ALLISON MARTIN

Wyatt: Wanna hang out?

I curl up on my side and tap out my reply. 

Maeve: Can’t tonight, I’m under construction for the next week.

I toss my phone on the coffee table and pick up my book. 

Forty minutes later there’s a knock at the door and my heart skips a beat, irritated that I’m just getting to the spicy bits. I groan as I roll off the couch and whip open the door. 

Wyatt stands there with a bag in his hand and a grin on his face. 

“I thought,” I start but my voice trails out and I just scan down his lean body, clad in his signature tight tshirt and baggy sweatpants. 

“Hanging out doesn’t always mean I have to put my dick in you,” he laughs as my face twists in disgust. “I brought some stuff. If you want me to leave I will turn straight around and leave.” 

He holds out the bag awkwardly and I take it. It’s heavier than I thought. 

“Wait,” he says pushing dark hair from his eyes. “Is that my shirt?” 

He points to the ragged oversized tshirt I wear to bed almost every night. My cheeks blaze because I totally forgot I was wearing it. 

“I lost that shirt.” He shakes his finger at it.

“You didn’t lose it. I stole it. After we slept together last year.” 

His features twitch like he’s trying to hide something and then nods. “Okay, well I’ll let you rest. There’s tea in there my Aunt made.” 

He turns, taking a step down the long staircase and I lurch forward grabbing the tail of his tshirt.

“Wait,” I blurt and he whips around, his shirt pulled from my grip. “You wanna come in?” 

He steps into my little apartment and I close the door pausing for a moment to register him being here when I look like I rolled around in a dumpster wearing the shirt I stole from him. I hammer my fist lightly against my forehead and then turn sharply.

“You’re brother did a great job with this,” he says his voice tipping into an awkward cadence. He gestures to the apartment Mase built above my sister’s garage last year.

“He did.” I match his weirdness, setting the bag on the counter and pulling things out. A container of loose tea, a giant dark chocolate bar, and a floppy bag of beans or rice or something. I hold the floral patterned this up with a furrowed brow.

“Aunt Grace swears by this,” he yanks the bag tossing it in the air and catching it. “Has flaxseed in it. Just microwave it for a minute and then put it here.” He points to my pelvis as I snatch the kettle off it’s stand. 

“You told your aunt I have my period?” I pause with the kettle under the running water and Wyatt has a flash of humiliation cross his face. 

“No. I mean kind of? I just asked what one would get a girl on her period that would help. This is what she told me. I didn’t tell her it was you.” 

I snap the lid closed to the kettle and let him flounder in this adorable effort to be helpful for just a little while longer before I stop him with a hand on his forearm. 

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” 

He lets out a long breath. “I’m an idiot. You think I’m an idiot.” 

I laugh and click the kettle into place then pull him into me, wrapping my arms around his waist. He hugs me back and I try to ignore how absolutely me-shaped his hugs are.

“I’ve always thought you were an idiot, Wyatt. But not for this.” I look up at his insanely handsome face resting my chin on his chest. He smiles seemingly appreciating me not making the moment sappy. His eyes flicker to my mouth, mere inches from his and we spring apart suddenly very interested in our respective tasks. 

He heats the bag of flax while I make the tea and eventually we make it to the couch and sit. Not a word is spoken in that time, but my gods, my mind is a spiralling mess of thoughts.

“So what do I do with this thing?” I ask juggling the warm bag between my palms. 

He slides over to my side of the couch, arranging the pillows and gestures for me to lay back, propped up enough that I can still drink my tea. He puts the bag low on my pelvis, the heat seeping through my sweatpants and sinking into my skin. 

“That’s nice,” I moan, letting my eyes slide closed as the cramping eases a little. I don’t get too put out but the constant pressure and slight squeeze of my uterus is enough to notice and this heat bag definitely helps. Wyatt clears his throat and shifts next to me forcing my eyes open again.

“The tea is a blend Grace makes. Supposed to relieve pain and water retention or something? I don’t know a traditional tea of some sort.” He’s staring intently at my tea, and when I lift the cup he shifts his attention to the coffee table.

I take a sip, able to taste the different herbs and berries used for the tea. “It’s delicious.” 

“So what were you doing before I got here?” 

“Reading,” I say and nod to the table he’s been studying, the book laying open with the cover facing up. The black and white photo of rippled abs catches his attention and he snaps it up. 

“Didn’t peg you for a romance reader,” he starts, his gaze skimming the words and his brow rising higher on his forehead. “Goddess, this is straight porn.”

“It’s erotic romance. There’s a difference.” 

“I dunno, but whatever it is it’s giving me a boner.” 

I kick at his leg playfully. “That’s the point.” 

“I thought you were,” he glances down to the heat bag on my crotch. 

“I still get horny. Just don’t bring anyone else into it. Can get messy.” 

He sets the book on his lap and watches me as if he just learned something he’d never thought possible. The expressions ripple and morph across his face as if a cascade of thoughts and images are playing through his mind. 

“Are you imagining fucking me on my period?” I ask, and he nods so slowly. “Did you think it wasn’t possible?”

Again he nods, and I roll my eyes at the failures of our education system in which men are not taught anything about women’s bodies. 

“Are you interested?” My final question makes him pale, a slight greyish tint to his rich brown skin. He shakes his head. 

“Fitz got hit in the eyebrow with a puck once. There was so much blood. I passed out.” 

I burst into laughter. “I wouldn’t want that to happen. Want to watch a movie or something?” 

“Sure,” He adjusts on the couch and lifts my legs so my ankles rest on his thigh. He takes one of my socked feet and begins massaging it, gently digging his thumb into the ball which feels so good I don’t stop him. 

