Luke nudges me then smiles, waiting for my answer. “I don’t know,” I say and shake my head. “I don’t know if it’s happened yet. What about you?”
“Mine hasn’t either,” Luke answers and brushes my dark hair out of my face. “But this one is pretty up there.”
Every word vibrates against my ear and pulses through my brain. I slowly nod and look down, getting lost in the deep blue of Luke’s sweater, as his fingertips slip beneath my hair, running up and down the back of my neck. Up and down. Up and down. Goose bumps rise over every inch of my body and I wonder if he can feel them; wonder if he can feel this. A jolt buzzes through my body as his fingertips trace the length of my spine. There is silence but no stillness. The room feels like one big electrical circuit. I can almost feel the atoms ping-ponging off my skin and onto Luke. I look up at him, my brown eyes finding his blue. My heart races, my lips throb. His honey-blond hair hangs over his eyes and I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch it, smooth it back into place.
“Mac, I…” Luke begins.
“My name is Lester Burnham,” the opening monologue of American Beauty blasts through the speakers, cutting him off. I turn my body back around and release the breath I’ve been holding in my chest. His hand slides down my arm as every muscle, every cell, every atom (we’re talking molecular-level yearning here) is screaming at me to kiss him, but I can’t.
I’ve been praying for this feeling, this rush, to fade. But it won’t. It taunts me, strengthening with every touch. I shouldn’t let his fingers dance on my skin. I shouldn’t let him hold me like this. I shouldn’t even be here. But I can’t not be here. I can’t not touch him. I can’t not want to kiss him. And I don’t think he can either. Because no matter how much my mind begs for this feeling to weaken, it always feels the same. And right now, it feels impossibly good.
Luke runs his fingers up the length of my arm as we watch the movie in silence, my skin continuing to pulse. I beg my body to fall asleep. Eventually, it obeys and I fade into black.
NINE
Warm light pours through the Weixels’ bonus room windows, stirring me awake. The TV screen on the entertainment center is black but a low hum cutting through the stillness of the room quietly confesses it’s still on.
Luke’s body fusses next to me and I realize the pillow I thought my head was resting on is really his arm. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I’m waking up. Next to him. No, not even next to him. Practically on top of him.
I squeeze my half-open eye shut. I can hear him rub his palm on his face, followed by a yawn and another long eye rub. My mind debates opening my eyes and wishing him a good morning, but the practical part of my brain wins out and I stay “asleep.” His hand carefully moves my head from his arm and onto the oversize pillow. The leather on the couch whines as Luke slowly pulls his body up. His movements pause and the room is quiet. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me and I wonder what he’s thinking. I feel his body lean in closer. I breathe in his sweet skin as he brushes a piece of hair out of my eyes and away from my face. I’ve never had the privilege of smelling Luke first thing in the morning, but his scent is strangely intoxicating. Maybe even better than a freshly showered Luke. He lingers near me for another moment and I take in another breath, trying to decode its mixture. Muted notes from his body wash, a deodorant that’s most likely advertised as smelling like an “Ocean Breeze,” and the tiniest hint of sweat, stirred up from one of his dreams. I kind of want to grab him and tell him to stay so I can smell him a little longer, but I’m pretty sure that crosses the fine line from quirky girl next door (literally) to just plain weirdo.
The weight of the couch shifts as he carefully climbs over me. I hear Luke rummage through a cabinet and return, placing a thickly knitted blanket over my body. He opens the bonus room door and quietly closes it behind him. I listen as his feet shuffle against the hardwood floors of the hallway until they disappear. The low buzz of the TV fills the quiet room once again.
I open my eyes and search for a clock in the room. A big, rustic silver clock hangs near the wet bar: 9:21. We still have a couple hours until we should head up to Templeton.