Ashley
TOO MUCH?
Maybe. But Julian needs to think of me as more than Carter’s younger sister, and what better way to spur that process than to discuss his dangling private parts?
Julian works his eyebrows in a fascinating display of confusion, embarrassment, and disbelief. Up, down, scrunched together, all in under four seconds. He drops his head, avoiding my gaze, and then he rises, his bowl and glass in hand. “On that ridiculous note, I think I’ll head to bed.”
What? He’s not even going to address it? I place a hand on his wrist to stop him, momentarily distracted by the strong pulse that beats under my fingers. I take so much pleasure in touching him, he should charge me for the privilege.
He doesn’t say a word as he slowly sits back down, his mouth agape and his brows furrowed.
“I was just kidding, Julian. Sort of. The point is, we should be talking about states of undress, too. Like, I’ll promise not to run out here in my bra and panties, and you’ll promise not to grab a beer from the fridge in your skivvies or something. Isn’t that how this should go?”
He swallows, and my gaze settles on his Adam’s apple. I’m tempted to proposition him this minute. To ask that for just one night, he’ll pretend I’m not Ashley and think of me instead as a stranger he desires. But Julian’s too pragmatic to accept such a proposal. He’d say no without much thought and avoid me for the rest of my stay. If I’m going to have any chance with him, I’ll have to get him to the point where he’s incapable of rational thought. And that’s going to take time. And machinations.
He shakes his head as though he’s been pulled out of a trance, and then he sighs as he scrubs his face. “We’ll both agree to be fully dressed when we’re in the common areas, okay?”
“That works. And I won’t be here for long stretches of time anyway. I’m too junior to know my flight schedule well in advance, but most weeks I’ll be gone four or five days.”
Julian smiles at the news. I’m not bothered by his obvious relief. It means there’s something about my presence that makes him uncomfortable. And given the way he was staring at my mouth only minutes ago, I’m guessing the discomfort relates to our mutual but unspoken attraction. Well, that’s what I’m hoping at least.
He rises from the seat, taking his bowl and glass with him. “This will work out fine, then. During the work week, I’m usually not home until ten or so, and most weekends I’ve got somewhere to be. We’ll be like two ships passing in the night.”
Ah, Julian. That’s unlikely. Because if all goes according to my plan, we’ll be like two ships colliding in the night. And hopefully, we’ll both get wrecked.
IT TAKES ME less than twenty-four hours to break our agreement, but I didn’t orchestrate this, I swear.
Yes, I have a perfectly logical explanation for walking through the house in a tiny towel. A fellow flight attendant doubles as a beauty consultant, and a few weeks ago, she convinced me to try an organic cleanser. A cleanser that requires refrigeration. He wasn’t supposed to be here—it’s just past seven in the evening after all—but there he is, staring at me from the doorway because I’m wearing the linen closet equivalent of booty shorts. One day after promising not to walk around in my underwear. Well, I’m not even wearing undies, but I get it: spirit of the agreement and such.
“Sorry! I just needed to grab something,” I say.
For a few seconds, he peruses my face and body, and the heat in his eyes blazes across my skin. I swear time suspends, as if I could bridge the distance between us, steal a kiss, and return to my original spot before he blinks an eye.
After a shake of his head, he turns around. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I scramble to the fridge, grab the bottle, and hightail it out of the room, yelling “all clear” over my shoulder. As I wash my face, I listen for evidence of his movements. He runs the kitchen sink and slams a few cabinet doors. A minute later, when I collapse onto the bed, my face freshly scrubbed and moisturized, I hear a soft click, suggesting he’s retreated to his bedroom.
Given Julian’s reaction to seeing me close to bare, I suspect subtlety is the only way to get him to let his guard down around me. If he senses a threat, he’ll institute measures to protect himself against it. And one thing’s now clear: I’m a threat.
I throw on my roomiest pair of sweatpants—the ones I usually wear the second day of my cycle—and a loose T-shirt. Then I pull my acoustic guitar from its case and tiptoe to the living area, figuring the sound will be less obtrusive to Julian if I’m not propped against the wall that abuts his.
