become acutely aware of space over the last few hours, how my mind and body react to the proximity of Gray. I start to mentally record my observations:
GRAY PROXIMITY SCALE:
Standing in the Same Room = Generalized anxiety, stomach flips, hyper awareness, physical need to repress the smile reflex.
Three Feet Away = Light-headedness, urge to touch magnified, noticeable face flush.
One Foot Away = WARNING—ENTERING PRZ (pheromone release zone). Body detects sex pheromones triggering sexual desire, heart spasms, tingling of nerve endings in lips, tongue and fingertips, noticeable heart palpitations, pelvic muscles contracting.
Six Inches Away = WARNING—ENTERING KZ (kissing zone). Sensory overload, heightened sense of smell, taste, and touch, elevated body temperature, hormone levels increase approximately 1,000%, shallow breath, diminished decision-making ability.
Less Than Six Inches Away = ABORT. ABORT. THERE IS NO GOING BACK.
I silently wonder if a body suit made out of steel could repel any of these symptoms.
When Sue Anne opens the guest bedroom and we walk in, Gray’s mouth drops open.
I look around and feel like we stepped inside a five-year-old girl’s play fort. Everything is pink. The quilt on the bed, the frilly curtains, the lamp shades, even the chair in the corner looks like it’s wearing a pink tutu.
Gray’s eyes are fixed on the full-sized bed, sitting in the middle of the room. I can almost see a red DO NOT ENTER warning sign emblazed over the patchwork quilt.
“I hope this will do,” Sue Anne remarks.
The room’s tiny. There’s hardly any floor space so sleeping next to the bed isn’t an option. Even the bed looks small, or maybe objects appear smaller than normal when viewed through sexual tension.
Gray points over his shoulder.
“Ah, I noticed a couch in the living room. Would it be alright if I crashed in there later?” he asks.
She shakes her head.
“Sorry, but my husband is a terrible snorer. It sounds like a snow plow’s driving through our room, so I kick him out of bed around midnight. He uses the couch.”
Gray nods. “No problem,” he says. He meets my eyes and I shrug.
Sue Anne offers me a quick smile and a wink before she shuts the door. I smile back, but it’s as weak as tissue paper. I feel terrible. Gray was nice enough to give me a ride to Flagstaff. Sharing a bed, with our past, takes our predicament from uncomfortable to painful.
I look around the room and an old fashioned wooden clock on the wall points to ten o’clock. Gray looks nowhere near tired. I’m not sure which is worse for him, being enclosed in a tiny bedroom with me for the night, or dodging tornados. They seem to be equally horrifying.
He sits down on the tutu chair. I almost raise my camera to take a picture, but I doubt Gray wants me to document the most awkward moment of his life. The small pink chair only makes his body stand out, long and dark and masculine against it. I notice the solid line of his calf muscles. I lick my lips and look away.
“Isn’t this great?” I ask and sit on the corner of the bed. Gray lowers his eyebrows at my terrible joke. “We’re basically getting a free room at a bed and breakfast,” I point out.
He nods. “It’s a perfect travel budget,” he agrees. “I’ll try to drive into oncoming storms more often.”
I laugh and I’m grateful for the joke. At least his sarcasm is intact.
I pull out my pigtails and my damp hair falls wavy around my neck. I run my fingers through it and my hair gets caught in knots and I realize I don’t have a comb. I had been borrowing Nick’s the entire trip. I blow out a sigh and stare down at my naked feet, complete with a flip flop tan line. Gray used to trace his fingers over all my tan lines, like a maze, starting at my feet and working his way up, although he never made it all the way to my head. There were too many interesting detours to take along the way. I shift and look over at Gray
GRAY PROXIMITY SCALE:
Standing in the Same Room = Generalized anxiety, stomach flips, hyper awareness, physical need to repress the smile reflex.
Three Feet Away = Light-headedness, urge to touch magnified, noticeable face flush.
One Foot Away = WARNING—ENTERING PRZ (pheromone release zone). Body detects sex pheromones triggering sexual desire, heart spasms, tingling of nerve endings in lips, tongue and fingertips, noticeable heart palpitations, pelvic muscles contracting.
Six Inches Away = WARNING—ENTERING KZ (kissing zone). Sensory overload, heightened sense of smell, taste, and touch, elevated body temperature, hormone levels increase approximately 1,000%, shallow breath, diminished decision-making ability.
Less Than Six Inches Away = ABORT. ABORT. THERE IS NO GOING BACK.
I silently wonder if a body suit made out of steel could repel any of these symptoms.
When Sue Anne opens the guest bedroom and we walk in, Gray’s mouth drops open.
I look around and feel like we stepped inside a five-year-old girl’s play fort. Everything is pink. The quilt on the bed, the frilly curtains, the lamp shades, even the chair in the corner looks like it’s wearing a pink tutu.
Gray’s eyes are fixed on the full-sized bed, sitting in the middle of the room. I can almost see a red DO NOT ENTER warning sign emblazed over the patchwork quilt.
“I hope this will do,” Sue Anne remarks.
The room’s tiny. There’s hardly any floor space so sleeping next to the bed isn’t an option. Even the bed looks small, or maybe objects appear smaller than normal when viewed through sexual tension.
Gray points over his shoulder.
“Ah, I noticed a couch in the living room. Would it be alright if I crashed in there later?” he asks.
She shakes her head.
“Sorry, but my husband is a terrible snorer. It sounds like a snow plow’s driving through our room, so I kick him out of bed around midnight. He uses the couch.”
Gray nods. “No problem,” he says. He meets my eyes and I shrug.
Sue Anne offers me a quick smile and a wink before she shuts the door. I smile back, but it’s as weak as tissue paper. I feel terrible. Gray was nice enough to give me a ride to Flagstaff. Sharing a bed, with our past, takes our predicament from uncomfortable to painful.
I look around the room and an old fashioned wooden clock on the wall points to ten o’clock. Gray looks nowhere near tired. I’m not sure which is worse for him, being enclosed in a tiny bedroom with me for the night, or dodging tornados. They seem to be equally horrifying.
He sits down on the tutu chair. I almost raise my camera to take a picture, but I doubt Gray wants me to document the most awkward moment of his life. The small pink chair only makes his body stand out, long and dark and masculine against it. I notice the solid line of his calf muscles. I lick my lips and look away.
“Isn’t this great?” I ask and sit on the corner of the bed. Gray lowers his eyebrows at my terrible joke. “We’re basically getting a free room at a bed and breakfast,” I point out.
He nods. “It’s a perfect travel budget,” he agrees. “I’ll try to drive into oncoming storms more often.”
I laugh and I’m grateful for the joke. At least his sarcasm is intact.
I pull out my pigtails and my damp hair falls wavy around my neck. I run my fingers through it and my hair gets caught in knots and I realize I don’t have a comb. I had been borrowing Nick’s the entire trip. I blow out a sigh and stare down at my naked feet, complete with a flip flop tan line. Gray used to trace his fingers over all my tan lines, like a maze, starting at my feet and working his way up, although he never made it all the way to my head. There were too many interesting detours to take along the way. I shift and look over at Gray
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