“I probably smell terrible,” I warn flipping through movies. 

“I play hockey with 17 other dudes.” He deadpans, working his fingers into my heel.

“Touche.” My third day of unwashed hair is probably no big deal to him I guess so I snuggle deeper into the couch. 

“This one?” I ask flopping my arm out with the remote pointed at the screen. He barely looks at the TV before saying sure. 

“Are you sure you want to just hang out here and rub my feet while I watch rom coms?” I ask, suddenly suspicious of his motives. 

A bang at the door makes me sit straight up, the flax bag falling on the floor. 

“Maeve,” my dad bellows through the door. “We need to talk.” 

“Shit,” I say, grabbing Wyatt, hauling him up. “Hide.” 

“Why? It’s your dad?” 

“And then we have to answer to why you’re here without my brother? I…” 

“You don’t want anyone to know about us, I get it.” He jumps over the back of the couch and moves to the bedroom at the end of the hall and I open the door. 

“Dad?” I ask. “Why are you here?” 

“I just got a call from your registrar,” he pushes his way into the room and I stumble back. “About the tuition refund.”

“Why the hell are you talking to my college.” 

“Not your college, Mae Bug because you dropped out!” His voice triggers memories of him yelling at mom, of Mase and Sara taking me to the play room and playing stuffie family with me even thought they both hated it so much.

“I hate it there. I don’t want to go to college.” My posture stiffens and voice hardens.

“That’s not up to you,” he leans in. “You’re going to call them tomorrow and reenroll.” 

“No I’m not,” I spit, crossing my arms. Dad’s face reddens and he sputters. 

“How are you going to make a life for yourself? Support yourself? Don’t think I’m going to foot the bill for your, your, nonsense.” He waves his hands to the small table in the living room that holds my altar filled with candles, crystals, and my tarot cards. 

“I don’t need you to foot the bills,” I raise my voice. “I don’t want your fucking money.” 

“Watch your mouth,” he threatens. 

“Or what, Dad? I’m 24. What can you do about it?” 

“I don’t have to put a roof over your head.” 

“You don’t. I haven’t lived with you since I was ten. This is Sara’s house and I’m here for her, unless you’ve forgotten that she’s on her own now. Even though she got a good job and husband like you wanted.” 

Dad grabs my arm tight pulling me into him but I’m not scared of him anymore. I yank my arm from his grip, pain shooting through the flesh leaving red marks. 

“Get out,” I say and he looks horrified at himself but I don’t care. I hope he hates himself. “Get out!” I yell and he backs out. I slam the door in his face and turn to the kitchen, my limbs starting to shake violently. I start grabbing at random cups to put them in the dishwasher, slamming them down and trying to keep my mind moving so my body doesn’t catch up. One slips from my grip as Wyatt comes out of the bedroom, horror settling in my gut. He heard all that. 

The cup rolls off the counter and smashes on the ground. “Fuck!” I scream and collapse on the floor trying to get as small as possible to crush this raging feeling from my body. Wyatt jumps over the glass, crouching on the floor next to me. His arms are barely around me when I push him backward. 

“I’m not your girlfriend, Wyatt. We fuck. We don’t comfort each other.” I expect him to be pissed to get up and storm out. I want him to storm out. To be done with me. 

He doesn’t. He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin on his arms. “My mom scared me like that when she drank.” 

I whip around to look at him, the bit of glass in my hand slips and I wince at the pain. Blood seeps from my finger. Wyatt grabs my hand pulling me closer and he pinches the small shard, pulling it from my skin. I watch the droplet get bigger and a short laugh bursts through. 

“I should cover this. Don’t want you passing out or anything.”

He smiles. “I’ll survive. But Mae, I don’t need to be your boyfriend to care if you’re okay. You know that right?” 

I suck on my finger looking to the ground. “That was a shitty thing of me to say. I’m sorry.” 

He gets up and grabs a towel from the sink laying it over his hand. He picked up the big pieces of glass shaking it into the garbage. The broom is leaning against the wall so he grabs it and finishes cleaning up my mess. Then he holds out his hand to me. I take it and he helps me up. He hooks his finger under my chin and forces me to look at him. 

“Listen, if you don’t want to talk about it you don’t have to. It’s your business. But don’t be embarrassed that I heard.” 

I stare at him quietly for way too long and he laughs.

“Why are you glaring at me?” He gently shakes my chin and all the tension melts from the tight muscles scrunching up my face. 

“Shit I didn’t realise I was glaring. I’m just, I’m just trying to understand why you’re so nice to me when I’m literally the biggest bitch to you and refuse to let anyone know we hook up.” 

“I’m a masochist?” He shrugs. “But right now I just want to know if those two are endgame. The suspense is fucking killing me.” He points to the TV, the main characters throwing things at each other and screaming insults. I snort-laugh and cover my mouth. 

Wyatt takes my hand, leads me to the couch and flops down putting a throw pillow on his lap and pats it. “Come on, grab your hot beans and get in here.” 

“My hot beans?” 

He kicks the bag of flax on the ground.

“You mean seeds?”

“Whatever.” He winks at me patting the pillow again impatiently. I ease down next to him, scooping the bag up and putting it back on my stomach. Wyatt shifts my bangs from my eyes and watches the TV like the last fifteen minutes never happened. 

I bite my tongue, overcome with a desire to tell him everything. If anyone would understand what I’ve done, it would be him. But fear settles in my gut as he absently twists strands of my hair around his fingers. I close my eyes, loving the feel of his hands in my hair, but hating the way it makes me want to spill my heart from my chest.