After sitting cross-legged at one end of Julian’s plush navy couch, I strum a few chords, tightening the strings to get my prized instrument in tune. I sing the first verse of the song I wrote when my roommate accused me of trying to seduce her boyfriend—by “parading” in my own kitchen in sleep clothes:
You never got to know me
Never really wanted to
You thought you had me figured out
All along my heart was true
You chose him over me
I didn’t want to face
That in your mind
I’d always be second place
I shouldn’t have been surprised that Elise sided with her boyfriend. We’d maintained a healthy distance, never pretending to be best friends. It was a convenient arrangement, born of our need to share living expenses and nothing more. Notwithstanding the evidence of her man’s wandering eyes, she wanted to believe he was as wrapped up in her as she was in him. His unwelcome hands on my ass fucked up the narrative.
The day it all went down, I used my artistic license and poured my frustration into these lyrics, accompanying them with a D-minor chord progression that matched my sullen mood. Tonight, I tweak the song’s opening, making slight alterations that don’t improve it in any meaningful way. Stasis. It’s suffocating. Makes me want to spring to my feet and move around. Sighing overdramatically, I place the guitar beside me. I never finished the song. And maybe I never will.
“Don’t stop.”
I look up and find Julian leaning against the entryway, one hand resting above him on the doorframe. Seeing him like this, stripped of his power suit and dressed in sweats and a loose T-shirt, I want to peel his other layers and get to the man beneath the polish. What does he like to do? Who does he spend time with? Is he happy? What drives him? I hope my newfound access to him will provide the answers to these questions. For now, though, I need to avoid playing this song. It captures a moment of vulnerability, a state I don’t like sharing with anyone.
I wave him off. “Oh, I was just messing around.”
He pads across the floor and joins me on the couch, tucking one leg under him and angling his body in my direction. Then he grabs a slate gray pillow and places it on his lap.
For a moment I’m consumed by other questions: Is he still letting his balls hang free? Is that the reason for the pillow?
“Why do you do that?” he asks.
Obsess about his balls? Not sure. Although that’s probably not what he’s referring to, right? Bad, Ashley. Heel. “Do what?”
“Minimize your guitar playing.”
“I don’t,” I say in an assured voice.
“You do,” he says with equal confidence. “You said it was a hobby yesterday. Today you’re just messing around. Yet you’ve been at it for more than a decade.”
“Hmm. I never noticed.” And I’m surprised he did. The men in my life tend to be oblivious to anything unrelated to their own needs and wants. “The deal is, I’m composing a song, but I’m stuck.”
“How many songs have you composed?”
“A hundred, maybe?”
He leans forward, his eyes widening as if he’s looking at me through a microscopic lens, and I freeze, my limbs rigid from being pinned to his petri dish. Somehow, I tamp down the urge to flee the room. “What? What’s that look for?”
“One hundred songs?” he says, his voice rising an octave.
Oh. That. I shrug because I know the crap I’ve composed. “Give or take. I don’t know for sure. And some of them are terrible, believe me. I wrote a dozen my thirteenth summer alone. So much angst.”
He massages his chin as he regards me with a pensive expression. “That may be, but you don’t write over one hundred songs for the fun of it. Ever thought of pursuing it as a career?”
“No.”
He waits for more, giving me an encouraging nod.
“Well, maybe. Okay, yes, I did, for like two seconds. But I dismissed the idea a long time ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I have realistic expectations. How many singer-songwriters do you know?”
“One.”
“Other than me.”
He lowers his chin, a hint of a smile softening the hard angles of his face. “None.”
“Well, there you go.” I point to the guitar in my lap. “This won’t pay the bills. Besides, Carter’s the star in our family.”
“But it’s your dream. I can tell.”
“How?”
“Because you’ve kept at it for over a decade. Because you’ve written over a hundred songs in that time. Because your face lights up when you strum that guitar. And when we were going over the house rules, your one true concern was whether you’d bother me if you played.”
