So of course it was the only image on the endless tape loop in my brain. Really. I did that. How ridiculously humiliating. I’d thought hitting his dick with my chin was the most embarrassing thing that could happen between us. That’s what I got for underestimating my capabilities.
Mortifying Madison, able to make literally anything Super Weird.
But it wasn’t just the awful part of Couch Night that I fixated on. I thought about the flirting, the talking, the hilarity of the bubble bath (which I’d totally stolen and was running low on), the amazing kissing. Mostly the amazing kissing. Just the memory of it gave me goosebumps.
The whole thing left me in a very confused state. Between the humiliation and the hormones, I couldn’t decide if I wanted yet another do-over or if I wanted to never see him again.
That was a lie. I could decide, and I’d decided I wanted more. Besides, never seeing him again would involve finding another roommate, and who could be bothered?
But was that what he’d want? Or would he walk in and say, “About the other night… you should maybe find somewhere else to live.”
I got fired up just thinking about it. He couldn’t kick me out. My name was on the lease too. Then I remembered he hadn’t even said anything and this was all my imagination. Surely we were cool?
Well. I wouldn’t know until he got home.
I didn’t know much about Marc’s schedule, but I did know that he generally didn’t come back home from his weekends until after his classes were done on Mondays. I figured he went straight from his mother’s to campus. With school over, I expected I’d see him earlier, which wasn’t at all the reason that I made sure I was up well before noon that day.
Nor was it the reason I’d dressed in my favorite outfit over my Superman panties. A girl can look good for herself. It’s not always about a boy.
Okay, it was about a boy.
Problem was, the boy never came home.
Morning turned into afternoon and eventually I had to go into work. Actually, I was grateful. It gave me something to think about besides Marc and our crazy strange roomie situation.
“Shit. I forgot to call you. Pipe’s fixed but the main press has water damage,” JD said when I walked into the shop. “Repairman promises it will be working by tomorrow. You get another paid night off, kiddo.”
So much for counting on my job to occupy my mind. But, also, yay! Four-day weekends weren’t very common for me. Having learned my lesson last time, I skipped Booze4Less and headed straight home.
The house was still empty when I got there, which made me a little nervous. On the one hand, it made sense. Why wouldn’t Marc stay with his mother longer when he didn’t have any obligations here? On the other hand, I hoped his absence had nothing to do with me. What if he was looking for a new place to live? What if a barfing, couch-surfing comic nerd was actually not his ideal screwmate?
I was sure he’d be back eventually, but obviously it wasn’t going to be tonight so there was no use worrying about it. I shrugged off the disappointment, changed into PJs and settled in for an evening parked on the sofa.
Three hours later, I had forgotten all about Marc and was halfheartedly watching old episodes of Daredevil while putting a topcoat on my toenails when he walked in.
He had his bag in one hand, two bottles of wine in the other, and the sexiest smile I’d ever seen.
“You’re home,” he said, as he dropped his duffle by the door.
It was exactly the same thing he’d said when I’d shown up on Friday, and if I hadn’t been so happily stunned to see him I might have tried to overanalyze if there was the meaning in that.
“Yes,” I said, returning his grin, “but, as you can see, when I’m alone, I wear pants.” They were pajama pants, but they counted.
He laughed and I mentally patted myself on the back for not blurting out something ridiculous or mortifying. He probably had no idea that my heart was pounding like it was or that my breath had grown shallow since he’d arrived. Or how pissed I was at myself for replacing my adorable Lichtenstein-print skater dress with my dang sweats.
I mean, Marc had always been stupid hot, but had he been this stupid hot? Like, so stupid hot that I got too tongue-tied to even get awkward. That was probably a good thing. I considered bringing a picture of him to events where I had to try and be not-weird with strangers.
“Another burst pipe?” he asked.
“Same burst pipe. Apparently it did more damage than we’d realized.”
“I see.” He rocked back and forth on his feet for a moment, seeming to assess the situation, probably wondering as I was if it was a good idea or not to embark on Couch Night Part Deux.
It only took a few seconds for him to decide. He nodded to the open wine cooler on the side table. “If you’re interested in relinquishing your current drink, I could open a bottle of the real stuff.”
Oops. I’d forgotten I’d snagged one of his peach-flavored Bartles and Jaymes. It actually wasn’t half bad. I’d been missing out on this and the bubble bath for months, and I had lost time to make up for. Although I hadn’t necessarily planned on him noticing.
“Relinquish? I’ll just finish it off.” I chugged the last quarter of the cooler then set the bottle back down. “Bring on the wine.” Perhaps I hadn’t learned my lesson last time, after all.
But this was wine. Not Bourbon. Totes different.
Ten minutes later, my toes were dry enough to admire off the coffee table and Marc was handing me something red in a mason jar. Neither of us, it seemed, were fancy enough to have owned appropriate stemware. Or were we hip? It was so hard to tell the difference between poor and hip sometimes. I’d probably just break nice glasses anyways, so.
“What is it, anyway?” I asked, as he took a seat next to me. Not so close to me that we touched, but not on the complete other end of the couch either.
“I don’t remember. I just liked the label. Had a sandal on it. Made me think of vacations,” he winked, and I remembered the whole French sex plan he’d told me about.
“We should try to guess what it is.” I had no idea why I suggested that. Sometimes words just emerge from my mouth and surprise everyone, including me. I mean, I enjoyed a glass of Merlot now and then. That didn’t mean I knew a damn thing about specific flavors.
But when I don’t know what I’m saying, I seem to say even more of it. “Wine is very important in France. You need to know this stuff so you don’t look ignorant on your bangcation.”
“That sounds like a challenge. I’m up for it.” He held his glass toward me. I hesitated only a second then met his with a clink.
We swallowed in unison.
“Bitter,” Marc said.
“I can definitely taste the grapes.” I took another sip.
“Grapey. That’s a perfect description,” Marc agreed, and I flushed a little. I was proud he agreed. I smiled over at him and he held my eyes for a moment longer than necessary. The hotness! Swoon!
“Check the bottle,” I told him. “Let’s see how we did.”
He ran to the kitchen and came back with the opened and the unopened bottle, as well as a corkscrew. “We can move on to the other when we’re finished,” he explained.