Cinnamon Eyes

by Nell Iris

  “Okay.”

  “It will only take a minute. Will you stay?”

  “Are you sure you want me to? I’d understand if you want to spend time with your friend.”

  He started shaking his head before I even had time to finish. “I’m certain.”

  His pale green eyes shone with honesty and vulnerability, and I believed him.

  “I’ll stay.”

  His shoulders slumped, and his entire body relaxed, as if someone had opened a valve and let out all his anxiousness. He squeezed my leg and stood. “Don’t go anywhere.” He was deadly serious.

  “I won’t.” So was I.

  Nodding, he bent down and pressed soft lips against my forehead. Then he turned and stalked across the floor, ripped open the door, and thundered down the stairs.

  Chapter 4

  Grabbing the used tea mugs, I carried them to the kitchen, where I washed them and left them in the dish drainer to dry. When I was done, I leaned back against the counter and let my gaze sweep over the apartment, taking in Asher’s home.

  It was an open floor plan with no walls except for the outer ones of the building. The ceiling was high as a cathedral with chunky pillars holding it up, and I realized that what looked like two stories from the outside, was only one. With the exception of a loft above the kitchen area.

  The walls were the same bare red brick as downstairs, and the entire apartment gave off an industrial, yet homey, vibe. Asher’s apartment wouldn’t have been out of place back in New York.

  It was sparsely decorated with the couch, a couple armchairs, and the coffee table. And across from the sofa—where the TV normally would be—was Asher’s stereo. Two enormous speakers and a turntable, prominently displayed and surrounded by mood lighting.

  And the pièce de résistance: an entire wall of shelves filled with vinyl records.

  Unable to resist their calling—they pulled at me like a siren song—I walked over to them. They were stored in classic Ikea units with square shelving, perfect for vinyls. Every square was filled. I did a quick calculation. If each of them held fifty, Asher had something like four thousand records here.

  Walking along the units, I dragged my hand gently over the backs of the records until I came to the last row. As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of one of my favorite albums and gasped.

  The Smiths. Strangeways, Here We Come.

  I’d recognize the cover with that beige, blurry face anywhere. I pulled it out and sank to the floor, carefully cradling it in my hands.

  I remembered when we’d bought it. As usual, we’d been browsing the store together, starting at opposite ends of the second-hand row. And every time one of us had found something they thought the other would like, we’d hold it up and ask, “What about this?”

  Asher had dug out this record from a crate and held it up for me—knowing I loved it desperately—but I hadn’t had the money to buy it. I never had any money. My parents had worked hard on teaching me the value of frugality and gave me hardly any allowance. I hadn’t been allowed to get a job. Instead, I’d been expected to spend all my time studying, preparing for a prosperous future. So, ironically, the rich kid on the block had been the poorest.

  “It’s okay, I’ll get it for you,” Asher had said, but I’d tried to protest. He was even poorer than me, and he’d saved for a long time so he could buy something he wanted. I had tried to convince him not to waste his money on me, but he’d ignored my objections and bought it anyway.

  We used to lie on the floor and listen to it. Learning the lyrics by heart and singing along, happy we hadn’t been as miserable as the singer seemed to be.

  “I can play it now, you know.”

  I jerked at the sound of his voice, not having heard him come back upstairs.

  “What?” I asked as I looked up at him where he towered over me.

  All the tension from before was gone, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in a fond smile.

  “Your favorite song,” he said and tipped his head down at the record. “If it still is your favorite, that is.”

  “Oh. Yes, it is.”

  Asher fetched an acoustic guitar from somewhere I couldn’t see—one even more beat up than the one he’d played downstairs—and sat cross-legged in front of me. He plucked the strings and twisted the tuning pegs a little at the time until all six strings were in harmony.

  He went from plucking to strumming the first chords, and I smiled as I recognized them. When he sang the first words, my mouth fell open and every hair on my body stood straight up.

  His raspy voice was perfect for the sad lyrics. It was impossibly intimate to sit this close to him and listen to him pouring his soul into the song. When he came to my absolute favorite part and sang about how he’d felt real arms around him last night, hot tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks, leaving burning trails in their wake.

  Loud, desolate sobs broke free, and my hands flew to my mouth to try to keep them back. Asher stumbled on the lyrics but kept singing, words scratchier than ever, pale, worried eyes never leaving my face.

  When he finished the song, he flung the guitar away—not caring where it landed—and took the record still laying on my lap. He leaned it against the shelf and held out his hand to me, palm up.

  Ignoring it, I threw my dignity out the window, climbed onto his lap, and clung to him like a monkey. Legs wound around his waist and arms in a desperate hold on his sharp shoulders. Hiding my face in the crook of his neck.

  He hugged me tight. “Oh, Cory. What happened to you?” he whispered, his mouth so close to my ear that the puffs of air he expelled as he spoke made me shiver.

  I held my breath, trying to calm myself enough to answer. “I’m so unhappy,” I finally managed.

  “Why, honey?”

  Hearing him calling me honey in that rumbling voice made me cry even harder. My mom had never called me anything other than Cory. Unless she was angry, then I was Cory Harold Jones.

