I sit beside him and make a big show of trying to push him off, but he’s too solid(not liquid) for me to budge him.
I twist around, bracing my feet against the floor, my knees against the edge of the bed thing, and my hands against his right hip, as I grit my teeth and try to push him off of it.
“Stop it, you weirdo (monster),” he says.
“I’m not the weirdo.” I turn sideways, try to use my hip and side body to force him off. “You’re the one who’s trying to steal my one joy in life, this weird bed.”
In that moment, when all my weight is pretty much focused in my hip, he stops resisting and scoots sideways a little, and somehow I tumble halfway onto the chair bed and halfway onto his chest, forcefully knocking his book onto the floor in the process.
He laughs, and I laugh too, but I’m also feeling kind of tingly and heavy and, frankly (honestly), turned on, lying on him like this.
Worst of all, I can’t seem to make myself move.
His arm has come around my back, loose over the curve at its base, and when his laughter settles, I look up into his eyes, my chin resting on his chest. “You tricked me,” I hum. “I bet you didn’t even have emails to respond to.”
“For all you know, I don’t even have an email account,” he teases. “Are you mad?”
“Furious.”(extremely angry)
His laugh shivers through me, goose bumps chasing it down my spine, and the heat of the apartment sinks into my skin, gathers between my legs.
“I’d forgive you eventually,” I say. “I’m very forgiving.”
“You are,” he agrees. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
His hand just barely brushes the skin between the bottom of my tank top and the top of my shorts, and I shift against him, feeling as if we could melt into each other.
What am I doing?
I sit up suddenly and take my hair down just to put it back up. “You’re sure you’re cool to sleep on the chair bed?” My voice comes out too high.
“Of course. Yeah.”
I stand and pad over to the bed. “Okay, cool, then . . . good night.”
I turn off the light and climb onto bed. Onto, not into, because it’s way too hot for blankets.
14
This Summer
WHEN I STARTLE awake, it’s still dark out, and I’m sure we’re being robbed.
“Shit, shit, shit,” the robber is saying for some reason, and it sounds like he’s in pain.
“The police are on their way!” I yelp—which is neither a true statement nor a premeditated (planned) one—and scramble(make one's way quickly) to the edge of the bed to snap on the light.
“What?” Alex hisses, eyes squinting (look at someone or something with one or both eyes partly closed) against the sudden brightness.
He’s standing in the dark in the same black shorts he went to sleep in and no shirt.
He’s bent slightly at the waist and gripping his lower back with both hands, and as the sleep clears from my brain, I realize he’s not just squinting against the light.
He’s gasping for breath like he’s in pain.
“What happened?” I cry, half tumbling off the bed toward him. “Are you okay?”
“Back spasm,” he says.
“What?”
“I’m having a back spasm,” he gets out.
I’m still not sure what he’s talking about, but I can tell he’s in horrible pain, so I don’t press for more information aside from asking, “Do you need to sit down?”
He nods, and I guide him toward the bed.
He slowly lowers onto it, wincing until he’s finally sitting, at which point some of the pain seems to ease up.
“Do you want to lie down?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Getting up and down is the hardest part when this happens.”
When this happens? I think but don’t say, and guilt stabs through my chest.
Apparently this is another one of those Poppy-less developments from the last two years.
“Here,” I say. “Let me prop some pillows up behind you.”
He nods, which I take as confirmation that this won’t make things worse.
I puff up the pillows, stacking them against the headboard, and he slowly reclines, his face contorted in pain.
“Alex, what happened?” I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s five thirty in the morning.
“I was getting up to run,” he says. “But I guess I sat up weird? Or too fast or something, because my back spasmed and—” He tips his head back against the pillows, eyes scrunching closed. “Shit, Poppy, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I say. “Why are you sorry?”
“It’s my fault,” he says. “I didn’t think about how low to the ground that cot thing is. I should’ve known popping out of bed like that would do this.”
“How could you have possibly known that?” I say, disbelieving.
He massages his forehead. “I should have,” he repeats. “This has been happening for, like, a year now. I can’t even bend over to pick up my shoes until I’ve been awake and moving around for at least half an hour. It just didn’t occur to me. And I didn’t want you to get a migraine from the chair, and—”
“And that’s why you should never be a hero,” I say gently, teasing, but his expression of misery doesn’t so much as waver.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he says. “I didn’t mean to mess up your trip.”
“Alex, hey.” I touch his arm lightly so it won’t disturb the rest of his body. “You didn’t mess up this trip, okay? Nikolai did.”
The corners of his mouth twist into an unconvinced smile.
“What do you need?” I ask. “How can I help you?”
He sighs.
If there’s one thing Alex Nilsen hates, it’s being helpless.
Which goes hand in hand with being waited on.
In college, when he had strep throat, he ghosted me for a week (the first time I was truly mad at him).
When his roommate told me Alex was laid up with a fever, I made very bad chicken noodle soup in our dorm kitchen and brought it to his room.
He locked the door and wouldn’t let me in for fear of passing the strep along, so I started yelling, “I’m keeping the baby, okay?” through the doorway and he relented.
It makes him uncomfortable to be fussed over.
Thinking about that has a similar, if distilled, effect on me as looking at the formidable Sad Puppy Face.
It overwhelms.
The love rises less like a wave and more like an instantaneously erected steel skyscraper, shooting up through my center and knocking everything else out of its way.
“Alex,” I say. “Please let me help.”
He sighs, defeated. “There are muscle relaxants in the front pocket of my laptop bag.”
“On it.” I retrieve the bottle, fill a glass of water in the kitchenette, and bring him both.
“Thanks,” he says apologetically, then takes the pill.
“No problem,” I say. “What else?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says.
“Look.” I take a deep breath. “The sooner you tell me how I can help you, the sooner you get better, and the sooner this is over, okay?”
His teeth skim over his full bottom lip, and I’m mesmerized by the sight.
I startle when his gaze cuts back to me. “If there’s an ice pack here, that would help,” he admits. “Usually I alternate between cold compresses and heating pads, but the important thing is just sitting still.”
He says this with disdain.
“Got it.” I slip my sandals on and grab my purse.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Going to the pharmacy. That freezer doesn’t even have an ice cube tray, let alone an ice pack, and I doubt Nicky has a heating pad either.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Alex says. “Really, if I sit still, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
“While you sit upright in the dark? No way. For one thing, that’s extremely creepy, and for another, I’m up, so I might as well be of use.”
“This is your vacation.”
I walk toward the door, because there’s nothing he can do to stop me. “No,” I say. “It’s our summer trip. Don’t dance around naked until I get back, okay?”
He heaves a sigh. “Thanks, Poppy. Seriously.”
“Stop thanking me. I’m already drafting an absurd list of ways for you to repay me.”
That finally wins a faint smile. “Good. I like to be useful.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
《People We Meet on Vacation》
by Emily Henry 从朋友到恋人
只是搬运工加个人笔记。
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