Can't Always Get What You Want (10 page)

“You seemed a bit out of it earlier tonight.”

Do I tell him? No, too risky.

“I just had a bad day at work, and wanted a glass of wine to unwind. Guess I got carried away. It just seemed worse because it was on an empty stomach.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? It’s the truth.”

Well, kind of.

“And just so you know, I’m embarrassed about it. I never, ever do that,” I say.

“You want to talk about what upset you at work?”

“With
you
?” I sputter.

Oh no, that sounded really,
really
bad. I look over and see him wince.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I wouldn’t want to burden you. It was just a crap day, and that’s all there is to it. But I appreciate your asking,” I say gently.

It seems to placate him, but I wonder if I’ve hurt his feelings.

We watch the movie, and I feel an unexpected frisson of excitement run through me. I can’t even remember the last time I sat this close on a couch with anyone, let alone someone this handsome and charming.

I take in his posture, and notice that the arm closest to me looks cramped. What would he do if I wrapped it around my shoulders? And snuggled in a little closer?

Aaron’s resurrected memory has shattered me, and I’m aching for someone to just hold me. I gently pick up his arm, lean forward, and drape it around my shoulders.

He seems a bit startled when I move him, but he doesn’t stop me. I snuggle back in, and exhale deeply. This is exactly what I need.

We’re still for a moment. I don’t think either of us is even watching the TV. My heart is knocking in my chest, and I feel the corners of my mouth lift. What does he think of all this?

Seconds later, he squeezes me to him in a small side hug, and gently kisses the top of my head. There have never been so many butterflies in my stomach.

I relax into our new position, and feel his head resting on mine. I breathe in his scent. That now familiar, heady mixture of cologne, sweat, wood chips, and pheromones. It’s intoxicating.

How could my head have been so mixed up earlier? Being here feels so right. I never expected to feel this way again. And it’s wonderful.

—

“Wake up, Soph. The movie is over.”

Groggily, my eyes obey. I note that it’s 2
A.M
. and the credits of
Wayne’s World
are rolling. Shame, I missed the mega-happy ending!

Brett groans and unwraps his arm from around me so he can stretch. I feel really cold without him. “Sorry for falling asleep,” I murmur.

“No problem,” he says while tucking a stray hair behind my ears.

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

“So much for the friends thing, huh?” he asks.

“Are you not my friend anymore?”

“Of course I am.”

“Friends don’t cuddle on couches. Or mention hot asses.”

He chuckles lightly at this, grinning at me through his eyelashes.

“Indeed.”

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask.

“You can count on it.”

I walk him to the door, start to say good night, when I remember…

“Your jacket! Let me go get it.”

Reaching my room, I locate his coat lying on my bed. I turn to leave…and walk right into him. I didn’t know he’d followed me. His body is muscular and solid, as though I’ve hit a brick wall.

“Here’s your jacket,” I say feebly.

Brett’s eyes rove around my room, and he half frowns in an amused way.

“It’s not how I pictured it.”

He’s been picturing my bedroom?

“What did you think it would look like?”

He wanders around, inspecting knickknacks, the bedspread, the pictures on the wall. I hope he doesn’t spot the dirty underwear that didn’t quite make it to the hamper.

“Don’t worry; I think it suits you fine. I just thought you’d have more bright colors or something. You’re such a bright, sunny person. I suppose I pictured your room yellow or orange.”

Brett thinks I’m sunny? Today I haven’t felt sunny at all. Mostly overcast.

“Yuck to orange,” I spit out.

He shoots me a wry expression. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Oh no. What if orange is his favorite color and I’ve just insulted him?

“Erm, well, orange is nice. In its own way.”

“Don’t worry; it’s not my favorite color. Mine is blue.”

“How stereotypical ‘guy’ of you.” I hand him his coat and walk with him to the front door.

“I hate to see you go, but I need my beauty sleep.” I yawn.

“No you don’t, you’re already beautiful.”

What is he trying to do, kill me? My heart is all aflutter. I hope I don’t go into AFib.

“By the way,” he says. “Who is Aaron?”

My heart stops fluttering.

“W-what?”

“You said something about Aaron in your sleep.”

Oh no, oh no, oh no…

“Oh, well…”

How do I explain that? Why open that can of worms if I don’t even know where this is headed? Better to play it safe.

“It was a patient I took care of today. I was really worried about him; I guess it must be playing on my mind.”

I shift on my feet, knotting my fingers.

Brett seems to buy it. He briefly kisses my forehead. He looks so happy.

I was too, a minute ago.

“Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He flashes me a sexy parting smile, and leaves. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep now.

Chapter 8

Tattoo You

Who is Aaron?

The question repeats in my mind all night long. I know so much about Aaron, and yet, how can you ever really define a person with a word?

Aaron. Smart. Handsome. Heartbreaking.

But none of those words capture who he is. Not entirely.

I curl up on my side, and press my blanket to my chest.

I miss you.

September 25, 2008

“You need some help with your bags?” Aaron’s voice calls after me. Turning around, I see that he has followed me out of the grocery store. I’ve never felt such a visceral attraction toward anyone in my whole life. Tall, lean—and those eyes. They are pale green, sparkling, and also a little sad.

He’s carrying his own grocery bags, his tattooed forearms flexing from the strain. He glides up to me with long, confident steps and stands a bit too close for comfort. A raw, sexual energy emanates from him.

Good Lord…

He waits for a moment to see if I’ll say anything, and then flashes a wide grin. His canine teeth are slightly prominent, giving him an overall very wolfish appearance.

