And I liked it.
I liked that he was thinking of me, and that he was making an effort to let me know that he was. I liked that he called me things like beautiful and said good morning, gorgeous every single day.
Still, something was off, something deep inside me that I couldn’t put my finger on — not directly, anyway.
I was in a book funk, unable to read more than a page or two before I’d huff and close the book, shelving it in an attempt to try another one. Even my tried and true favorites to re-read weren’t doing the trick, and so I spent whatever time I wasn’t in class or at the stadium lying on my bed and staring up at my ceiling.
I talked to my sisters and brothers on a group sibling video call, listening to them catch me up on their lives as I was silent as usual. Only Laura asked me how my job was, one time, and after a short but satisfying answer for them, the conversation shifted back to our brothers’ current business venture.
Eventually, Friday came, and though they weren’t the familiar ones I remembered when I was trying to pick out an outfit for that night Clay took me to see Shawn play downtown, I still had butterflies as I dressed in my joggers and a tank top. I styled my hair to make it look like I hadn’t tried, applying light makeup and throwing on an oversized hoodie before I walked the few blocks to Shawn’s place.
He lived a little off campus just like I did, though his building was newer, with a lobby that had a twenty-four-seven attendant at the desk. She called Shawn when I arrived, getting his approval before letting me into the bank of elevators and pushing the number for his floor.
My stomach twisted as the numbers ticked higher and higher, and then I stepped out into the hallway, immediately seeing Shawn standing in his open doorway at the end of it.
Those strange butterflies fluttered into a tizzy at the sight of him.
He leaned against the frame, arms and ankles crossed casually as he watched me walk every step of the way toward him. He didn’t hide his gaze as it traveled the length of me, and I couldn’t hide the blush that warmed my cheeks at his unyielding stare.
“Hey,” he said easily when I was close, and then he pushed off from where he’d been leaning and wrapped me in a tight hug.
That hug was warm and cozy, like we’d known each other for years, like he was welcoming home a long-time friend he’d missed dreadfully. He smelled of some sort of herb, patchouli, maybe. He offered me a lazy smile when he pulled back, his eyes sort of glossed as he held out a hand to usher me inside.
“I hope you don’t mind takeout,” he said when he shut the door behind us. “I was too exhausted to cook anything.”
I didn’t answer, mostly because I was too busy gaping at the scene that waited for me inside. His dark studio was faintly lit by warm candles, their flickering flames casting shadows on the walls and over the dinner spread in the center of the room. He’d covered a coffee table with a cream silk tablecloth, a dozen roses right in the center along with more candles. Pillows piled up on either side made up the makeshift chairs, and he’d set the table for two, with Italian takeout I recognized from a nearby restaurant offering everything from chicken and pasta to lamb and bruschetta.
Soft music poured over the scene, jazzy and smooth, and my eyes traveled over the dinner spread to take in the minimalist dorm as a whole. A keyboard sat facing the windows, his guitar propped next to it, and his laptop sat open with some sort of music engineering software on the screen. He had one small couch, brown leather like the boots he always wore, and a box spring and mattress on the floor hugged the corner wall.
It was a bedroom, kitchen, living room and music studio all in one, and with the vinyl playing on the Crosley in the corner, and the myriad of posters hanging on the wall, it had an almost grunge-like romantic appeal, like something straight out of a 90’s movie.
“Wow,” I breathed, taking it all in.
“I hope it’s not too much,” Shawn said, scrubbing a hand back through his shaggy hair. “I like candles.”
“It’s beautiful,” I assured him, even with my voice thick in my throat. I took his lead then, taking a seat on the pillows opposite the side of the table he’d sat on.
“Wine?” he asked, tilting the bottle toward my glass before I’d even answered. “It’s Moscato. I haven’t really developed a taste for anything deeper.”
I chuckled. “Well, since you’re nineteen, I guess I’ll let it slide.”
“Twenty,” he corrected after filling our glasses, then he held his up. “To you, Giana,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “And to the music that fills our souls.”