  I couldn’t remember when someone had held me the last time. My parents had never been particularly fond of displays of affection. Public or private. Neither of them had bothered to hug me even when I’d graduated the top of my class in college.

  “Cory. Hang on tight,” Asher mumbled in my ear. He freed one of his arms while strengthening his grip on the other. Then he somehow managed to get up on his feet with me still clinging to him. He was much stronger than he looked, but then again, I weighed little more than a feather these days.

  I didn’t look where we were going; I had complete faith in him. I would let him carry me to the end of the world if he wanted.

  We ended up in the loft. He sat down on the bed with me still in his arms.

  “Let me take off your shoes,” he said as he pulled off my sneakers. Then he kicked off his own and scooted backward until his back was against the wall.

  “Talk to me, honey.”

  “You want me to climb off?” I mumbled into his neck.

  “God, no.”

  I did, however, move my leg so they were both in the same direction and I sat sideways on his lap, with my face still buried in the crook of his neck.

  “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” I croaked out.

  “You clearly need someone to talk to. And I’m so fucking happy that you still trust me this much.”

  “I wanted to keep in touch, but Mother wouldn’t let me.”

  “I’m not surprised. She hated me.”

  I didn’t bother to deny it. She’d never tried to hide her disdain for him; I saw no reason to cover for her.

  Eventually, my tears dried, and I drew a shuddering breath. “I’m depressed,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I have a full-blown depression. I worked myself into the ground. Eighty-hour work weeks at a job I abhorred. One day, eighteen months ago, I…couldn’t get out of bed. Literally.”

  “No?” he asked.

  “I tried. My alarm went off. I had several important meetin
gs. I threw off my blanket and everything, but I couldn’t make my legs move. I couldn’t…I couldn’t…”

  “Hush, honey. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “Can I, uh, can I touch you? Your skin?” I needed his warmth. And to feel connected to him.

  “Of course.”

  I fingered the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up little by little until I could lay my hand on his stomach.

  “Ooooh.” I drew in a moan. His belly was as soft as I had imagined and an amazing contrast to all the other sharp angles of his body. I fanned out my fingers and hummed as his silky body hair tickled my palm.

  I could feel his smile against the top of my head.

  “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  “Better.” I let my fingers caress his skin. “I’ve been in therapy for over a year. I tried medication, but I was allergic to the stuff.”

  “Are you still working?”

  “No. I quit. My parents were furious,” I replied.

  “Why?”

  “They don’t believe in depression.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.” I circled my finger around his belly button.

  “What do you mean, they don’t believe in it?”

  “According to them, I just need to pull myself up by the bootstraps.” I grimaced. “‘Just get out of bed, Cory, how hard can it be?’” My impression of my mother was terrible, but I was sure Asher got the gist.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know how they are. Everything is about ambition and appearance.”

  “I remember.”

  Letting my eyes drift closed, I slid my hand around him. As I touched his side, he giggled.

  “Still ticklish?” I murmured, moved my hand away from the sensitive area, and buried my nose deeper in the crook of his neck.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry.” I was so close, my lips touched his skin as I spoke. His stubble rasped my temple, his heartbeat thundered in my ear, and my hand resting on his stomach rose and fell with his every breath.

  I started drifting. I could easily fall asleep in his arms, surrounded by his warmth.

  The thought made me jerk awake, and I straightened, rubbing my eyes. “I guess I should go.”

  “You could stay. The bed is big enough for both of us.”

  Pulling on my earlobe, I glanced at the bed and then I looked at him. The thought of sleeping next to him was intoxicating, and I wanted to scream yes. But at the same time, it scared me. It was all I’d ever wanted when we were teenagers, and now that the opportunity was in my reach, I was too anxious to accept.

  “I mean it. I don’t want you wandering the streets by yourself when you’re upset.”

  I averted my gaze. Was that the only reason he’d offered?

  “And I would love to sleep next to you.”

  How did he do that? How could he read me so perfectly after all this time?

  “Okay.” I wanted to stay. Why should I keep objecting just for the sake of it?

  His face split in a smile. “Awesome. Lemme get you something to sleep in, and we’ll go to bed.”

  I nodded and dragged myself off his lap. He got me a fresh toothbrush and a pair of work-out shorts for me to wear. Then he pointed me in the direction of the bathroom adjacent to the loft.

  It only took me a few minutes to get ready for the night—I had to pull the drawstring in the loose pants tight so they wouldn’t fall off my hips—and I stepped out to an empty room. Asher had turned down the covers on the bed, and all I wanted to do was crawl into it and burrow my head down in the pillow that looked fluffier than a cloud.

  I brushed my hand over the duvet, and the comforting scent of freshly laundered linen drifted into my nose. It was one of my favorite things in the world: take a shower and then lie down in a clean bed between crisp sheets. It had been my way of surviving my stressful job for a long time. Until it didn’t work any longer.

  Goosebumps spread over my naked chest, and I shivered. I crossed my arms and shoved my hands in my armpits as I bounced on the balls of my feet to keep warm while waiting for Asher to return. I didn’t want to get into bed without him; I had no idea which side he slept on.

