Bi-Partisan, page 16
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I grimace. “Shoot, sorry, darlin’. I got a little ahead of myself there. You probably wanted to talk about something. What’s up?”
“Oh, uh, it was just something that happened at work today, but you know what? It’s nothing,” he says, although by the distressed tone in his voice, I can tell it is absolutely not nothing.
“It doesn’t sound like it was nothing,” I say, suddenly serious. “What happened?”
“Really, it’s not a big deal. You’ve been really busy lately and deserve a night off, and I don’t want to bring your mood down. I’ll be fine.”
That makes my heart clench. “Darlin’, don’t worry about me. I’m here if you need to talk.”
“I’ll be fine,” he repeats. “Enjoy your lasagna and your night off.” Then, the line goes dead.
I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it for a moment with a frown. I’m tempted to call him back and pry whatever it is out of him, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough over the past five or so months to know that’s not the right move. Actually, what I want to do most is give him a hug and sit with him until he’s ready to talk.
Fuck it, why don’t I? I’ve never shown up at his place unannounced before, but I can give it a shot, right? Worst case scenario, he tells me to leave. Best case scenario, I get to spend my evening with him, eating dinner and snuggling with his cats and (hopefully) him. Before I can overthink it, I push myself off the counter and press the button to cancel the preheat on my oven.
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m knocking on Adrian’s apartment door, with a foil covered metal tray in one hand and a reusable shopping bag with the frozen garlic bread and a bottle of wine I picked up slung over my shoulder. I wait for a moment, then hear the sound of locks clicking.
The door swings open, and Adrian stands there looking adorable, if not a little seasonally inappropriate, in his plaid pajama pants and fuzzy cardigan. He also has a confused furrow in his brow. “Jamie?”
“I come bearing lasagna,” I say, holding up the tray. “Can I come in?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, still looking a little confused, and I’m worried I’m about to encounter the worst case scenario. But then he nods and steps aside.
The tension quickly leaves my shoulders as I step inside. Now that I’m inside his apartment, the sweater in July makes a lot more sense. He keeps it almost like a tundra in here. But I’m mostly used to it since my parents kept the house the same way growing up. I toe off my shoes before heading straight for the kitchen.
Adrian follows me, but stops in the doorway. He watches me for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest, as I set the lasagna down on the stove and start unloading the bag.
“I hope you don’t mind that I still have to cook it. Although, it’s thawed a bit now since I took it out when I got home around five, so hopefully it won’t take as long.” Since he still hasn’t said anything, I set his oven to preheat. “I also have garlic bread, so if you can point me in the direction of a baking sheet—”
“Jamie, what are you doing here?” he blurts.
“Making lasagna,” I say, although it comes out a little more like a question.
“Jamie.”
At that, I turn to face him. “You sounded upset on the phone, but you wouldn’t talk to me. So, here I am.”
He frowns a little. “But why?”
“I care about you,” I murmur.
“But your plans—”
“Being here for you trumps my plans to rewatch The West Wing for the millionth time.”
“You said you had reading you needed to get done.”
“I can do it tomorrow.”
In the time it takes me to blink, he closes the distance and wraps his arms around my shoulders. I let out a quiet hum of surprise, but then I circle my arms around his waist and hold him close. The small part of me that was worried showing up unannounced would be a bad idea is effectively quieted. Based on the way he holds me a little tighter when my hand comes up to cradle his head, it seems like it was exactly what he needed. Although, now that I’m here, I can’t help but wonder why he called me instead of Casey or even Sophie. He said whatever he wanted to talk about was work related, and since she works with him, she’d probably be much better at understanding what has him so bothered.
I’m not going to complain, though. Even if it’s because he’s upset, I’ll take any excuse to see Adrian at this point.
After about a minute, he pulls back a little, but his arms stay locked around my back.
“So do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask gently.
“I essentially lost a patient today,” he says.
My heart sinks. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Well, technically, the patient isn’t gone yet, but they’re a nineteen-year-old cat with renal failure. Their owner has been doing whatever they can to keep them comfortable, but they’re starting to go downhill faster. At their latest visit, their owner asked me…” He pauses for a moment, so I stroke his back to encourage him to continue. “Well, they basically asked me if it was time to let go. And it’s not like I could say yes because that’s not really my decision ultimately, but…”
“You basically told them it was,” I finish for him.
“In so many words, yeah.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It’s unfortunately part of my job to have these difficult conversations with pet parents from time to time, and yes, they’re difficult, but usually I’m okay. But this girl is barely out of college. She’s had this cat for as long as she can remember. Also according to Sophie, she was a military kid—” He lets out a frustrated sigh and stares at a spot past my head. “I feel like maybe if I were better at my job, I wouldn’t be as affected by this.”
“You identified with her a little. It’s understandable, and that doesn’t mean you’re bad at your job. It means you’re human.” I lift a hand to cup his cheek to bring his attention to me and barely stop myself from breaking into an inappropriate smile when he leans into the touch. “You’re a compassionate and empathetic person. It’s what makes you good at your job. If anything, I’d be worried about the day when something like this doesn’t affect you at all.”
He takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly. “You’re right.”
“I know,” I say lightly, earning a huffed laugh. I brush my thumb along his cheekbone, then pull him into another hug.
Within seconds, he’s melting against me with a small exhale of relief. “Thank you,” he mumbles.
“You’re welcome,” I mumble back. Then, without really thinking, I turn my head and press a kiss to the side of his head.
He lets out a soft, little sound and buries his face in my neck. “Sorry if I ruined your plans.”
“You didn’t. Like I said, I was just going to be eating lasagna by myself and continue watching West Wing for the millionth time. Being here for you is much more important and a better way to spend my time.”
“We could still do that, if you wanted,” he suggests before pulling back enough to look at me.
“I’d love that. Although, we could watch something else, if you’d prefer,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I like West Wing. What episode are you on?”
“The turkey pardoning.”
“I love that episode. My mom used to put it on every Thanksgiving while she was cooking.”
I chuckle. “I’ll get the lasagna started if you want to go queue it up?”
He nods, then slowly untangles himself from our embrace. “Baking sheets are in the bottom cabinet next to the stove.”
“Thanks, darlin’.”
I get out two baking sheets, one for the lasagna tray and one for the garlic bread, and set them up so they’re ready to go when it’s time. Then, I pull the wine bottle—one with a screw top—out of the bag and open it. Also, thankfully, I remember where Adrian keeps his wine glasses from the last time I was here, so I pull out two glasses with a Boordy Winery logo etched on the side. At his birthday, I’d asked about the winery, which apparently he and Casey spent at least a few weekends at during their time at Towson—because of course they went to wineries while the rest of their peers went to frat parties and tailgated at football games. That, of course, led to half a dozen stories about college Adrian, which I think were supposed to be embarrassing but only endeared him more to me.
I grab the two glasses in one hand, and the bottle in the other, and head out to the living room to find the episode already pulled up on the screen.
“You brought wine?” he asks as I set the bottle and glasses down.
I sit and start to pour us each a glass. “I wasn’t sure what kind of bad day at work you were having. It’s a riesling, which doesn’t really go with lasagna, but I know you like it.”
He smiles softly and takes the wine from my outstretched hand. “Thank you, I do. But doesn’t wine set off your reflux?”
“So does tomato sauce, so I’m just playing fast and loose with my ability to sleep tonight,” I joke.
As I take a sip, I see him leveling me with an unamused and concerned look.
I soften and set the glass on the coffee table. “I’m just joking, darlin’. I already took a preventative antacid, don’t worry.”
My assurance only seems to smooth out the worried crease between his eyebrows a little, though.
The oven beeps, and I go to stand. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll get it,” he says, resting a hand on my leg to prevent me from moving. “How long does it need to go in for?”
“About forty minutes, but set the timer for thirty-five minutes so we can put the garlic bread in at the end,” I instruct.
With a nod, he stands, and I settle into the couch. I sit on the end so I can lean on the arm, then stretch my arm along the back of the couch. Because the AC is a little chilly, I pull a woven throw blanket off the back of the couch and drape it on my lap. Almost instantly, Joseph lifts his head from where he was asleep on the cat tree, then jumps down and scampers over. The cat jumps into my lap just as Adrian comes back from the kitchen.
He laughs and sits next to me, his neck brushing my forearm. “That’s his favorite blanket,” he says, which explains the pulled threads. “Are you cold? I can turn the AC down. I usually like to keep it cold so I can still wear sweaters, but—”
“No, I’m fine with a blanket. It’s cozy,” I say, smiling as Joseph settles on my lap.
Adrian smiles back and scoots a little closer, which gives me the courage to drape my arm around his shoulder and pull him in.
Chapter 18
Adrian
Song: Constant Knot – City & Color
Ten o’clock creeps up a lot faster than I’d like it to. I didn’t expect to lose track of the passing time like I did, but I’ve been so relaxed tucked under Jamie’s arm. I can’t even remember the last time I cuddled with someone (not Casey or Sophie) without sex immediately preceding it. I think I kind of love it, though. It makes me feel safe, cared for, which I desperately needed after my day at work.
I surprised myself when Jamie was the first call I made when I got home today. But ever since Casey told me to “shoot my shot”, I’ve started letting him in more. At pride last month, I barely hesitated to reciprocate his affection while we were in public. I find myself reaching for my phone to tell him little things about my day a lot more frequently. And when I had to tell that poor girl that there wasn’t much else we could do for her oldest companion, the only person I wanted to seek comfort in was Jamie.
Of course, I chickened out the moment he answered the phone, all happy to finally have an evening off after working so hard the past month and a half. But in typical Jamie fashion, he showed up at my door with lasagna and wine, ready to try to make my day better. It’s something a real boyfriend would do, not a fake one. Although, I have to admit this is starting to feel less and less fake by the day.
