“I’m injury-free. Except…”
“What?”
He looks toward the window, scowling. “I was moving the ladder and the paint tray fell off the top. Luckily, it landed on the drop cloth. But it was a huge fucking mess. It took me forever to clean up.”
"I can only imagine the temper tantrum that followed that.” Doing so makes me grin. “How many home improvement supplies were harmed in the making of this detention?”
He narrows his eyes at me, but I can tell it’s more playful than anything. “Ha-ha. You like to see me suffer, don’t you?”
“I’m sure the masking tape had it coming.” I chew on a mouthful of noodles before saying, “But seriously, thank you. That was an impressive amount of work to get done by yourself. I’m proud of you.” After a beat of stabbing my soup with the chopsticks, I look up at him cautiously. “Yikes, that sounded super patronizing, didn’t it?”
His expression is completely flat, save for the curve of an eyebrow. “Only a lot.”
I cover my mouth when I laugh. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t seem particularly offended about it, so I let it go. “So listen, if you want some company, I can stick around.” He clears his throat, shifting. “I brought my laptop, so we can watch a movie or something.”
I watch him warily, feeling this odd discomfort in the pit of my stomach. Not that I’m opposed to hanging around Hamilton, because sitting here all day alone, sick, is boring me to tears.
It’s the ‘or something’ I’m worried about.
“Don’t you need to get home?”
He exhales loudly, hand raking roughly through his hair. “Honestly, anything to put that off a bit longer is fine by me.”
“Okay, but,” I hedge, “you’re not worried about getting sick?”
He looks at me like I’m dumb. “You were already contagious the other night, when we were together. If I’m going to get it, that ship has sailed. It’s halfway to fucking Spain. It sunk in the Atlantic. There’s already a tragic mariner’s song about it and everything.”
I place my bowl on the bedside table. “Look, Bates, I’m feeling better today. But I’m not feeling good enough for—I mean, if you’re looking to hook-up, then—”
“I’m not looking for a hook-up.” His jaw tightens and a flicker of something new—different—crosses his eyes. A vulnerability, or a weak spot. Something small and stung. “I’m serious about not being ready to go home, and... well, believe it or not, you’re not the worst company.”
I roll my eyes at the backhanded compliment. “Geez thanks, that’s reassuring.”
He smirks and reaches for his backpack, unzipping it and pulling out a top-of-the-line laptop. After a few moments spent retrieving the charger and booting it up, he pauses, eyes roaming the room. “Where should I put it?”
“Uh...” I look around, biting my lip. “I guess on the bed?”
I straighten out my blanket nest to give him a flat surface, and he places it at the foot of the bed, streaming service queued up. He drags the chair closer to see, and a battle wars inside of me; one that involves my heart, my body, and my mind. I can invite him to sit with me on the bed, but would that be some kind of signal? Would it be suggesting something I’m not prepared to follow through on? Is what’s going on between us primarily a sex thing, or can it also be a friendly thing? I’m not sure where we stand on either. As he fusses with positioning the screen so we can both see it, I decide, “Hey, come on. Just sit with me on the bed.”
His eyebrow arcs. “You sure?”
“If you’re not afraid of getting sick, then it’s fine by me.”
I shift over and he kicks off his shoes, lowering himself to the edge of my narrow bed. There’s no way for us not to be close, because the bed is too small for all that. But I get the impression he tries his best, even if our hips end up touching. Hamilton pulls the computer to his lap and says, “What do you want to watch?”
I chew on my lip, thinking. “I’ve been holding out on Stranger Things. Have you seen it yet?”
“You haven’t?” His eyebrows climb his forehead in disbelief. “Have you been living under a rock?”
“I don’t know. The twins totally got into it. I think I was just…” Wallowing. Too worried about Sky and my immediate reality at the time to really focus on anything fictional. “I guess you wouldn’t want to watch it all over again, would you?”
“Sure I would,” he says, queuing it up and pressing play. He shifts the computer so we can both see it, and now his knee is touching mine. I pull the covers up, as much of a shield as anything else.
I’m not a big fan of scary stuff, but this seems to fall somewhere in the middle. It’s suspenseful, but funny, campy, and cheesy. We burn through multiple episodes of the first season mindlessly, heedless of the clock, just going from episode to episode. The lingering tension between the two of us slips away so gradually that it doesn’t even feel strange or surreal when our arms begin bumping, pressing together. We make conversation, here and there. Hamilton likes Jonathan the most, but Nancy is my favorite.
He scoffs. “You would. You’re so Nancy.”