More Than Water (11 page)

Watching him lying there without saying a word, I try to wrap my mind around how or why we slept together last night. Sure, he’s got that sexy-when-naked thing going, but he’s definitely not like anyone I’ve ever been with before.

However, for some odd reason, I was all about jumping his bones last night.

Can a girl just blame it on alcohol and call it a day?

But that’s not reality or fair. I was making conscious decisions.

Trying not to overanalyze it, I finish zipping and fastening my pants and then creep back toward the bed, hoping to find my bra and shirt. Scanning all around, I spy my top at the corner of the mattress, and my bra is wrapped around Foster’s leg.

What are the odds?

“Hey?” Foster grumbles, rubbing his palm across his jaw and righting himself in the bed.

I sit back on my heels and cover my chest, feeling utterly exposed in the daylight. “Hey. Um…I need to get going. I, um…I have to get to the studio.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He rubs his forehead. “Okay.”

Based on his lack of vocabulary, he’s not in tip-top shape this morning either.

I pull my bra away from his legs, gather my shirt, and walk toward the other side of the room. Turning my back to him in order to have some privacy, I hastily put on my bra and pull my shirt over my head, stretching the hem downward to cover my hips. I turn back around to say good-bye.

Foster has extracted himself from bed, already put on his boxers, and is now slipping into his pants. I hate to admit it, but a topless Foster is pretty easy on the eyes, but I avert mine so not to ogle. This is awkward enough.

“Well…” I say, my voice thick with lingering alcohol. “I’m gonna get going.”

Foster adjusts the shirt over his torso and then reaches for his glasses on a nearby side table. “Let me drive you home.”

“No, that’s okay. I can walk.”

“Just let me take you.” He picks up a set of keys from the bureau.

“Nah, I’m good. I always walk in the mornings anyhow,” I lie through my teeth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I exit out of his room, not allowing the conversation to continue.

Foster silently escorts me down the length of the apartment, passing another bedroom on the left. I find my shoes, purse, and jacket along the way.

I barely remember anything about this place. I don’t know if I was completely hammered or just really focused on getting laid.

Opening the door, I step out into the building’s hallway. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yeah.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek, sending a tingle through every nerve in my body. This must be part of the one-night-stand formality. “See you Monday.”

I nod my head and then descend the stairs. When I reach the first floor of the building, I open the door and follow the path from the courtyard to the sidewalk. I hook a left to find a street sign. At the corner, I take comfort in recognizing the name of the street, knowing that I have to tread only about five or six blocks before I’m home.

With my arms wrapped around my waist, I bank a right and head up the hill toward my neighborhood, pondering the entire time whether my actions last night were a mistake, a rite of passage, or something else altogether.

Foster and I are friends, colleagues, and different in so many ways. I wonder if last night has changed all of that and what we will be once Monday comes.

Ever since my photography class let out over an hour ago, I haven’t left Wolfgang’s side. He’s currently in the middle of prepping for a final in an upper-level art class, doing research at the design library, while I pretend to view and study compositions for our photography class final. The assignment is to do a series that directly negates our last project. Since mine was water, I’m pursuing images of fire.

In less than thirty minutes, my shift will begin at the engineering library. This will be the first time I see Foster since we did the ole in and out, bump and grind, hitting of the nasties.

Since we had sex.

After leaving Foster’s apartment early Saturday morning, I stayed in my room all day, only coming out to see Chandra as she left on another date with Jeremy. I claimed to be a bit under the weather, which wasn’t a huge stretch since I was nursing a hangover.

Come Sunday, I was feeling much better, and after completing some homework, I ventured to the studio, laying crimson and blue hues on a large canvas for no reason other than a desire to create and paint. It was my own personal therapy to make sense of my actions.

When three hours had passed and I had painted until my arm was sore, the final conclusion on my sexfest was that it was fun and that my budding friendship with Foster would likely be over after that night because, at the end of the day, I didn’t care for him like a girlfriend should. To me, he was still just Fozzie, platonic Fozzie. No matter how great the boink-o-rama evening was, I just didn’t have those love feelings toward him.

Peeking at my phone, I note the time and begin to gather my things, preparing to leave for my shift.

“Off so soon?” Wolfgang asks.

I shove my book into my bag. “Yeah, I need to get to work. My shift starts in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he says, rising from his seat and closing a book. “I need to get out of this place. My head is beginning to hurt.”

We put on our coats, and exit the library into the dark evening. The sun always sets earlier this time of year, nearing December.

About halfway to the engineering library, Wolfgang asks, “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” I respond, adjusting my bag higher up my shoulder. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been off today. Barely said a word. It’s so unlike you. Was the trip back home not that great?”

“No, it was predictable, just like I said. I came back early because my family had other plans, and I didn’t feel like sticking around.”

“Is that normal? You don’t talk about your family much. I just figured you had normal child-parent issues with them.”

“You could say that.”

“Did something happen?”

The engineering library comes into view, and my heartbeat quickens, anxiety setting in.

“Yeah, something like that.” Sighing, I stop in place, staring at the entrance. “But not with my parents. I slept with my coworker.”

His head does a quick snap in my direction. “Say what?”

“Over the weekend, I had sex with the guy I work with,” I admit, tilting my head in the direction of my workplace. “I had too much to drink, and we have to work together and—”

“You got some. Congratulations.”

“Wolfie…”

“What? Do you like him?”

“He’s nice.” I lift my shoulder. “Not really my type. He’s kind of geeky but nice.”

“But do you like him?” he asks again.

I hem and haw and then say, “No, not like that.”

