“I was kind of mesmerized, to be honest.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Mesmerized? Mesmerized by what? My skating prowess? The ridiculousness of my outfit? The comedy that always ensues when a person wearing headphones can’t resist doing dance moves out loud, like a mime? I decided I didn’t want to know. “I’m allowed to do what I want on my own rooftop, Joe.”
“I’m not saying you’re not.”
“And you’re not allowed to sneak up here and watch me.”
“I didn’t sneak up. I thought you should know.”
“About what?”
“About the broken door lock.”
Okay, that wasn’t totally unreasonable.
“Once I de-mesmerized myself, I was trying to tell you. So you could get it fixed. But when I called your name, you didn’t hear me.”
“Yeah. Well. I was listening to music.”
“What were you listening to?”
Not relevant! “Why do you want to know?”
Joe shrugged. “You looked happy.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough,” he said, lifting his hands in defeat.
In case it’s not already clear, I felt irrationally angry at him. I’m not sure I could even have pinned down a reason. Because he came up without asking. Because the lock was broken. Because he interrupted me. Because before I saw him, I’d been freakishly, genuinely happy, for the first time in so long and now, thanks to him, I had to be … whatever this was.
Annoyed.
Or maybe just plain old embarrassed. Because there is literally no way to skatedance in silence without looking like a serious goofball.
“Anyway,” Joe said, taking a couple of backward steps. “Sorry about interrupting you. Definitely call about that lock.”
And then he turned and started walking back toward the spiral stairs—and that’s when all that anger I’d just been full of disappeared in a puff. Because the back of his T-shirt? It was streaked with blood.
“Wait!” I called, skating after him. “Are you okay?”
He turned back. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, skating around to get a better look.
“Am I?” he asked, trying to peek over his shoulder.
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I mean, it stings a little,” he said.
I skated back around to his front. “Take it off,” I said, all business, gesturing at his shirt.
He thought for a second, and then he nodded, and then he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and peeled it off.
Friends, Romans, countrymen—I might not have been able to see his face, but let me tell you … I could definitely see that shirtless torso. I mean, I had a physical reaction to beholding that thing—and it wasn’t because he was chiseled or extraordinary or some airbrushed fantasy you’d see in a magazine. It was just … strong and solid and nice. So … appealing, somehow.
It just looked like a body that would feel good under your hands.
I pushed that thought away the second I noticed it.
But can I just add? An absolutely stellar shoulder-to-hip ratio. As a professional artist: thumbs-up.
What was that word he’d just used? Mesmerized?
Anyway, that wasn’t what we were here for. I shook it off and skated back around to check out the damage on his back. “Oh, you really got scraped,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “We skidded a few feet.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, the volume on “annoyed” turning itself way down as “apologetic” ramped up.
I looked down at my scratched-up palms. His back made them look paltry.
“Come on,” I said, ready to remedy my guilt with stellar first aid, starting to skate back toward my door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
But when I looked back, he wasn’t following.
I skated back to him. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got it.”
“It’s your back,” I said. “How are you going to reach it?”
“I’ll manage.”
Was it his fault that he startled me and made me trip?
Absolutely. Sort of.
But was I the one who landed on him and dragged him across a roof?
Also yes.
“Let me help you,” I said, my voice much softer now. “You wouldn’t be scraped up like this if I hadn’t landed on you.”