Another Sentimental Argument

Sleeping next to someone is hard. It's a lot of work that most people don't realize. Because, first, you have to analyze the relationship—Are you friends? Friends with benefits? Do you hate them? Are you attracted to them? Are you scared of them? Do they make your heart feel like a grapefruit that is constantly being stomped on? Once those questions are answered (as best they can be), you have to choose how you need to act accordingly. For instance, if you hate them, you might want to ask yourself how you got yourself into sleeping next to them in the first place. And for second instance, if you're friends, then you may not want to spoon with them. Unless they're into that. Which is fine. And anyway, in the off chance that you're sleeping next to someone who makes you feel all the above situations, then you might end up slumped against the bottom of the couch.

"Good morning—also, what the hell are you doing?"

My eyes take a few long seconds before they flutter open completely. But I still have sleep sticking to them so I can't really see Billie immediately. And I don't remember how I got here and my back really hurts and what the hell am I doing?

"Logan?" His hand is in front of me, offering me a way up.

I don't take it and just slump lower onto the floor with a groan. He looks at me, but not angrily like I expect but more of an amused look covers his features. And with his sleepy face smirking down at me with a hint of something in his eyes that I can't exactly describe, I wish he was actually angry at me because then I would have a reason for wanting to ignore him. But instead, as the universe would have it, he is being really goddamn adorable.

"Did I drool on you or something? Talk in my sleep? Steal all the covers?" He sits down on the carpet in front of me, tucking his knees to his chest. "Ah! I know it—I probably punched you in the face or tried to ensue an aggressive game of unconscious footsie with you, didn't I?"

"Shut up." I roll over like a spineless jellyfish and cover my hands with my face.

Of course I'm on the floor in the living room because lying next to him was torture. How the hell do you lie next to someone that you've been wanting to just lie next to for the past two years without losing your mind? Watching his chest rise and fall with his soft breathing was like the tide and I got seasick.

So thus, there was the living room floor.

"I came out here to get a cup of water, and I guess I was so tired that I didn't exactly make it back to the room." Wow, that's the lamest lie I think I have ever conjured up. Congratulations.

He didn't buy it, either. The slight shake of his head and the quick scoop of his eyes to knees with the small smirk was enough for me to know that he didn't buy it.

"Let's get some coffee. I'll buy."

He's not going to call me out on my stupid lie? He's just going to let me go? He doesn't even want to know the reason I scattered out of the bed as soon as I knew he was really asleep just so I wouldn't have to be next to him even though being next to him was all I wanted?

This is bullshit.

"Okay." He helps me up from off the floor.

When we are standing there in little bit of silence he shuffles behind me and starts rubbing my back. I don't say a word and neither does he. I'm not clear on the reasons he doesn't speak, but my reasons are loud and clear—because this back massage is heaven. And unexpected heaven may be the best kind of heaven there is. So we stay there, with his hands running, walking, pressing into my back. And I have my eyes closed thinking that this is not such a bad consequence of sleeping with my back slumped against the couch.

His hands hover over my spine and I miss him already. And just when I'm about to say thank you to him and head to get some real clothes on, his palms are on my shoulders turning me around. He pulls me into him sloppily and my face is stuck between his chest and neck and my ankle is a little twisted with trying not to step on his toes, but I don't really care about any of these things because I am smiling against him with his arms around me.

"I'm gonna go change." I have to say this because I do have to change and I also want to keep hugging him until the sun burns out and if I do that, we'll never get coffee.

He breathes out: "Okay." And I leave him to go to my room.

I shut the door quietly behind me and immediately run my hand through my hair. Not that that relieves any stress or makes everything magically smooth between Billie and I, because it doesn't and I'm afraid it never will. But that has never stopped me from doing it anyway.

I don't want to be in here forever because I want to talk to Billie. Talk about anything, like we were supposed to do last night but instead I just cried into his cotton t-shirt.

Slipping out of my clothes, I stand in front of the closet (as all women do every now and then) and look at all of the clothes, but not really seeing any of them. All of a sudden I feel self conscious because I want Billie to think I'm pretty. I want to wear something that makes him think I'm pretty.

"Hey, do you mind if I—"

My blood runs cold and hot at the same time when I see Billie stopped mid-sentence, mid-step, gawking at me. His eyes travel to my bare stomach, back to my eyes, down to my hips, back to my eyes, across my legs, and then finally back to my eyes; my wide eyes.

For the first time, I'm not thinking of anything except his eyes on me. I'm not wrestling with emotions and running my thoughts through an analysis. I'm just letting him look at me.

He tucks his bottom lip under his teeth gently and completes a step toward me. And takes a few more until his chin is level with my forehead. When we breathe in, our chests almost touch. Always close, but never touching. Then I hear him swallow and watch his throat move subtly. I hold my breath.

He is looking directly past my eyes, looking at the bra strap on my shoulder. I'm afraid if I move, something will break—like us. We will break if I move.

I close my eyes because it has all become too much. That's the only comfort I can get, being in the dark. But he says something to me.

"No." He swallows again. "No, Logan. Open your eyes."

Right as I start to shake my head, his fingertips go onto my neck. My heartbeat pulses against his skin and I have to look at him. I have to open my eyes and look at him.

At first his eyes (green, green eyes) look glossy and he looks like he is worlds apart from me. I want to close my eyes again but just when I think that thought, his fingertips move a centimeter up my skin and feel my heartbeat once again.

I opened my eyes for him and now his are glossed over. I do not want to look at Billie if he is not looking at me. Directly at me, not past me, not through me, but at me.

"Billie." It is hard to speak so I breathe in small pieces of air until I can speak again. "Look at me."

His lips quiver upward and his eyes are back on mine. He is looking at me more clearly than I have ever seen him look at me before. With him sort of smiling at me, I kind of smile back at him. Now his whole palm is on my neck, feeling my heartbeat.

"I am," he says. "I am."