“So then, it was just one night of fun.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, giving unintentional sex less thought than ordering a latte. “We all do it.”

“I never have,” I admit. “This was kind of a first for me.”

“You popped your one-nighter cherry?” He laughs. “I thought you had done it all.”

I smack his arm when he won’t stop chuckling. “It’s not funny. We work together.”

“That’s going to be awkward. Do you think he likes you? Most dudes get over it pretty quickly as long as their dick got action.”

My eyes roll so hard that I might have come close to giving myself a lobotomy. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

“It’s the truth. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Then, why are you freaking out?” Wolfgang covers his mouth with his hand. “Oh God, is he, like, that ugly, fat guy you keep a secret but is really great in the sack? I had one of those once.”

“Shut up!” I laugh. “No. And you did not.”

“Sure did. Sophomore year. Best head of my life, but good Lord, I couldn’t take him on a date even for takeout. He was not pretty.”

“You’re terrible.” I shake my head. “I had no idea you were so shallow.”

“Eh, it was a phase. I would never do that again. I actually felt guilty about the whole thing once we finally called it quits.”

“Good. You should have.”

“So, is that the thing? He’s ugly, isn’t he?” He begins to walk hastily toward the door. “I gotta see this guy.”

“Wolfie!” I shout in protest, chasing after him. “Stop. No.”

He opens the entrance. “Oh, now, I really have to take a look.”

My friend races through the hall, turning at the bust of the famous engineer, and comes to an abrupt halt at the library’s glass doors. I catch up to him, pausing at his side, finding Foster standing at the check-out desk, sorting through a pile of books.

“Is that him?” questions Wolfgang.

“Yeah,” I say reluctantly. “His name’s Foster.”

“Foster? Well, isn’t he all proper?” He examines Foster for a few moments. “Hello, Mr. Foxy Man with Spectacles. I wouldn’t mind a one-nighter with him. Fill that geek-chic bucket-list fantasy.”

“Oh. My. Gawd.” I giggle. “Can we focus on my dilemma?”

“I don’t see the issue. You two had sex. Get over it, and he will, too. Don’t make it a bigger deal than it really is. Move on. Or not. He’s hot.” His lips tighten. “That shirt he’s wearing is doing all kinds of good things to showcase his chest and arms. I might have to give him a whirl myself. He’s got a good body under all that cotton, doesn’t he?” He cocks his head. “I wish that damn desk wasn’t in the way, so I could get a good look at his ass.”

I grunt, frustrated that my friend is of no help. I thought for sure he would have had some reasonable guidance. Instead, he’s adding the guy from my tryst into his spank bank.

“Stop trying to stare at his ass,” I chide.

“Well, if you’re not interested…maybe I can convince him to come and play with me.”

“Stop it. He’s not your type, and he’s totally not my type. The guy lives and breathes the periodic table of elements.” I sigh. “How am I supposed to go about this?”

Foster lifts his head, peering toward us, as Wolfgang and I are gawking at him from the other side of the glass door. Foster adjusts the bridge of his glasses, and his expression goes blank.

At my side, Wolfgang slides an arm over my shoulder, and before I have a chance to react, he’s kissing me—full-on lip-to-lip, caressing-my-face kissing me.

It takes a few seconds before my brain registers what’s happening to my body. The fact that my gay friend has decided to give girls, namely me, another try at this moment in time without my consent is not exactly what I was expecting.

I push him off of me, wiping my mouth with the tips of my fingers. “What in the hell was that all about?”

“I was helping you with your problem.” He tilts his head toward the library desk.

Foster disappears into the back room.

“Great.”

“Well, now, you don’t have to worry about him asking you out—you know, since you were sucking face with me.”

“Not the best solution.”

“Hey, I was just trying to help.”

I elbow him in the ribs. “That’s not helping. Kissing is what got me into this mess in the first place.”

“I think it was a little more than kissing.”

“No kidding.”

Leaving Wolfgang’s side, I make my way through the glass doors and into the library. It’s early in the evening, our busiest time of the shift, and with finals just around the corner, I expect it to remain this way until the end of the quarter.

At the front desk, I drop my bag into a cubby and check myself into the computer system. Before I take a seat and get situated, a student asks for assistance in finding a missing volume on the shelves. I guide her to where it should be, locate the book on the opposite shelf, and then return to the information area where Foster is actively engaged in aiding another student. I sort through a short stack of books, and then I’m pulled from my work again to assist another person.

This goes on for the next hour, busily assisting students with their searches and assignments. Foster and I exchange a few words here and there, but they’re completely work-related. There’s a bit of formalness to our interactions, but otherwise, any awkwardness is shadowed by the hustle and bustle.

When the room finally begins to settle down, Foster and I are seated next to one another for the first time since I arrived, and the nerves commence. It appears that everyone within view is occupied, so I open up the drop-off area and process some of the returns to keep my hands busy.

I’m waiting for the inevitable
real
talk, the one that I keep telling myself won’t be a big deal, but for some reason, it has me full of trepidation.

Silence screams between the two of us.

“So, how was your weekend?” I ask, breaking the ice, setting a pile of books on the desk.

His hand stills over the mouse, but he doesn’t reply.

“Mine was great,” I continue, straightening a stack of manuals full of information that I will never understand. “Thanks for asking. The holiday was typical—you know, all the usual family crap, but nothing out of the ordinary. Upside though, I did get laid. How about you?”

Foster pushes away from the desk, spins the chair, and crosses his arms over his waist. I pull out the last of the books from deposit and place them on the desk, waiting for him to say something. The look on his face is so serious and stoic that I wonder if I went too far, making light of our situation.