  A few seconds later, footsteps approached on the stairs.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Asher rumbled behind me, making me shiver even more, but not from the cold this time. A heartbeat later, he put his hands on my upper arms, rubbing me from shoulder to elbow, trying to warm me up. “You’re ice cold.”

  I hummed in reply. Most of the time, I didn’t even notice anymore, but when his warmth seeped in through my skin, the rest of me felt the chill acutely.

  Asher’s hands wandered down my sides—calloused fingertips dragging over my ribs, down to my waist where he fanned out his fingers. For a second, I thought he would be able to reach around me, but his fingers stopped short a few inches from each other.

  “Oh, Cory.” He rested his chin on the top of my head. “You’re nothing but skin and bones.” His voice was full of regret.

  I bit my lip. “It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

  The words I had meant as comfort seemed to have the opposite effect. His grip on my waist tightened, and he cleared his throat.

  “I’m glad you’re getting better,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

  Glancing down at my body, I tried to see myself through Asher’s eyes. Did he see the same pale, skinny guy I did? With ribs sticking out so much they were easy to count, a concave stomach, and legs covered in black fur with bony knees? I’d never been a muscular guy, but I didn’t use to be this scrawny and unattractive.

  “Let’s go to bed.” His voice interrupted my self-scrutiny.

  “Um, where…?” I pointed between the different sides of the bed.

  “You choose; I don’t have a preference.”

  I picked the side closest to the bathroom and crawled under the covers, positioning myself on my side, facing Asher. He lay his hand—palm up—between us on the bed. Even in the dim light, I could see the callouses on his fingertips, and I reached out and touched them.

  Fingertip against fingertip, I shivered as his scratchy skin came in contact with my smooth one. Scooting closer, I studied his hand. He had deep grooves on the fingertips of his left hand, and I prodded them with my fingernail.

  “Guitarist fingers,” he mumbled.

  Pressing my palm against his, I hummed and closed my eyes. “Goodnight, Asher.”

  “Night, honey.”

  The sound of his breathing was familiar and unusual at the same time, and brought back memories of our sleepovers when we were kids. Of evenings spent watching movies and laughing and ignoring my mother’s displeased look. Of nights spent on two mattresses on the floor in front of the TV, whispering to each other in the dark so we wouldn’t wake up my parents.

  I’d never had that with anyone after Asher.

  Was my longing for him just loneliness, a want for human companionship and a real friend? Or was it Asher himself I needed?

  The answer was right in front of me when I opened my eyes. It was all him.

  His eyes fluttered open. “Can’t sleep?”

  “I’ve never slept in the same bed with anyone before,” I whispered.

  Asher squeezed my hand so hard, I felt like it was stuck in a vice. “Oh, Cory. You’re breaking my fucking heart.” He scooted closer and freed his hand from mine. “Lift your head,” he instructed, and I did as I was told. He snaked his arm under my neck and pulled me close until I was lying on his shoulder. “Sleep, honey.”

  Surrounded by his scent, I did.

  Chapter 5

  Furious buzzing woke me. I opened my eyes, blinked, and rubbed away the sleep with my fingers. Sometime during the night, Asher and I had drifted apart, but we were still facing each other. His cheeks and chin were covered in dark stubble, and I wanted to lean forward and rub my face against all that fabulous scratchiness.

  After a brief bre
ak, the buzzing restarted. Asher groaned and stirred, throwing his arm back, fumbling around for the offending noisemaker.

  “I’m gonna buy a fucking gun so I can shoot that damn thing,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

  I snorted. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just drop it in the toilet?”

  His eyes flew open, and he gasped when he saw me. He squeezed them shut and reopened them slowly, as if to make sure I wasn’t a hallucination. I chuckled.

  “Cory. It wasn’t a dream.”

  “No,” I confirmed. I’d jerked awake once during the night, filled with the same fears, but they’d eased when I’d seen him lying next to me, looking completely relaxed in his sleep.

  “You gonna get that?” I asked when the angry buzzing refused to stop.

  When he finally found the phone and looked at the display, he furrowed his eyebrows. “Yeah, gotta take this,” he said. “Hello?”

  The caller sounded upset, loud and gruff. Even though I couldn’t make out the words, his tone carried through the connection.

  “What? Today? But I thought it was tomorrow? Mhm. Pops! Calm down. It’s just—”

  The voice on the other end grew louder. Asher grimaced, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood, languidly stretching his limbs, arching his back, and scratched his neck.

  “Yeah, I’ll take you. But like I said: you need to let me know the day before. I’ve—yeah. I’ll be there in thirty.”

  He threw the phone on the bed. “Sorry about that.” He stomped to the closet and rummaged around for clothes. “I have to drive Pops to the doctor. His appointment was for tomorrow, but, apparently, the time had been changed and he forgot to tell me about it.”

  As he turned to me and yanked on his pants, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His long legs disappeared into a pair of black jeans so tight, I was amazed he even managed to pull them over his hips. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry, and I could have sworn my tongue had doubled in size.

  I knew I should get dressed and let Asher take his father to the doctor. I knew I should stop staring at him like a drowning man stares at a lifebuoy. And I definitely knew I should not ask him to turn around so I could see what his ass looked like in those pants.