Only when its us, p.8
Only When It's Us, page 8
All last night that trickster was eavesdropping on my personal musings, acting all chivalrous, feeding me dinner and pulling out my chair, leaving me to sleep alone in his bed and preserve my dignity.
And it was all a ruse. Anger churns my stomach, embarrassment heats my cheeks, as I think about the countless private thoughts he overheard. That asshole. That tall, sandy-haired, smirking, flannel-wearing, asshole, lumberjack, son of a bitch.
“Oh, it’s war, now, Bergman. It’s war.”
Conveniently, Ryder and I have class together today. I have thirty minutes between my morning literature recitation and Mac’s lecture. Just enough time to set retribution number one in place.
I’ve had some time to think through plausible explanations for why Ryder wore his hearing aid last night and didn’t tell me. I have to say, I’m quite proud of myself. I managed to coax my temper from explosive rage to a simmering level of irate, thus clearing my head enough to do some logical deducing.
Ryder’s good ear is his right ear. The first time I sat on his right side in class, and we talked, he acted…differently. His eyes followed my lips as usual but they also roamed me curiously. His whole face lit up as he leaned in. Maybe he liked hearing my voice and hadn’t exactly known what to do with that, except explore it further.
He said in his terse-texting way that hearing aids aren’t a cure-all, and they don’t make speaking easy for him. His response, and many other moments I have thus far, unfortunately, had to endure with him, have led me to a hunch: Ryder Bergman, beneath all his formidable, silent intensity, is shy.
And if he’s shy about being deaf and not speaking, why wouldn’t he also be shy about when he tries to wear his frustrating hearing aid, too?
That still doesn’t answer the question of why he wore the hearing aid around me. Why me? I’ve thought of two possible motivations for his behavior:
One, he wants dirt on me, and he’s a sick jerk with no qualms about how he gains that material. Pretty grim option, but not outside the realm of possibility. He is an asshole lumberjack, after all.
Two, he wants to know what I’m like without the impact of his deafness, and the tool he needs for that is one he’s shy about admitting he still dabbles with.
But why would he want that?
I have no idea what Ryder thinks of me, but I know that in his surly way, he doesn’t always seem to find me a ball-busting nuisance. What I do know is that he got a little gruff and shooed away his flirtatiously curious friends last night. I know that he might have pissed me off to high heaven as we discussed the final project specifics, but he took care making our meal, brewed herbal tea after dinner, and served tiny Swedish thumbprint cookies that I blissfully overconsumed.
Sure, he’s a prickly type. In the words of my fellow wild-haired woman and general feminist badass, Hermione Granger, he routinely demonstrates “the emotional range of a teaspoon.” But at the end of the day, I’d bet my cleat collection Ryder would run into a burning building to save a kitten.
Between my two options for his driving motivation to wear that hearing aid in stealth last night, I’m going with door number two. I think, just maybe, Ryder Bergman doesn’t totally hate me.
And frankly, even though he pisses me the hell off at least half the time I’m with him, I think I might not totally hate Ryder Bergman, either. At least, enough not to bicker constantly, but instead fifty percent of the time. At least enough to smile a little more at each other, back off the unrelenting, busting one-liners. Enough to maybe share an exploratory kiss if he wanted to shave that wild animal covering the lower half of his face.
Simply for exploratory purposes of course. Nothing serious. Certainly nothing emotional.
Because if I were to act on my emotions, I’d slap him first. Maybe yank his beard a little and give his good ear a tug. Remind him that spying on people—even if it’s because you’re intrigued by them—is invasive bullshit.
I could be truly wrathful in my revenge, but at some point, violence gets boring.
This tactic is way more fun.
My arrival to class is prompt for once, and I drop in the seat that I’m starting to suspect Ryder actually saves for me. Once again it’s on his right, and when I sit and softly clear my throat, it earns his attention immediately.
Carefully, I unravel the knit scarf I wore so nobody on campus got a Hooters hello as I walked to class. When I peel away the last spool of fabric, Ryder’s eyes widen, before a furious blush peeks from the top of his scruffy beard. He blinks rapidly as his eyes struggle not to dip as they did at first. I can hardly blame him. With her blessing of my retributive tactic, I’m wearing one of Rooney’s wrap tops, in a saffron yellow that makes my eyes glow. Significant detail: Rooney is two cup sizes smaller than me. This shirt barely covers my nipples.
