Abby
I look at him, shocked and uneasy -- that strange fluttering in my stomach is back and my heart has tachycardic rhythm. Is my blood pressure high? Do I have hyperthyroid?
I shake my head. I’m pretty healthy.
I’m still trying to comprehend what just happened, but I’m kinda clueless as he doesn’t give me a second glance and whistles a tune. My eyes are glued to his back. He has a good back though, strong and toned. His muscles are so pronounced they could help me in my anatomy classes.
There is the trapezius muscle. And look at the flexing of latissimus dorsi as he moves around. I want to touch his erector spinae muscle, his looks so much better and prominent than the model my anatomy professor brought to class.
“Go, babe. Google it,” he says without looking at me.
“Do not call me babe and I have to study. I don’t do Netflick and chill, whatever that means,” I protest.
“Netflix. And you can study next to me,” he says, wiping the countertop. “If you don’t like it you can go back to your room and I’ll take the TV to my room,” he adds and turns to me. “Deal?”
Why is he smirking?
I don’t like the way his eyes roam over my body. It gives me tachycardia.
“Okay, I’ll do it. Just so you will move that thing to your room,” I say and pass by him to my room.
When I enter my room I consider googling what he said, but I shrug instead. What? I don’t shrug. Coyer is rubbing off on me and I don’t like it.
After taking a quick shower and putting on different yoga pants and t-shirt, I grab my textbooks and head to the living room. I groan when I see he’s putting the pillows of my couch on the floor.
“Don’t make more mess than you already have,” I say, but he just smiles and winks at me.
What is it with this guy? Can’t he take a hint that I don’t like what he’s doing to my apartment or to my life? He’s changing things and I’m angry at myself for letting him do it.
He made a table by using some boxes and is already sitting down, pouring us a glass of wine. The pizza looks good though. My stomach growls from the smell of it and he chuckles.
Great, now he’s laughing at me.
“Sit down, babe. Here, your plate.”
“Will you stop calling me babe? And why are you so comfortable? I just met you this morning!”
“Ahh, love at first sight,” he says, chuckling.
Is he kidding? He must be kidding.
“Jeez, you should have seen your face. I’m just messing with you, Abby,” he laughs and pats the pillow next to him. “Sit.”
Shaking my head at him I sit down and grab my plate. My focus is on the pizza which is surprisingly delicious when he starts talking.
“We’ll be living together, right? May as well start getting comfortable with each other and become friends. What better way to do that than with good food and wine?”
“Friends? Why would I want to be friends with you?”
His eyes widen a little, but after clearing his throat he replies, “Because life is more fun when you have friends. Don’t you have someone you’re close to?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions? First you sneak out the information that I’m diabetic, then you’re asking what I like to eat, then you’re changing my apartment and now you want to know about my friends.”
“I’m just trying to get to know you.”
“For what? So you can judge me and joke about me?” My outburst surprises me. But that is how I feel. I don’t want to have friends, I don’t need them. I have never had any and I’m not planning on changing that. I sigh. “Why don’t you do the Netflix and chill thing and I’ll study until I get bored?”
He’s frowning. Why is he frowning? He really wants to be friends with me? What’s the point?
I quirk my eyebrow at him as questions run through my mind and he shrugs before pressing a button on the remote. Always that darn shrug.
With my plate next to me, my wine glass on the box-table, and my textbook on my knees I start to study as I devour my first slice of pizza.
I lift my head and frown when whatever he plays starts with a Christmas song.
“How awesome,” I snort.
“It’s a random episode from a TV series I’m sure you’ll like,” he says with confidence in his voice.
“I doubt it,” I say with a shrug. Oh my goodness! What’s wrong with me and this sudden urge to shrug?!
Grabbing his own slice of pizza he takes a big bite and winks at me. I watch his mouth, the way it moves, and the way his Adam’s apple slides down as he swallows; it’s fascinating. The human body is a magical thing and his shows every ounce of sorcery of it. When his mouth is empty he says, “Just give it a chance.”
I do. I give it a chance, not because he told me to, but because the girl on the screen is being mocked by some cruel teenagers and she falls to the ground right on the stage where everyone is watching her. I hold my breath and wait for what will happen next, but instead it shows the name of the programme: House M. D.
