Love to Love Her YAC (10 page)

His eyes dart up and down, from my mouth to
my eyes to my chin, nervously taking me in like there’s a question
lingering near the tip of his tongue, but some unknown force has
him paralyzed. After a period of silence that seems as if it may
not end, he wets his lips with his tongue and says, “Do you have
some time? I mean… You could come over for a bit. Just hang
out?”

The thudding of my heart feels like someone
is dropping a pile of heavy books in my chest over and over again.
It’s making me feel slightly nauseated.
Get a handle on
yourself, Rhiannon. The only one making this difficult is
you.

I swallow the lump in my throat and, through
an enormous force of will, mechanically move my head up and down in
a nod that likely appears more than a little unnatural. “I could
come by for maybe an hour.”

He flashes me an enormous smile. “An hour it
is.” He stands while I haphazardly rake my stuff into my backpack.
“I’ve got it,” he tells me, grabbing the bag before I can protest
and swinging it over one shoulder.

“You don’t have to carry my shit,” I tell
him. “It’s pretty heavy.”
And you’re sweaty
…

He lifts up a bit on the strap as if he’s
weighing it in his hand. “You’re right, it is heavy,” he replies.
“What’ve you got in here, bricks?”

“You never know when they might come in
handy,” I say as I go to my bike and begin wheeling it out onto the
path. “Now man up and either stop whining or give it to me.”

He chuckles. “No worries, I’ll be your beast
of burden. Right this way, milady.”

We walk along Marsh Road to Fifth Street, the
chain on my bike clicking softly as I push it along between us –
it’s definitely due for some maintenance. Blake remains quiet while
we walk, his hand clutching at the strap on my book bag as he looks
straight ahead. He wasn’t kidding when he said he lives nearby –
less than ten minutes later we’re turning a corner onto a
cul-de-sac lined with apartment buildings of various shapes and
sizes.

“Do you have a lock for that thing?” Blake
asks as we approach an older three story brick building with black
shutters on the windows.

“Yeah,” I reply. I lean my bike against my
hip and reach for the back pocket on my bag as it hangs off his
shoulder. I retrieve my coiled cable lock and snap it in place
around the front fork of my bike, securing it to a rack outside the
front door. Then I follow Blake through the door and down a
carpeted hallway to his apartment.

The front door opens into a short entryway
with a half bathroom off to the immediate right. Blake stands aside
to let me walk past him toward a sunken living room with a matching
black microfiber couch and loveseat and a sleek entertainment
center with a flat screen TV. Around the corner to the right is a
small kitchen with a round table and chairs. I stop to wait on
Blake; as he lets the door close behind him his roommate emerges
from one of two doors on the other side of the living room. He’s
damp and slightly ruddy from a recent shower.

He stops when he notices me. “Oh – hey.
Rhiannon, right?”

“Yeah, hi, Adam,” I say.
Why do I have the
strange feeling I’m being caught doing something I shouldn’t?
My eyes flicker to Blake, who is
almost
managing to play off
his uneasiness as he swings my book bag to the floor and goes to
fill a glass with water from the fridge.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks
me.

“No thanks.” I look back at Adam, who in turn
is glancing between the two of us.

“What do you two have on tap for this
afternoon?” he asks, sounding casual enough.

“Don’t know yet,” says Blake, cutting his
eyes to his roommate. There’s a hard edge to his voice that I
perhaps wouldn’t have picked up on if I wasn’t listening for it.
“She doesn’t have a whole lot of time.”

Adam nods, then looks back at me with a smile
that seems almost apologetic. “Well, have fun,” he says. “I’m
heading out. Bye, Rhiannon, it was nice seeing you again.”

“You, too,” I call after him as he plucks his
keys from a hook on the wall and walks out the door. As soon as the
door latches behind him, Blake visibly relaxes. He guzzles the rest
of his water and sets his glass in the sink, then climbs down the
two steps into the living room and lowers himself onto the
loveseat.

“Come have a seat,” he says, patting the
cushion next to him. Still feeling slightly edgy, I do as he says
but sit on the other couch rather than beside him. “Are you
hungry?” he asks. “I could make us some sandwiches.”

