Pat has an aversion to stillness, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. I’m pretty sure having no television is pushing the man to his limits. Even as I’m thinking about his restlessness, Pat shifts, sighing and wiggling as he scrolls through something on his phone. Is it bad I like to watch him squirm? And every time he shifts, I shift, because this couch is woefully small for two people, especially when one of them is Pat’s size.
My poor, little house feels like a shirt we’ve grown out of. Pat towers in every room and fills every doorway. And though I know it’s small and Pat is a big guy, I can almost feel the intention in each touch, however quick. We can’t pass each other in the hall or even in a room without some physical contact. Like when his fingers brush mine as we pass in the kitchen or when his hip lightly bumps mine in the upstairs hallway.
Each tiny touch is like a reminder: Hey! I’m here! Hey! You can’t resist me forever!
I should remind him of the rule about necessary touching, but … I don’t.
What I did do was order a television for him. It feels like such a small thing—literally, it’s a modest 36-inch TV, all I can afford—but the idea of giving Pat a gift makes me feel strangely vulnerable. It’s silly to feel nervous about such a little gift. Pat gives so freely, so constantly, like he’s a stream pouring down an endless supply of fresh mountain water.
Me? I’m a rusty spigot that’s hard to turn. But I’m trying to loosen up without feeling like I’m totally losing control.
I glance down at my laptop, which is open to a page about narwhals, and slam it shut. Even the unicorn of the sea can’t hold my attention tonight. Not with the warmth of Pat’s body so close to mine and my thoughts a thorny tangle.
“What do you think about this one, Jojo?” Pat asks, turning his phone screen toward her.
It takes Jo a moment to climb out of whatever book she’s fallen into. Her eyes light up almost immediately. “I love it.”
“What are y’all looking at?” I ask, tilting the phone screen toward me and then going still when I see what’s on it.
Hairstyles. Pat is searching up hairstyles for Jo. I’d tell my heart to be still, but it’s no use. I’m pretty sure my heart has already vacated my chest cavity and is lying prostrate before Pat, crying, Take me! Take me! I’m yours!
Inwardly, I’m a weeping, wilting mess. Outwardly, I keep my voice steady as I say, “I like that one. It would look cute on you. I could always try it.”
Jo tilts her head. “You want to wear double braids like that?”
“No, I mean I could try doing that to your hair.”
She goes back to her book, and I try not to be offended when she says, “That’s okay. Patty will do it. He’s better at it than you.”
Well, then. I raise my eyes at Pat, who looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. “No need to rub it in. Where’d you get your beauty school certificate?”
Pat takes his phone back and gives me a crooked grin. “My brothers and I used to take turns doing Harper’s hair.”
That mental image is almost too much. Could the man be any more irresistible? It’s like he’s completely composed of the human equivalent of catnip. What would that even be called—man-nip? Ew. That sounds way too nipply. We’ll stick to the human version of catnip. And Pat is practically leaking it from his pores.
“At least, we did until Harper punched James and told us all she didn’t like us touching her hair and could fix her own ponytails, thank you very much.” He chuckles.
Pat sets his phone down, and before I can stop him, he sweeps my feet up into his lap and begins rubbing them. I don’t have an aversion to feet or anything, but I can’t remember the last time anyone touched mine. It’s way too intimate, especially when I’m feeling all squishy inside. I try to twist away, my protests quickly dissolving into giggles. He tightens his grip.