Ryder’s mouth works, before he’s pulling out his phone, typing furiously. Sutter, what the fuck are you wearing?
I unlock my phone. Clothes, I write. Why do you ask, Lumberjack?
His angry huff as he types sends a frisson of delight up my spine. You know what I mean.
I really don’t, I type back.
I give him a once-over. Yet another flannel from the rotation. Very autumnal. It would look idiotic on most guys I know. Annoyingly, Ryder wears it like a hot-as-hell L.L.Bean model. Don’t even give me that attitude and try to deny it—you know you’re not looking for slippers when you open that catalog. You ogle those sexy DILFs in the L.L.Bean men’s section, too. Any hotblooded woman does.
The flannel of the day is burgundy and navy blue plaid, with a faint gold line woven through that matches my shirt. I take a deep breath, get my libido locked down, and type, Hey look! We match.
Ryder huffs again as he stares at me. He’s exasperated, which is insanely gratifying. There’s an intense and delicious upside to our little tiffs. Always has been. Every time we start bickering, electricity crackles, generating a surging tug between us. Our circuitry keeps intensifying, and after last night, I feel like we’re one high-voltage spat away from blowing a massive fuse.
Ryder’s eyes are on my lips but it feels like they’re everywhere, absorbing so much more of me than just the words I say. It’s always like that with him. When I’m with Ryder, I never question whether he’s present or listening intently. I never doubt that he’s taking pains to understand me, that he’s observing everything I do and say, even if it’s pissing him off. The irony is not lost on me, that he’s the first man who’s ever truly made me feel heard in my life and he can’t hear a word I’m saying.
Or so I thought, Mr. Rogue Hearing Aid.
On a third angry huff, Ryder’s eyes dart my way, then back to his phone. Your tits are one millimeter away from telling the classroom good morning.
His eyes go to my mouth and I smile. “Tits don’t talk, Bergman.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a long, slow breath. When his hand falls, and I feel his eyes are on me again, I peer down, playfully sliding my finger along the edge of my shirt. Ryder swallows so loudly the students in back can hear him.
I glance up at him and watch his eyes dip to my mouth. “Besides, they’re fine. I have boob tape that keeps them stuck.” My finger still idles along my shirt, not far from my rapidly hardening nipple. This is getting a little out of hand. Ryder’s breaths are deep, husky tugs of air. I take a shuddering inhale, and I sound just as twisted up as him. Clearing my throat, I remind myself of the point of this.
Pausing, I flip the edge of the fabric, showing Ryder a peek of the double-stick adherent and probably a sliver of nip, if I’m being honest. Not like I care. I’m an athlete. Spend ten minutes in a pre-game locker room and you’ll get it—I’ve been consensually stripping down in front of others for a solid decade at this point. It makes no difference to me.
Apparently, it makes a difference to Ryder. His jaw drops. I have to turn away so he doesn’t catch the gigantic grin of satisfaction painting my face. It’s just too good to pass up, so I open my phone and type. Bonus of this sticky stuff? I don’t even need a bra.
Ryder’s head drops as his fist lands heavy on the desk.
For once, when Mac starts the lecture, it’s me who’s studiously noting away. Ryder’s a stone statue to my left. I’m not even sure he ever lifts his pen. But when the lights go up and class ends, I sure as heck don’t stick around to find out.
The following forty-eight hours prove beneficial for both parties involved. I remember that the last thing I have time for in my life is seducing surly mountain men, and Ryder probably remembers why he prefers me in head-to-toe sweatpants.
I don’t really know what I was thinking, wearing that revealing shirt, except that my temper is its own living, breathing thing inside my brain. It just kept telling me that trying to make the guy’s eyeballs fall out of his head was an infinitely more proportional response than, say, dropping a laxative in his giant stainless steel water canteen or, I don’t know, dousing his boxers with pepper spray. By comparison, a well-timed titty tease felt practically docile.