Come to think of it, it
is
past
lunchtime, but my stomach is too twisted in knots to think about
food. “Not right now, thanks,” I reply, relieved when my voice
comes out stronger and steadier than I feel.

“Do you study at Riverview a lot?” he asks as
he reaches down to unlace his slightly muddy cross-trainers. His
hair falls into his eyes as he leans forward and pulls off both
shoes.

“I did last spring,” I reply. “I haven’t
since this semester started – until today.”

He plows a hand back through his hair,
pushing it off his face as he leans back. “I really need to make
time for a haircut,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

I kick off my own shoes and draw my feet up
on the couch to roll down my pant legs, which are still cuffed from
my earlier bike ride. “I used to cut my dad’s hair all the time,” I
tell him offhandedly. “He’s a funny guy – he’ll spend thousands on
a horse or a new liner for his truck bed, but then he’s really
thrifty when it comes to things like haircuts and new socks.”

Blake smiles as he throws his elbow over the
back of the couch and props his head in his hand. “So are you
volunteering your services?” he asks, a suggestive lilt to his deep
voice.

I laugh self-consciously. “Not exactly. Just
rambling.”

“Well are you any good at it?” he prods.

“Oh I’m more than
good
at it,” I
assure him. “That doesn’t mean I’m offering.”

He scratches at the stubble on his face as he
regards me with an amused grin. “A statement like that needs to be
backed up before I’ll believe it,” he says. Suddenly he sits up
straight and slaps his hands on his knees before rising to his
feet. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand to pull me up off
the sofa.

“Come where?” I ask, unmoving.

“I need a haircut, and you’ve just assured me
you’re more than qualified to help me with that little problem.
Come on, I’ll pay you if I have to.”

Did he just wink at me
? I peer up at
him skeptically, then huff out a breath as I ignore his extended
hand and stand up on my own. He laughs softly and takes my elbow to
steer me toward the door next to the one Adam walked out of a few
minutes ago. My pulse gathers velocity inversely proportional to
our distance from the threshold –
Is this his bedroom?

Blake pushes the door open and walks in; I
have no choice but to follow. The room is decent sized but somewhat
messy, with an unmade bed and a dresser whose surface is littered
with books, pens, papers and empty glasses. A chaise longue is
shoved against the wall opposite the bed and is covered in a mound
of discarded clothing. A bank of windows lines the left-hand wall,
but the blinds are shut, darkening the room.

“What do you need?” he asks, his voice
serious now. “Scissors… Towel… what else?”

My head swivels around to look at him. He
doesn’t seem to be joking. I clear my throat, not at all confident
that I’m not about to make a huge mistake. “A comb?” I say quietly.
I wait, wide-eyed, while he gathers my supplies, not quite able to
believe I’m actually going to go through with this.

“Let’s do it in here,” he says, motioning
toward another door that leads into a bathroom. A green and gray
checked shower curtain divides the bathtub from the toilet and sink
area. I’m pleasantly surprised at how spacious it is. “I can just
sit on the toilet, right?” he says.

I draw in one final shaky breath before
renewing my commitment to acting normal. “Do you want to wash it
first?” I ask, my eyes darting to the shower.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” he agrees before
turning to push back the curtain. He twists the knob to turn on the
water and holds his fingers beneath the flow to test the
temperature. Once it’s warm enough, he reaches behind his head and
fists his t-shirt in his hand to yank it off.
Oh God – OK
. I
take a deep breath as he turns to face me. “Will you do it?” he
asks, smiling a little.

I want to ask him how his girlfriend would
feel about him asking some other girl to shampoo his hair, but
instead all I do is nod. “On the floor,” I say, although I fear it
comes out as more of a question than a command.

He turns and crouches on the floor, and I
push up my shirt sleeves and step around him, planting my feet on
either side of his knees as I lean forward. He bows his head over
the tub, and I run my fingernails through his hair, soaking it
under the stream of water gushing from the spigot. I reach across
to the opposite ledge for the bottle of shampoo, pressing my wet
hand against his bare back to steady myself. I know I should be
concerned about the way my body is responding to this situation, my
sense of heightened awareness, but I also know it’s like a
physiological addiction – no amount of guilt over what’s right and
wrong will deter me from staying the course. I’m in too deep
already.