The soundtrack and the images of neurons and other medical things grab my attention and even though I try not to look interested I still focus on it as I act like I’m studying. A lump forms in my throat when doctors say the girl is a great target for teenage bullying because of her high grades and proactiveness in school clubs. Those things hit so close to home. I swallow the unwanted emotions and try to focus on my textbook even though it’s just an act, but it doesn’t work as I want to get glimpses of the screen more and more with every passing second.
House is the doctor and he is very clever, cold and realistic to the point of rudeness. He has a team of doctors and they’re trying to figure out the teenage girl’s problem. Since medicine is my main passion in life I can’t help but make up theories with them. Gregory House is a character I would see as my idol, he seems like everything I want to be -- successful, cold, and on point.
“Another one?” Coyer asks me, stealing my attention. I didn’t realize I was so hooked on the TV show, I totally forgot about his presence.
“Another one of what?”
He motions to my wine glass with his head. “Wine.”
My glass is empty. I don’t remember when the last time was that I drank wine, but even though I don’t want to admit it, I like this Netflix and chill thing he suggested more than I thought I would and I need to know what will happen.
“I need to get my insulin first,” I murmur. I don’t know why I gave him this information. I always take care of it in the restroom if I’m with company.
I’m about to get up to my feet when he says, “Do it here. I want to see.”
I feel my cheeks heat up. Why? Am I embarrassed? Why would I be? I feel uncomfortable like he’s just told me his dirtiest fantasy. My heart does that tachycardic rhythm again with the thought of what his fantasy would be as he looks up at me with expectancy in his gaze.
Goodness! Where are these thoughts come from?
Darn heart! Maybe I should see a doctor.
“Abby, show me how to do it. What if I need to do it to you for some reason? We’re living in the same apartment now,” he says, pausing the TV. His eyes are so warm they make me dizzy. Maybe it’s the wine. But his words make sense.
Sighing, I grab the insulin pen from my pencil case and lift my tee. I don’t talk, but I show him the way I hold the pen and the way I pinch my skin up so I can apply it subcutaneously. He’s watching me with the most serious and concerned expression I’ve seen on him since he stepped into my apartment, and for some reason I’m panting under his gaze.
“Does it hurt?” he whispers.
Why is he whispering? And why do I want to smile and reassure him that it doesn’t?
He’s messing with my head and it’s been just a day since I met him. I’m having fun, but I don’t want to. That’s not something I’m accustomed to. He’s acting like my friend already, but I can’t trust him. No one can be trusted. People always act like they’re your friends and then they use the space you give them to hurt you.
“No. I can get one more glass wine,” I say. I’ll watch this episode without falling for his act and then I’ll stop this unwanted and too quickly developed proximity.
He pours me another glass of wine and House starts to play on the screen again. The teenage girl is talking about how others make fun of her, how they call her a pig and I bite my cheek as strange feelings storm inside me.
I rest my head back on the couch and let myself relax. Coyer and I don’t talk. We only do the Netflix and chill thing and I like it. This is different, something I’ve never done before but probably because of his show choice I’m enjoying my time.
At one point in the show there’s an asthma patient who uses their inhaler as perfume. I can’t help but laugh at that scene. I don’t remember when the last time was that I laughed. I don’t do laughing, I smile if absolutely necessary. But now I’m laughing harder than ever and can’t stop. I feel Coyer’s eyes on me instead of the TV and I can read the underlying message when he puts his arm over the couch, just behind my back. He’s still half-naked and even though I’m angry at him because of it, my eyes can’t help themselves as they run over his tattooed chest more often than it should. I want to ask about his tattoos, but I don’t ask people personal questions; it gives them a door to get inside your life and that’s not desired.
“Does the TV deserve to stay where it is?” he asks with the smirk I’ve already seen too many times.
I huff, but there’s no denying it. “Yes. But when I’m home we’ll only watch this. There’s more episodes, right?”
“Yes, babe. There’s more where that came from,” he says. His voice is husky like he’s about to get the flu, but it causes the fluttering in my stomach to start again. I think I’m catching a cold too. In this warm weather. I snort at my own thoughts.
He leans toward me slightly, showing his intentions very clearly but I stay where I am.
He’s breaking my first rule: No hitting on me.
And to my surprise, I’m letting him.
Sighing, I keep watching my one and only favorite TV show.