But now, with a few days to cool off, I realize that if Ryder upped the ante with the hearing aid stealth move, I just went all in with my little peep show. As I wait for him to arrive at my apartment, I’m left wondering, Now what?
I don’t have time to think any longer, because there’s a knock at the door. When I open it, I’m met with Ryder, holding a hand over his eyes. My phone dings.
You wearing actual clothes this time?
I smack his stomach. It earns a soft oof from Ryder, as his hand falls. His green eyes are dark with mischief and he tips the brim of his ball cap in greeting, then walks past me.
As I spin on my heel, my eyes narrow. He’s up to something. I can feel it. Perhaps I didn’t consider my strategy as longitudinally as I should have. I didn’t really think that Ryder would take my sartorial provocation and be vindictive—there’s some bookstore vocabulary for you—I kind of expected him to choke on his tongue in class and leave it at that.
I think I may have miscalculated.
Ryder slowly lifts his messenger bag off his shoulder and sets it on the table. I watch his hands as they unbuckle the latch and slide out his computer. It’s like weird IT soft porn, watching the way the laptop slips out of his bag, how Ryder’s hands curl around the screen as he sets it upright.
A flush crawls up my chest and warms my neck. My cheeks pink. Shit, it’s hot in here.
“Right.” I clear my throat.
Ryder glances up and gives me a once-over. With his finger, he outlines my sweats-from-head-to-toe appearance then mimes applause. Thank you, he signs.
“Please.” I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like you didn’t like what you saw.”
Removing his phone from his pocket, he types quickly. His jaw is tense, his eyes laser-focused on his screen. I didn’t say I didn’t.
My fingers tighten around my phone, as my gaze drifts up to his. Our eyes lock in the world’s longest stare. That is until Ryder’s face tightens with concern as he scrunches his nose and sniffs.
I whip a glance over my shoulder to the kitchen. “Crap!”
Rushing to the stove, I pull the soup off the burner, then scrape the wooden spoon across the bottom of the pot, searching for scorched spots. Thankfully I don’t find any. “It’s not burnt…”
My voice dies off. Ryder is standing right behind me, heat pouring off his body. I close my eyes, and can’t help but picture my back to a roaring fire, the snap of its flames jolting me with surprise. I’m assaulted by the pungent fragrance of evergreens. He smells like a Christmas tree, the faint ghost of snow still on its branches.
Ryder leans in, then grasps my hand that holds the spoon. My eyes pop open as my body snaps to attention. With his other hand, he sets his palm on the counter. I’m caged in.
I glance up, so he can see my mouth when I speak, but before I can say a word, I freeze. His eyes are on me, his pupils blown wide, barely a ring of forest green surrounding them. Our mouths are inches away, our breaths faster and rougher than they should be.
“S-sorry,” I whisper. My tongue darts out to wet my lips. Ryder’s eyes dip, following its path. “I forgot to turn down the heat. I don’t think it’s ruined, though.”
Ryder releases my wrist and brings his hand to my face. I flinch, expecting some teasing flick or tug, any one of his many provoking touches. He pauses and frowns.
I would never hurt you.
He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t sign it. Doesn’t text it. But the words hang in the air, as invisible yet substantial as the crackling atmosphere between us. Slowly, his fingers drift against my curls, gently tucking them behind my ear. His thumb traces the shell of my ear, down my neck.
Oxygen doesn’t fill the air anymore. Or, if it does, I can’t find it. Goose bumps dance across my skin as every neglected corner of my body roars to life. My heart beats in unfamiliar places. My fingertips and toes. Low in my stomach. Right between my legs.
Ryder’s thumb settles at the hollow of my throat. His eyes lock with mine, reminding me how much he says with his eyes, how expressive they are. His lashes are thick, and while I thought they were black, now I see they’re sable, a rich, smoky brown. They don’t blink as Ryder leans toward me. Time suspends. My lips part as his grow closer.
He freezes, a breath away from my mouth. I’m doused in the haze of pine trees and manliness. My entire front is scorched by the heat of his body. Just as I begin to lean in, breaching the tiny remaining gap between us, Rooney barges through the door.