These plastic grocery bags are cutting into my hands. Argh, why did Nita ask us to bring home so much food? Maybe I should invest in one of those grocery carriers on wheels I see little old grannies toting around town? Then again, maybe not.

Wait, what? I think he just said something.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

He laughs. “I said, do you live close by?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, are you planning to walk all the way home with four heavy grocery bags?”

“No, I’m taking the LRT home.”

He takes two bags from me, while also carrying his own small purchase, and we walk in the direction of the LRT station.

“Thanks, Aaron.”

Hmm. I like the way his name sounds, rolling off my tongue.

“So, Sophie. Tell me all about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know everything about you,” he says matter-of-factly.

I laugh nervously. “What’s so interesting about me?”

“You fascinate me,” he says, glancing down at me with a cute shy smile.

Did I hear him right?

The hottest guy in the world tells me I’m fascinating, and now I have no idea of what to say back.

“Come on. Tell me just one thing about you,” he says.

At that moment, we pass by a poster advertising an upcoming football game.

“I’ve never been to a football game.”

He smirks. “Good to know. Anything else?”

“I want to travel when I’m done with school.”

“What are you taking?”

“General studies.”

“Not sure what you want to be when you grow up, eh?”

I snort derisively. “All I know is that I want a job that I really, really love. I just have no idea of what that is yet.”

He nods, and makes a “Go on” motion with his hands.

He’s not going to let up, is he? Smiling, I resign myself to this rather fun interrogation.

“Umm, I love books. And the Rolling Stones. And I never, ever pick up guys at Safeway by smashing their hands.”

“The Stones, eh? I’ve always been more of a Beatles fan.”

He
did not
just say that!

“Then we were never meant to be,” I reply, grinning.

“So how do you normally ‘pick up guys’ then?”

“I don’t. I’m a stay-at-home-and-read-a-book kind of girl.”

“That seems to fit you. You’ve got that sexy-librarian thing going on.”

I glance down at my light blue blouse, black pencil skirt, and black ballet flats. I guess it is a little librariane
sque. All I need now are thick glasses and a glare I can throw at noisy children.

“And you? I imagine you’re swimming in pickup attempts,” I say.

“I’d say the same about you,” he adds quietly, his brow furrowed.

He puzzles me so much. How can he be so disarmingly confident one moment, and shy and unsure the next? I don’t know what to make of him.

“I’m sure every guy notices you,” he says.

“Oh yeah right,” I say, blushing.

Change the subject, change the subject.

“So, tell me about you,” I say.

He’s quiet. Did he hear me?

“My last name is Page,” he eventually says. He almost sounds surprised that I’d be interested in knowing about him. “I’m from Ontario. I moved out here this summer to finish my degree. I’m getting my BA in linguistics. That’s about it.”

I highly doubt that’s all there is to him.

And linguistics? I would have expected something more artistic, like music studies or drama. He just looks like that type.

I don’t know what a linguist is supposed to look like, but I certainly never pictured anyone with a ton of tattoos.

Hmm…Aaron. Aaron Page.

Moments later, we arrive at the station. I’m surprised at how the time has flown. Our fingers brush when he returns my grocery bags.

“Well, this is me. Thanks for your help.”

A sense of loss washes over me as I search for a seat. Am I ever going to see him again?

“That’s it?”

I turn around and see him leaning casually against the LRT door frame.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You’d just walk away after all my best attempts at flirting? The palpable sexual tension?” He’s grinning wickedly now.

Sexual tension?
With ME!?

Okay, play it cool. Play. It. Cool.

“I say we leave it up to fate. If we’re meant to see each other again, then we will.”

Aaron looks at me for a moment.

“Fuck fate.”

Euphoria nearly bursts my chest open. He steps into the cabin and the doors snap behind him. He’s seated next to me for several moments before I think of anything to say. And even when I think of something, I can’t quite spit it out.

I’m too intimidated to look at his face, so I focus on his forearms. I’ve never seen such exquisitely detailed tattoos before, a bright swirl of animals, water, and leaves. They must have cost a fortune. He has black script on each inner forearm, but his arms are crossed so I can’t read them.

“What do your tattoos mean?”

He glances down at his arms, and stretches them outward.

“It’s the Garden of Eden,” he replies. His voice has a deep, musical quality.

“Are you religious?”

“Not particularly. Although I do believe God exists, and that we’re all here because of Him. But, I’m not a Holy Roller or anything.”

“Then why cover yourself with a biblical story?”

He’s thoughtful for a moment, and I take the opportunity to glance up at him. He notices me anyway, and flashes a sideways grin.

“I chose it because it represents perfection. What life could have been, before corruption. It’s about wanting an ideal, but never ever being able to attain it. About what life could have been, and should have been, but can never be. It’s bittersweet, and for that reason, it’s beautiful.”

Wow.

I knew he was gorgeous, but sometimes pretty people aren’t very deep puddles, so I hadn’t expected much.

“What’s written on your forearms?”

He stretches his left arm across me, barring me in my seat. His breath and the scent of his skin mingle under my nose, and I feel a bit light-headed.

“I have a different quote on each arm. Both are written in three languages.”

Sure enough, three lines of neat black script are on each arm. The top lines are in English. On his left forearm, he has written:

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

And on his right forearm:

The true paradises are the paradises that we have lost.

Why are those quotes significant to him? I’m tempted to ask, but I’m afraid to pry. I don’t know him that well. Yet.