thigh. There was a hole in her sock and I kept staring at the little pink toe that was exposed.
“There’s a hole in your sock.”
She wiggled her toes. “Oh. I didn’t notice.”
I looked at her face. “I don’t understand you.”
“Okay…” She cocked her head a little, reading my expression. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s unbelievably frustrating.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to understand you,” I confessed, “so I can put you in a box and set you aside.”
She sat up a little, hugging her knees to her chest. “Why would you want to do that?”
“So I don’t need to get involved.”
She blinked at me. “Do you need to get involved?”
My voice scratched when I said, “Yes.” There was no way she could know how painful it was for me to admit that to her. It made me feel crazy vulnerable.
“Why?” she said.
“Because… I’m drawn to you.”
“But you don’t understand me.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to you.”
“Maybe you just like me,” she said softly.
“Why did you put your foot in my pool the first day I met you?”
“Because the water looked nice.”
“Why is there a hole in your sock?”
“What is this obsession with my feet?” she asked, a smile playing at her mouth.
I just stared at her. The truth was, I had a growing obsession with her everything.
“Why does it bother you that I have a hole in my sock?” she asked me gently.
“Because it makes no sense. You’re so organized and efficient. And yet you have chipped nail polish in every color of the rainbow on your fingers and toes. You use perfect punctuation in every text message you send, yet you crack your chewing gum and write on your sneakers with marker like a delinquent.”
She grinned. “Thank you.”
“You wear Mickey Mouse bandages and implement filing systems and get whiplash to Metallica and cry at Dolly Parton and none of you makes sense.”
“I’m sorry you can’t fit me into a box,” she said, not sorry at all. “I prefer to be oblique.”
“You’ve got a clever answer for everything and you’ve got holes in your socks.”
“It’s just one hole,” she said, wiggling her toes again and checking to make sure there weren’t more of them. “I try to focus on the important things in life. I feel like a hole in my sock or a chipped nail just isn’t worth losing sleep over. I’ll get to it tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“And yet you insisted on alphabetizing the books in my office today for shits and giggles.”
“You paid me. So I alphabetize your stuff. Who cares about my socks?”
“I do. I’m fucking infatuated with that goddamn hole and everything else about you.”
She smiled again, a little more hesitant. “So… this is a foot fetish thing?” she teased.
“I think it’s more of a you fetish thing.” I reached toward her, slipping my hands between her knees. She let me. I nudged them open, sliding my hands over her hips and gripping her, then tugging her toward me. She slid against me, her legs splaying, one going over my lap and the other behind me.
Her face was close to mine, and her lips parted. I pressed in, not quite kissing her. I touched my forehead to hers and just drank her in. Her sweet smell. Her warmth.
Her presence.
“I have a confession to make.” She breathed it against my lips, and anxiety spiked through me. It was instant, the fear that she was going to say something irreparably terrible, something we couldn’t come back from. “I saw what you did in here last night,” she whispered.
I pulled back a little and stared at her. I took a deep, slow breath. “What did you see?” I asked, my voice tight, my mind racing.
“I saw you. With my hoodie.”
I closed my eyes. Fucking great.
Fly your freak flag a little higher, why don’t you.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to spy on you. Open your eyes.” Her hands touched my face and I opened my eyes. I tried to focus on her eyes as I breathed, deep and slow. “I was out in the yard, looking at the stars because I couldn’t sleep, and I saw you come to lock the door. I started to come over here, to talk to you. But then I saw you pick up my hoodie and, I don’t know. I just couldn’t stop watching.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She searched my eyes. “Why? I’m not.”
“Taylor.” I shook my head a little, slowly, and her hands fell away. “I’m out of control.”