The credits roll on the fourth episode of The West Wing we’ve watched, and he presses pause to prevent it from auto-playing the next one. Reluctantly, I extricate myself from under his arm.
He yawns and stretches a little. “I should probably get going,” he says, although it sounds like that’s the last thing he wants to do, if I’m not reading into it.
But I nod anyway and stand to walk him to the door. Instead of bending to slip on his shoes, he reaches forward and grabs my hand.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.
I do my best to smile. “Yeah, I’m already feeling better. Thank you.”
“Of course.” He squeezes my hand for a brief moment, then goes to pull away, presumably to put his shoes on so he can leave.
Except I don’t want him to leave. I didn’t want him to leave the last time we were standing here by my door, either. Or the time before that, if I’m being truly honest with myself. I just convinced myself of the opposite because it was the safer option. I’ve lived my life picking the safer option, avoiding things that could hurt me—people that could hurt me—and pretending I’m happier that way. But I’m not. So screw it, why shouldn’t I just let myself have this?
I tighten my grasp on his hand and croak out a quiet, “Stay.”
He looks at me, his usually emotionally-transparent face unreadable.
“I don’t want you to go,” I say with more conviction. Then I take a deep breath and take a step closer. “Stay the night. Please.”
His breath catches. “Are you sure?”
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you,” I say, barely above a whisper.
A ghost of a smile passes over his lips. “I’m tired of pretending, too.”
“So you’ll stay the night?” I ask, needing the clarification.
His hand cups my cheek. “I’ll stay for however long you want me to, sweetheart.”
Of course, just when I thought I’d gotten at least semi-immune to the effect “darlin’” had on me, he breaks out a new pet name. One that makes me a little weak in the knees, and all I can do is lean in and kiss him. It reminds me of our first kiss, gentle and slow. Except this time, there’s a familiarity to it, and not just because we’ve done this before. I’ve had my fair share of recurring hook-ups and friends with benefits, where the newness fades into familiarity with the other person’s body. This is different. I know Jamie’s mind and he knows mine.
With a sigh, I try to deepen the kiss, taking my free hand and pressing it to the middle of his back to bring him closer. He smiles against my lips, and I think I’m a little obsessed with it. But after a few seconds, he pulls away. He studies my face for a moment, still smiling, before returning his lips to mine with renewed fervor. His hand slips into my hair, fingers tangling with the strands as he pours the last five months of tension into the kiss. His tongue flicks at the seam of my lips, coaxing me to open to him, and I follow him willingly.
A voice in the back of my mind tells me to take control, like I always do with sex. But it’s the same voice that always tells me not to let anyone get close, so I shove it down. I don’t need to take control right now. I’ve always done it in the past because it helps me maintain a sort of emotional distance during an objectively emotionally-charged act. It helps that some people like it, too—Jamie did, especially. But he also seems to want to take the lead, and I want to let him. I don’t want to put up that emotional wall between us.
His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling gently in a way that sends shivers down my spine and makes me break the kiss with a small gasp.
“Sorry, is this okay?” he asks.
I nod. More than. “Take me to bed?”
“We should clean up first,” he says. When I grumble in protest, he chuckles and presses a quick kiss to my lips. “Go head in. I’ll deal with leftovers and meet you in there.”
I nod, and after he gives me another quick kiss, this time to my cheek, drag myself away to my bedroom.
I wasn’t expecting anyone over, so my bed isn’t made and there’s a pile of not quite clean but also not dirty clothes on the chair in the corner. The room is otherwise relatively clean, though. Molly is curled up on one of the pillows as usual, having long won the war of whether she’s allowed to sleep on the sheets. But I definitely don’t want her on the sheets, or in the room at all, once Jamie gets in here, so I scoop her up and give her a snuggle in an attempt to prevent her from sensing she’s about to be kicked out. It fails, of course, because when I pad back into the living room to set her on the cat tree, she glares at me.
“Don’t glare at me,” I say, a little indignant. “I don’t want you watching like a creepy little voyeur.”
“Are you talking to your cat?”
I turn to find him by the coffee table, turning off the TV.
“Yes?” I feel my cheeks heat a little at being caught.
But he just grins. “Cute. Now come on,” he says as he rounds the table to take my hand and lead me back to the bedroom.
The moment we cross the threshold, he turns and pulls me into him. His fingers dip under my sweater, lightly trailing across my skin. “How do you want to do this?”
“However you want to. I know last time I took the lead, but now that I know I’m the first guy you’ve been with—”
“Darlin’, I liked that you took charge. A lot,” he says with emphasis.
The corner of my mouth lifts in a small smirk. “Yeah, I know.”
“Then how do you want to do this?” he asks again. “I want to make you feel good.”
Heat licks up my spine, and I’m tempted to crush my lips against his and tell him exactly how good he is. But I hold my ground, telling him gently, “I promise whatever you want or feel comfortable doing, I will enjoy it. So I want you to take the lead this time. Tell me what you want.”
