insisting that we can’t have our relationship be anything more than business, and yet she’s the one who persists in poking the bear. Literally.
Though, I suppose if I’m honest, I started it, so I really only have myself to blame. But I’d be happy to let her touch me, as long as I get to touch her back.
She only has to say the word.
But since she initiated with grabbing my arm the other day, she’s gotten a little bolder and more frequent with her touches.
And since I’m shirtless ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s almost always on my bare skin. I’m not complaining, though. I want her hands all over my bare skin.
I drop the papers on the couch next to her. “Yes, your handwriting is lovely,” I reassure her. And it really isn’t difficult to read. “But seriously. Don’t you want to know how to read music? You could add a lot more availability to your catalogue that way, since you wouldn’t be restricted to only buying things that have been translated to tab.”
She shrugs and picks up the sheets, leafing through them to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes in transcribing them. “I haven’t noticed the lack, actually. Most popular music is already published with tab notation in addition to the dots and squiggles. I’m good.”
Disappointment has me grunting in response. It’s dumb, really, but I want to teach her something. I feel like other than providing the cover of stability, she’s doing all the heavy lifting in this relationship, and teaching her a new skill will somehow even the balance.
She looks up at me, her brows wrinkled together as she studies my face. Then one eyebrow arches up like she’s surprised at what she finds. “It matters that much to you?”
Looking away, I shrug. But she’s not fooled.
Her guitar goes back in its case and she swivels around on the loveseat to face me more fully. “Why?” She spreads her hands. “I’m content. I can write my songs. You’re capable of taking my ‘chicken scratch,’ as you so kindly put it, and making it into both sheet music and tab. Why does it matter if I can read music or not?”
I open my mouth and close it again a few times like a fish out of water. And that’s how I feel right now—a fish deprived of what it needs to survive. It’s how I’ve felt for years, actually. Close to ten. And what I need is finally—finally—within reaching distance. So I shake my head. I’m not screwing this up by making her mad. “It doesn’t, really. You said it. You’re happy. You have what you need. I just wanted to offer if you wanted to learn.”
She studies me for another moment, but her scrutiny is too much. She sees me too clearly, even after only knowing me for such a short time. I suppose being locked away together for over two weeks is sort of a pressure cooker for being able to read someone. I head into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. “I’m hungry. You want some lunch?”
“Um, yeah, I could eat. Did you make more of those salads? Those are really good.”
Opening the fridge, I pull out the containers of salad I prepared for the week and toss everything together minus the dressing for hers. “You should try it with the dressing,” I tell her for the umpteenth time. “It doesn’t have to be a ton. But the little bit of fat helps your body absorb the nutrients from the greens.”
She lets out a loud sigh. “You say that every time.”
Salads in hand, I come out of the tiny kitchen, a crooked smile on my face. “It’s true every time.”
She gives me a sour look. “I promise I’ll try your amazing dressing when I’ve lost the five pounds I still need to lose.”
And once again I’m forcing back the words I want to say. Where are these extra five pounds you’re hiding? Or, You really think Delores will be satisfied with only five pounds? Or, How will you have enough energy to perform if you’re barely eating a thousand calories a day? Or, When your hair starts falling out will you finally listen to me?
But those questions only make me sound like an angry, patronizing asshole. And while offering her salad dressing every time probably isn’t much better, I keep hoping that she’ll agree to even a teaspoon of dressing, even a few extra calories, a few grams of fat to give