She stops as she sees Ryder and me leap apart so violently, I nearly fall into the sink. Her eyes bounce between us as a slow, satisfied grin lifts her mouth. “Am I interrupting something?”
Ryder shakes his head, lifting his ball cap and raking a hand through his hair, before he replaces it and tugs it low over his eyes.
“Nope,” I manage. My voice couldn’t be any huskier. Clearing my throat, I turn back to the soup. “Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry.”
Ryder clears his throat, too, and moves to the silverware drawer, getting spoons. Rooney’s eyes flick once more between us as her grin widens. “Thanks, I’m not hungry just yet. I’ll take a rain check.”
The moment she turns the corner for her room, our shoulders drop with relief.
8
Willa
Playlist: “High (& Dua Lipa),” Whethan, Dua Lipa
It hasn’t been consuming my brain every spare minute I have, which isn’t that many spare minutes, between all the fretting I do about Mama, soccer, my grades, my career, the question of eternity, and the point of my existence.
Okay, it’s been a little consuming my brain. Was Ryder going to kiss me?
Listen, I am a tough chick. I am a Bad. Ass. Feminist. I don’t need a man to make me happy, and I sure as shit don’t need one to validate my worth.
But maybe, just maybe, I want a man who’s not only a penis to get off on, but an actual friend who knows and likes me. A big, warm body to wrap around me at night, to hold my hand and kill spiders and if I’m really lucky, tiddle my tulip and actually coax an orgasm from it. A man has yet to do it, and I’ve been told I’m high-maintenance in that department. Apparently, I’m the one to blame for that track record.
Is it so wrong to want someone who knows how to bust me just as well as how to rub my back? Maybe I’m a little tired of being big, brave Willa, who juggles it all. Maybe, just maybe Ryder Bergman wants to be that guy who catches a ball or two for me.
I can’t tell. Like, I really, really can’t tell. Sure, he pays me attention. He knows my schedule and we see each other most days of the week and text during all others, but Mac smooshed us together like peanut butter and jelly on the shitty Wonder Bread that is this hellacious course I enrolled in. We’re practically dissolved into each other at this point, for all the work we have to do jointly.
He was probably just fucking with me, how I fucked with him in Business Math. But that seems like dangerous territory, to pretend to flirt with each other, to feign seduction. Doesn’t it get tricky, when you’re sparking and colliding, constantly circling each other, two hungry, horny animals, to differentiate what’s fact and what’s fiction?
Currently, Ryder types a million miles an hour, like some Pentagon techie who took too many uppers and washed them down with taurine-laced coffee. The man puts the tense in intense.
“Ryder?”
I sit to his right. He’s at the long side of the table because the guy man-spreads like no other, while I’m at the short end of the table. He should be able to hear me.
His fingers peck brutally at the keys. He will break those keys to submission. He will subdue them to his typing will.
His eyes are narrowed in focus. I poke his arm. Ryder continues typing, but his keystrokes slow, a monsoon tapering to a steady drizzle.
“You okay, there, Sasquatch?”
Slowly, he swivels his head my way. I get one single nod, before he turns back.
We’re working on separate parts of the final project right now, but frankly, I’m more concerned about the testing portion. If it’s remotely similar to the midterm we just took and I barely squeaked a B minus from, then I need to up my game. When I told Ryder as much via text yesterday, he agreed we could study together, but since I got to his place and we ate in bizarrely banter-free silence, he’s been hacking away at his computer like a cracked-up crazy.
“Are we going to study, Ryder?”
His typing slows even further. Now it’s a lingering drip. Those green eyes swivel to my face and down to my mouth, then back up. Standing abruptly, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a massive pile of notecards, then walks over to his couch.
“O…kay?” I glance over my shoulder. Ryder’s spreading the cards on his coffee table in some system I have no understanding of. I try not to stare but fail. He’s unfortunately mesmerizing, mountain man forearms poking out of his flannel. Tonight it’s white with hunter green, gold, and blue plaid. It makes his hair blonder, his eyes greener, and his worn blue jeans pop as they hug his muscly legs.
