The Monday before Thanksgiving, I did yoga again. It had only been a week since I first started, but so far I had done it everyday. It felt nice. I found myself more energized. I don't know if it exactly helped me relax, but I wasn't reacting with anger as often. Again, it had only been a week, but the progress was motivating. I just had to be sure to not be mad at myself if I didn't stay consistent. If I tripped, I just had to stand back up.
After showering and changing into work clothes, I went into my office. I already heard Emerson on the other side of the door. I stepped into the reception area to find him nodding his head as he listened to music on his headphones. He was wearing a long, tunic sweater in a navy blue color. The sweater was hanging off of one of his shoulders. His skin always looked good. I was a little jealous because I had blemishes on my back. My dermatologist said it was sweat-induced folliculitis, meaning my sweat loved clogging my hair follicles. But Em's skin, it was soft and smooth, like silk. He had nice olive undertones, his summer tan fading. His shoulder was almost shiny, and I couldn't help but picture how smooth it would feel against my lips. I had to shake the thought from my head.
Em turned around, flashing me his shining smile. "Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," I said. "You look nice today."
"Really?" he asked, looking down at his outfit. "I've had this sweater forever. It's actually my dad's, but he grew out of it."
"Yeah, it's chic. Blue is your color," I said, leaning against the couch.
"Well thank you," he said, sitting in his chair. "Can we not do anything this week?"
"What would you like to not do?" I asked, smirking.
"Everything. Everyone knows the days before Thanksgiving is a waste of time and is not worth doing anything," he said. "Plus, look at this dreary ass weather. It's so gray and cold and gross. Where is the natural lighting? I know you're a vampire, but I'm not."
"Oh I'm a vampire am I?" I asked.
"Yes, you sit in your little dark dungeon with your curtains closed."
"You can open them anytime."
"I'll take you up on that offer." Em walked into my office, side eyeing me as he went by, and began opening all of the curtains in my office. Even though it was dreary weather, the room lit up. He really did glow in the light. He plopped down on the couch, kicking off his boots. He glanced at me over the back of the couch.
"I suppose if you don't want to be productive you do not have to, at least not until I really need you to," I said, shutting the door.
"No. You have to be unproductive too," he said, cozying up on the couch.
"I have work to do," I said and sat on my desk.
"No, please? That's so boring. Please, won't you be lazy with me?" he asked, batting his lashes. I hate that it worked on me.
"What would you like to do then?" I asked with a sigh.
He shrugged. "I don't know." He glanced around the room. "What's in that closet?" He nodded to a closet in the left corner.
I smirked. "That closet? That's my fun closet."
His eyes lit up. "Fun how?" He frowned. "Ew, fun how?"
I laughed, saying, "Go take a look if you want."
He sat up and walked to the closet, side eyeing me again, and opened the doors. He laughed. "Is this a lightsaber?" he asked. He pulled out my very nice lightsaber.
"Yeah, it is. Hit the button," I said.
He pressed the button on the handle and it lit up red, sound effects included. "Wow," he said. "That's fancy. Why red? Why not the green one?"
"I like the red one," I said. "Darth Vader has a red lightsaber."
"The bad guy," he said, waving it around, sound effects still included.
"Yes, of course. You've never seen Star Wars?" I asked.
"I've seen the third one where Hayden Christiansen has long hair because he's really hot in that one. I didn't know you were a nerd," Em said, turning the lightsaber off.
"I'm not a nerd."
"People who like Stars Wars are nerds. It's the truth."
"'Only siths deal in absolutes.'"
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just a nerd thing."
He put the lightsaber back into the cabinet, then pulled out my guitar. With a tilt of his head, he looked at me. "Will you play something?"
I held out my hand as an invite. When he handed me the guitar, I asked, "What do you want to hear?"
"I don't know," he said and sat down. "Do you have any originals?"
"Of course, but you're not going to hear them. No one does," I said. "You will have to settle for a cover."
"Oh come on. Please?" he asked like a child.
"Nope. No one ever gets to hear anything I've written." All of my snippets of songs were kept in my notebook, along with various thoughts, doodles, reminders, and lists. "And I am not budging on that so you need to make up your mind."
"Fine. And I don't know...Whitney Houston?" he asked, smiling.
"I can't sing like her. I mean, no one can, but especially not me," I said, strumming a few chords to see if it was still in tune.
"Well I don't know then. You pick a song."
I played a few notes, contemplating. I thought of a few different acoustic only songs I knew of, and settled on Moon River. It was a quieter song, but I liked it because it was peaceful. I didn't look at Em when I sang. Singing in front of people was something I hadn't done in probably a decade. In my early twenties, I did it all the time, especially when I was with Marion and Carla. We usually played rock music, but I liked playing acoustic best actually. My father played the acoustic guitar in his youth. He showed me how to play as a child. Even after he succumbed to alcoholism, every now and then I would catch a glimpse of what my father used to be when he would pick up the guitar and play a song.
When I was done, I glanced up at Em, who had glistening eyes. "You're not supposed to cry," I said.
"It's a nice song is all," he said, smiling softly. He blinked away the tears welling. "Why don't you play much anymore?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I still do, every now and then, just play around on the guitar or the piano at home," I said.
"You have a good singing voice," he said, pulling the throw blanket on the back of the couch over him.
"Thank you. I inherited it from my father," I said. "He sang us to sleep a lot."
"That's sweet of him," he said.