His words alone move me, but pair them with his soothing tone, and I’m swoony putty in his hands. I wish I could lay my head in his lap, close my eyes, and ask him to repeat what he just said. But that would be weird, right? Yeah, of course it would. More to the point, Julian’s picking up on things I’d never notice on my own. Makes me wonder what kind of expression I wear when I’m playing.
“When I was a teenager, I wanted to perform at local festivals and fairs. To get a sense of what it would be like. But my mom was busy with her counseling duties at Weston, and my dad was shuttling Carter to auditions in New York. Once, I even worked up the nerve to perform in the middle school talent show. Neither of my parents showed up. Said they had the wrong date in their calendar.” I grip the neck of the guitar and fiddle with the tuners, suppressing the grimace that usually accompanies that memory. “Anyway, it just . . . never happened for me. I’m good with that.”
And besides, how likely would it be for my family to have two successful children in the entertainment industry? It happens, sure, but it’s still rare.
“What about teaching guitar? To kids? Or other adults like you who are scared to follow their dreams?”
“Julian,” I warn, my voice low and tight.
He takes a deep breath and releases it. “Fine. But I know one thing. If you ever decide to pursue music as a career, you’ll need an upgrade. It’s looking a bit battered.”
I scoop up the guitar with both hands and wrap my arms around it. “Hush your mouth. This is a Taylor 300 series. Sitka spruce stop. Mahogany neck. The company doesn’t make that combination anymore.”
Julian regards me with a raised brow. “I’m guessing there’s a good reason for that.”
Yes, time and the sun’s rays have aged the wood, and okay, the metallic star stickers I placed on it each time I finished a song are peeling at the edges, but she’s a beauty. Caressing the sides and top, I whisper, “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Melanie. You’re special, and anyone who can’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
“Melanie? You named your guitar Melanie?”
“I did. She’s named after my favorite teacher in grade school, Ms. Adams. I was eleven when I got her, mind you. Now take it back.”
He holds up his hands. “All right, all right, I take it back. She’s a classic. Would you and Melanie be willing to play something for me? A song that you’re proud of?”
I wink at him. “What do I get in return?”
He drops his jaw, and then his gaze snaps to mine. His expression is playful as he studies me, but much to my disappointment, he ultimately refuses my bait. Shaking his head, he pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “You get free accommodations in my home, you ingrate.”
Hmm. Yeah, no. We’re nowhere close to breaking the friendship barrier. Any other person would have recognized my question as an attempt at flirtation. But not Julian. He probably still pictures me in braces. “I was kidding.”
“You do a lot of that.”
“And you don’t do enough of it. You’re so formal all the time. Makes me wonder if you wear a three-piece suit in bed. With suspenders.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he smiles broadly. “I wear my birthday suit in bed, and I’m very relaxed there, a fact you’ll have to trust me on.”
I want to pout, but that’s not going to help my cause, so I pucker my lips at him instead. “Or you could prove it to me.”
His eyes shutter closed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t take this somewhere it shouldn’t go. Carter’s my best friend and my client. I’ve spent way too long navigating that relationship, and it’s not easy. I’m not going to make it harder by messing around with his sister. We are never going to happen.”
A boulder sits on my chest, flattening me and my spirit. “Never?”
His dark eyes soften as he shakes his head. “Never ever. Let’s just leave it, okay?”
Well, there it is. The answer I’ve been seeking. His reasons are sound—and my objective was selfish. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity and fulfill my teenage fantasies. Julian wants to preserve a friendship and protect his livelihood. I take a deep, cleansing breath and exhale on a sigh. “You tend to overthink things, but in this instance, you’re right.” I point an accusing finger at him and give him a stern look. “Just this once.”
“Now about that song . . .”
I fake a yawn and rise from the sofa. “We’ll have to do it another time. I’m suddenly very sleepy.”
“I’m sure you are,” he says with bemusement in his voice.
Before I leave the room, I stare at his bowed head and gather the nerve to ask another question. “Under different circumstances, though, would you . . .”
Without looking up and without hesitation, he says, “Definitely.”
The certainty in his voice makes my gut twist. Damn. Maybe it would have been better never to know the answer. Because, yes, his admission heals the light bruise on my ego, but it also makes the loss tangible.