Somewhere I Couldn’t Reach

“Bring it here,” I said.

Owen approached the bed with the tube in his hand.

“You should check whether it’s the same kind of rash first.”

“You sound like the nurse.”

“She was pretty clear about not putting random things on your skin.”

I laughed and pushed my collar down enough to show him the irritated patch near my shoulder.

He looked for half a second.

Then he looked at the tube again with tremendous concentration.

“It looks like what I had,” he said. “But if it doesn’t settle down, you should go tomorrow.”

“I’ll go if I need to.”

He held up the cream.

I took it, disappeared behind my curtain, and waited.

The light beneath the fabric shifted when he returned to his desk.

I pulled my shirt off and lay on my stomach. My skin really did itch. That was the convenient thing about the situation. I did not need to invent the problem, only make careful use of it.

I squeezed a little cream onto my fingertips and reached behind me.

I could touch the edge of the patch.

Barely.

“That’s annoying,” I murmured.

His chair stopped creaking.

I tried again and sighed more audibly.

“Julian?”

I opened the curtain.

Owen stood below me.

“Did you drop it?”

“No. I just can’t reach.”

He looked at my bare shoulders, then immediately at my face.

“Could Marcus help?”

“He’s asleep.”

“Ben?”

“Do you want to interrupt him while he’s losing?”

As if summoned, Ben shouted something unprintable from the other bedroom.

Owen sighed.

“I can help.”

“That would be lovely.”

He reached up.

His hand fell short of my back.

I watched him calculate the distance, the position of the ladder, and the limited space between my mattress and the ceiling.

“You’ll have to come up,” I said.

“There isn’t much room.”

“I’ll make some.”

I moved toward the wall.

Owen stared at the resulting strip of mattress as though it might collapse under him.

“It’s rated for adults,” I added. “I checked.”

He gave me a suspicious look.

I smiled innocently.

Eventually he took off his shoes and climbed the ladder.

The bed shifted beneath his weight. He crouched beside me, one hand braced against the frame, his shoulders almost touching the ceiling.

“You look uncomfortable,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

“You could sit.”

He sat on the edge.

I handed him the tube and turned my face toward my pillow.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

“Owen?”

“I’m just reading the instructions.”

“There can’t be that many.”

“You’re supposed to use a thin layer.”

“Then use a thin layer.”

Another pause.

I glanced back.

He was holding his breath.

“You can use your fingers,” I said gently.

“I know.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

He looked at me then, and for a second something amused flickered beneath the embarrassment.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m itchy. My life is very difficult.”

He shook his head.

The first touch was cool cream and warm fingertips. I flinched before I could stop myself.

His hand vanished.

“Did that hurt?”

“No. Your hand surprised me.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and help.”

He began again, carefully smoothing the cream over the irritated skin.

I let my eyes close.

For somebody so large, he could be remarkably gentle. His free hand rested on the mattress beside my shoulder. When the frame creaked, he shifted his weight away from me before continuing.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Much.”

He worked in silence for a minute.

I could hear him breathing. The lamp below us made a soft gold stripe beneath the curtain. Somewhere outside, students were laughing on their way back from the library.

Our little pocket of space felt separate from the rest of the suite.

I liked it too much.

“You don’t have to be quite so careful,” I said.

“Your skin’s already irritated.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Tell me if it does.”

There it was again. The seriousness. As though looking after me was work he intended to do properly.

I turned my head and watched him.

He had a small scar near his chin. I had noticed it before, usually while inventing reasons to stand too close.

“How did you get that?” I asked.

His fingers paused.

“What?”

“The scar.”

“Bike accident when I was eleven.”

“Were you showing off?”

“I thought I could jump a ditch.”

“And could you?”

“Almost.”

I laughed into my pillow.

He smiled, relaxed for the first time since climbing up.

Then a drop of sweat fell from his temple onto my shoulder.

He wiped it away so quickly I almost laughed again.

“Sorry. It’s hot up here.”

“You said it was hot this morning too.”

He stared at the cream.

I decided not to press my advantage. There was only so much pleasure a person could reasonably fit into one evening.

When he finished, he screwed the cap onto the tube.

“Leave it uncovered for a little while.”

“How long?”

“Until it dries.”

“That sounds vague.”

“I didn’t write the instructions.”

I smiled. He was much more interesting when he forgot to be nervous.

He began moving toward the ladder.

I rolled onto my side.

“Don’t do that yet.” His hand landed on my arm, stopping me. “You’ll rub it onto the sheet.”

I looked at his hand.

He removed it.

“I always sleep on my side,” I said.

“Just stay on your stomach for a little while.”

“I can’t fall asleep like this.”

“You don’t have to fall asleep yet.”

“I’m tired.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I could stay until it dries.”

“And what happens if I roll over afterward?”

“Then it should be okay.”

“Should be?”

He looked trapped. I was becoming extremely fond of that expression.

I moved closer to the wall, making room again.

“I have a better idea.”

Owen went very still.

I rested my cheek on my folded arms and looked up at him.

For once, I could hear my heartbeat beneath all my careful planning.

“Stay with me tonight. If you put your arm around me, I won’t roll over.”