"Yeah...sometimes, when I was very, very young, probably not even in school yet, I would go into my parents' bedroom late at night. I would wake Dad up, saying I couldn't sleep. So we would get in the car and he would drive me around. He'd be in the front. I'd be in the back. He'd sing to me, quiet songs like Moon River, until I fell asleep. But usually, I just pretended to be asleep. That way he would pick me up and carry me inside."
"That's so adorable," Em said, smiling. I'm sure he was surprised that I was sharing such an intimate anecdote.
"Yeah, but unfortunately, as I got older, my father would stop at the bar when he thought I was asleep. He was never gone that long. At first, it was probably just a drink or two, but eventually it would take thirty to forty minutes to return to the car. When he forgot me in the car instead of carrying me inside, I stopped going to him when I couldn't sleep."
Em looked at me sadly, with his puppy dog eyes again. "That's sad," he said quietly.
"Yes...but my father has been sober for almost two decades now. He's done much better in retirement," I said. "Work wasn't easy on him. Then he got laid off. My parents deserved their early retirement."
Em looked at me in the way he did sometimes, not with pity but just with sympathy. He didn't have to say he cared; I could just tell he did. Still, he looked at me like that more than I wanted him to. Was my life really that sad? I wanted him to look at me with more joy in his eyes than sadness and sympathy. Maybe I wasn't deserving of that joy. Why did my mind always go that way? Why do I think I deserve so little? It's hard to get my head out of that thought process, because I just don't think I deserve it. Why? I want to. I want to feel like I deserve something more than pain and sadness but it's so hard to convince myself of that. If it's that hard, then maybe I don't deserve it.
"Do you want to lay down?" Em asked.
"Where?" I asked.
Em glanced down, a tiny smile on his face. "On the couch," he said simply. The couch wasn't big enough for him to sit and for me to lay down. When he read my confusion, he said, "Come here," lifting the blanket. "Take off your shoes."
Surprisingly, I did as he said. I had work to do, but I found myself taking off my shoes, putting the guitar back in the closet, and walking over to him. Based on his gesturing, he wanted me to lay down with my head resting on top of his chest. He wanted me to lay down on him. He was testing the boundaries, I think - testing what we could get away with based on our amendment. It still felt wrong, but I did as he said. I laid down on my front, resting my head on his chest, and he covered us with the blanket. In a matter of moments, I was asleep.
Any time I was hooking up with someone - even sometimes when I was in some type of relationship - sleeping in the same bed or room was difficult. I could nod off sometimes, but whenever someone was in the same bed or let alone the same room, it was rare to get a good night's sleep. When I stayed the night at Em's on his first night in his new apartment, it was surprising that I managed to get a few hours of solid sleep. I just slept better alone (which was not saying much).
I ended up sleeping almost two hours in a deep, solid state of sleep. I don't think I had ever fallen asleep that quickly, at least sober. Then to nap? I never napped. Everything about this situation was nothing but surprising. I woke up with the sound of Em's heartbeat under me. When I said he was soft like a pillow, this just confirmed it. I couldn't get up. I wanted to stay like that forever. Even the guilt eating away at me wasn't strong enough for me to sit up. He just felt so good under me. I couldn't help but think of how else he could feel good under me. It was when I realized I had drooled on him did I lift my head, wiping the drool. "Sorry," I said.
"It's fine," he said quietly, looking content with himself.
I sat up all the way, stretching my arms over me. "God, it's lunchtime?" I asked.
"Yeah, I know you're probably hungry," he said. "I can order us something from the restaurant."
"Yeah, that'll be fine," I said, debating on standing. I didn't want to. I glanced at him, then lied back down but this time on my back, my head over his stomach. His legs were on either side of me. I seemed to fit so well against him, like this is exactly where we were supposed to be. Still, guilt was eating at me. This wasn't normal.
Em put his phone in front of me so I could place my order. As I held his phone, he rubbed my temples. It felt great. "Do you feel better?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" I asked, scrolling through the menu.
"I dunno, I feel like you were getting in your head," he said, rubbing my cranium.
"I guess I was. I didn't know you could tell." I ordered the beef tips.
"I can always tell. I wish I could just pluck out all the troubled thoughts you have," he said, drumming his fingers over my forehead.
"That would be nice," I said, closing my eyes. "That's not your job, though."
"Well, that doesn't mean I don't want to." He took his phone back.
"My self-deprecating thoughts and your anxiety-inducing worries are a good pair."
He laughed. "I don't think my anti-anxiety meds work as well as they should," he said.
Cheryl referred me to a psychiatrist for a medicine consultation. I hadn't scheduled the appointment yet. The side effects freaked me out. I didn't understand how it could help if the side effects were synonymous with some of my existing problems. Plus...they could cause sexual issues. I didn't want that.
We sat like that for a few minutes, in silence as he rubbed my head. When the food was ready to be picked up, I let Em stay in the office while I went to grab it. I walked past Michael and Emilio's offices, but they were empty. I found them in the front reception area with Sasha.
Michael looked me up and down. "Nice hair," he said.
I tried to see what I looked like in the reflection of the glass door, but I could just barely make out that my hair was messy. "I took a nap," I said.
"That's rare for you," Emilio said.
I shrugged. "I was tired," I said.
"Probably the new pillow you got for the office," Michael said, which was enough for me to know that he must have walked in on me sleeping on Em.
I frowned. "Shouldn't you guys be working?" I asked. "Get to work."
"Says the guy who took a nap," Michael said, but I was walking to the elevator.
"Hey, you're the one who made me CEO. Get to work," I said, smirking, as the elevator doors shut.