37. acceleration

37

ACCELERATION

We miss the window for food delivery and end up making the pasta and reheating sauce at one in the morning. Then we stumble upstairs and embrace carb-comas until Leo's alarm goes off at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m.

Gently removing his arm from beneath my head, he disappears into the bathroom. The shower comes on a minute later. I wiggle into the strip of heat left by his body and drift between sleep and waking until the water shuts off. Then I haul myself from bed in the hazy dawn light to rifle through my backpack for clean clothes.

I'm sitting on the bed, a sleep-deprived zombie with bedhead, when Leo reappears. He smirks at me as he deftly buttons his charcoal dress shirt.

I scowl back. "How do you look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? It's not natural. I feel bulldozed."

"Practice," he drawls, dropping a kiss on my head before moving to a nearby dresser. He smells unbelievably good . Me? Not so much .

I flop back onto the bed and stretch my arms, wincing at how sore I am in places with no business being sore. Returning from the dresser, Leo sits near my hip to put on socks. I memorize his handsome, relaxed profile, the flex of muscles in his back, the thick wrists and strong, talented hands. Even the muted swish of his shirt as he moves is music to me.

My chest feels unaccountably warm. Domestic bliss is so real.

He pivots, finding me watching him. "I'm glad you stayed the night," he says softly.

"Me too. Your bed is topnotch."

He grins. "So that's why you stayed. I knew it."

I suppress a smile. "You make a pretty good pillow, too."

He snorts and reaches for his tie. Sensing the end of our time together nearing, I stand and try to tame the rat's nest on my head, then slip into my shoes and repack my backpack. When I'm finished, I wait awkwardly near the bed as he puts on his tie before a mirror.

"So, um…" I clear the frog from my throat. "That is…"

Dancing eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Just say it," he says.

"AmIgoingtoseeyouagain?"

Leo abandons his half-done tie and crosses to me. He's trying hard not to laugh. Reaching up, he gently tugs a rogue strand of pink hair. "You are hands down the most adorable, funny woman I've ever met."

"Pfft. Of course I am. "

He kisses me hard, then steps back. Suddenly serious, he asks, "Do you want to see me again?"

Flippancy escapes me. "Yes."

Do I catch relief in his eyes? I'm not sure, but his smile wakes up parts of me that really need a day off.

"How about Friday night?" he asks, eyes back on the mirror and his tie. "We can get dinner?"

I almost choke on euphoria. "At a restaurant?"

He freezes. "I was thinking I could cook for you here."

Ah.

I shove down a surge of disappointment and smile. Thankfully, Leo doesn't look at me until I've manufactured a genuine one. "That sounds great. What time?"

Tie finished, he sweeps a suit jacket off a hanger and shrugs it on. "I'll have to get back to you. I can't remember what time my last appointment is. Are you working?"

I nod. "But only until three."

"Perfect. Are you ready? I can drop you off on my way to the office."

"Oh, that's okay, I can?—"

" Amelia ."

I scoff. "That tone doesn't work on me anymore."

He stares at me. Patient. Expectant. So freaking handsome. I buckle with a groan.

"Fine, fine. But it's not because you used the voice. I do what I want."

He laughs.

Wednesday and Thursday crawl by. I go through the motions. Surf. Work. Grab drinks with my coworker Trish on Wednesday night, have dinner with Dad and Jessica Thursday. Do my nightly journaling. Feed Ferdi. Take long, restless walks. I almost call Dr. Wilson to beg for an emergency appointment, but lean hard on my friends instead.

Thank God for them, otherwise I'd have no clue how to navigate what's happening between Leo and me. My newer friends are rightly mystified by my lack of so-called dating technique. I try to tell them we're not dating, but they say sex dates count as dates, at least in the context of how to avoid coming off clingy. I'm not supposed to send text messages like I miss you or the dreaded, Do you miss me, too? and I can't call him to ask about his day. Also according to them, I'm like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush. They have no idea how right they are.

Kinsey and Nix, on the other hand, know the ugly truth. I've never—in my entire life—been my authentic self in a relationship, and the consequence is I'm totally out of my depth. Even during the best times with Kevin, I was aware of playing a role. Acting or looking a certain way. Almost like there was a constant spotlight on me, judging my every flaw.

With Leo, it's a moot point. He is the spotlight. He sees through my pathetic attempts to act like someone else, someone I think he wants. He demands the raw, unfiltered me.

I don't think he understands the cost. I'm falling, and the only question is when I'll meet the ground.

Friday is an unexpected day off. Trish has a concert she wants to go to next week and asked if I'd swap. I spend most of the morning in bed. And not because I love sleeping, which I do. I woke up paralyzed with fear that Leo plans to cancel tonight.

I've only heard from him once in the last two days. A short text that said he'll be home by five tonight. When I replied that I'd see him around five thirty, his response wasn't even a word. Just a letter.

K.

I eventually make coffee and shower, hoping the routine will alleviate the fog in my head. It doesn't. By mid-afternoon, I've cleaned my apartment top to bottom and done three loads of laundry. Still nothing from Leo, but I can't shake the sense of impending doom.

I call Callum and luck out, catching him between shoots.

"Goldie!"

"I'm losing my mind."

He laughs. "Again?"

"Not funny," I gripe. "I'm seeing Leo tonight."

He whistles. "Third sleepover, huh? Has he manned up yet?"

Callum, like Kinsey, thinks Leo is an ass for refusing to officially date me. Or be seen with me in public. Or text or call between sexcapades .

"I agreed to this," I remind both Callum and myself. "He's been completely upfront."

"He knows you have feelings for him, Mia! It's fucked up. I'm disappointed in him."

"Does he?" I echo, mentally scraping my memories of the last two weeks. "I don't know. Obviously my lady parts like his man parts. We get along really well when we're not having sex, too. But what have I actually done or said to make him think I have feelings for him? Maybe he's waiting for me to make that step? Or maybe he's worried about my, uh, mental state?"

"Remind me to never date my psychiatrist," grumbles Callum.

"We're not dating! And he's not my psychiatrist! Damnit, Callum. Can't you say something that makes me feel better? That's all I want from you!"

His laughter finally dies down. "There are two options. Option one, you tell him you want a relationship and see what happens. Option two, you don't rock the boat. It's as simple—and hard—as that. But I think the bigger question is who you want to be. Do you want to be the old version of you? Someone who smothers their feelings and acts out in other damaging ways? Or do you want to live an honest life?"

I shouldn't have called Callum.