or feelings. I’ve never felt I could afford that luxury.
This past year, I’ve confronted that problem, at least abstractly. Reading, thinking, living alone. I’m trying to operate differently. Maybe, living with Viggo, I might actually get good at it.
“Clint was a friend I made in college,” I tell Viggo, feeling my way through what it’s like to open up. “We all got a place together, and then everyone left, and we sort of... ended up together... sexually. That was it. Just lots of cohabitational, unromantic banging.”
We were just friends with benefits. I thought we’d made that clear. Until Clint said he loved me and I said I didn’t love him, and then he yelled and threw things and kicked me out.
“It didn’t end well,” I add quietly. “That’s it.”
Viggo’s jaw tightens—I can tell, even beneath all that beard. He’s not happy with this answer. “Did he hurt you?”
I swallow thickly. “Not... physically.”
Viggo’s grip tightens. When he realizes how hard he’s squeezing, he drops my hand. Then he steps closer. “Let me hug you, Lu?”
I bite my lip, tears welling in my eyes. I hate crying. I hate it so much.
“Lula,” he says, opening his arms. “Please. You’re killing me, standing there, sad and quiet and hurting. I’ve gotta do something—”
I throw myself into his waiting embrace, and his arms wrap around me, tucking me close. My head under his chin, his hand splayed across my back. This is like no other hug I’ve ever had. He’s warm and strong; his shirt is cloud soft, and he smells like pure comfort. My arms twine around his waist. I bury my face in his chest and breathe deeply, trying so hard not to cry.
Viggo rests his cheek on my head. “Doesn’t matter that it wasn’t physical. He hurt you. I’m sorry.”
I scrunch my eyes shut. Tears slip down my cheeks. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” he says fiercely, hugging me closer to him. “I wish pistols at dawn were still a thing.”