I pour a palm full of lavender-mint scented
shampoo in my cupped hand and rub my palms together before plunging
my fingers back into Blake’s thick hair. I drag my nails through,
then rub several small clockwise circles into his temples and
forehead and across the crown of his head before reversing
directions, working up a lather. I massage the base of his neck,
and my spine floods with ice as he groans in satisfaction. I clench
my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering as I lightly pinch each
earlobe and slowly slide my fingers around the perimeter of his
ears. Finally I draw my fingers back through his hair from the nape
of his neck to his hairline, and a final rumbling growl escapes his
lips.

I lean closer to his ear so he can hear me
over the roar of the water and say, “Bend over.” He obediently
shifts closer to the tub, and I run my hands repeatedly through his
wet strands, cleansing the creamy white suds from his hair under
the hot water.

The room is consumed with a daunting silence
when I shut off the water. I lean back over Blake, my denim-clad
thighs pressed against his naked back as I squeeze his hair between
my fingers to press out the excess water. I reach behind me for the
worn navy towel Blake placed on the edge of the sink, then pivot
back around and drape the opened towel around his neck. I scrub at
the back of his head, then place my hands lightly on his muscular
shoulders and pull him backward, motioning for him to sit up. When
I get down on my knees next to him and turn his head to face me, I
try my best to ignore the look of longing on his face as I finish
drying the front of his hair.

“Okay,” I say, my voice coming out as barely
more than a whisper. “Up on the stool.”

He holds my gaze a moment longer, then pushes
off the side of the tub, the muscles of his toned upper body
flexing as he rises slowly to his full height. He looks down at me
once more before taking a seat on the toilet. His damp hair sticks
up all over his head, calling to mind a lion’s mane.

Determined to confine my thoughts to the task
at hand, I place my hands on either side of his jaw and tug perhaps
a touch too roughly to square his head. He looks up at me from
beneath his dark eyelashes but doesn’t move his head from the
position I’ve placed it in. I draw a ragged breath and grab the
fine-toothed comb from the sink. I comb all of Blake’s hair away
from his face, then take a step back.

“How do you want it?” I ask.

He swallows while continuing to hold his head
perfectly still. “Just a trim,” he says, his voice thick with some
type of emotion. “Do it however you normally would.”

I wield my scissors over his head,
contemplating. Blake’s hair is nothing like my dad’s… But it’s too
late to back down now. Slowly I comb up a section of hair, lower
the shears and begin to snip.

Blake – Sunday, September 23, 2:15 PM

W
hen I first
approached Rhiannon at the park earlier she seemed guarded. Seeing
her respond to me that way, like she was wary of me, made me hate
myself a little. I wanted to ask her if I make her uncomfortable,
but I was afraid the question would make her even more so. I was
taking a gamble when I asked her to come back to my apartment with
me, considering she seems to be making a real effort to put some
distance between us, but the relief I felt when she agreed was the
best rush I’ve had since before I broke the news to her about
Jordan.

I know I’m probably going straight to hell
for how much I enjoyed having her wash my hair, but for now I can’t
really say I care. Let’s just say Rhiannon is a woman of many, many
talents, and she seems to be aware of only a fraction of them. My
mind was going completely insane envisioning all the things I
wanted to do to her while she had her hands buried in my hair.
Then, having her bent over me, sizing me up from every angle with
that adorable, scrutinizing look while she started cutting, I felt
as if my heart was beating so loudly she could undoubtedly hear its
ricochet inside my ribcage. I only wish I could tell whether she’s
as affected by me as I am by her. She’s so unreadable
sometimes…

When she’s finished she fluffs my mostly-dry
strands between her fingers and tousles the hair on top of my head
a little. I close my eyes, wanting to nudge further into her open
hand like a damn cat. She takes a step back and looks at me, then
uses her fingertips to turn my chin and inspect her handiwork from
both sides. “See what you think,” she says finally.