Page 27 of Gray Hair Don't Care
Lela was happy about it, too, although moments like this made her feel a bit like she was once against stuck between the past and the present. “Oh, wait. I have a T-shirt that I think will fit you.” In the corner of the closet, she had a set of wire mesh sliding bins crammed with clothes she rarely wore. She had a very hard time throwing anything away. At the bottom of the last bin was an old R.E.M. T-shirt, faded raspberry pink with yellow printing of the band’s name and a simple line drawing of a bicycle. It was an XL, and had always been huge on her, so it would definitely be big enough. “Found it.” She stepped out of the closet and was quickly confronted with an image she should have prepared herself for—Donovan’s enticing bare chest and abs. “Oh. You, uh, took your shirt off.”
“Well, yeah. It has a giant yellow stain on the front of it.” A smug grin crossed his face as his arms casually hung at his sides. He was so at ease with himself, it always made her a little jealous. “It’s okay to look, Lela. You’ve seen me without my shirt tons of times.”
“Of course. Whatever.” She averted her eyes, knowing exactly how unable she was to brush this aside with a single dismissive word. Here they were, in the same room where he’d given her the orgasm that made her spill the beans. And his bare chest was calling to her. If things were different, and they definitely weren’t, it would’ve been two seconds before she was spreading her hands over his pecs and asking him if he was cool with dinner getting cold.
“Plus, I see your side-boob every time a bus goes by, so we’re even.”
Sights squarely focused on a lamp she didn’t care about, she thrust the T-shirt in his direction. “Here. This should fit. I’ll throw your shirt in the wash.”
“Hold on a second… I’ve been looking for this. For like over two decades.” Arms straight, he held the shirt out in front of him. “You had it all this time?”
“Had what? That ismyT-shirt. I specifically remember wearing it when we went to see R.E.M. at Madison Square Garden.”
“No way. I wore it that night. Not you. You wore a dress. Some green vintage thing with black tights and Doc Martens.” Donovan threaded his arms into the sleeves, tugging it over his head. “Look at this thing. This is my shirt. There’s no way you bought one this big.”
Lela gnawed on her thumbnail, her eyes raking over his too-appealing form. The T-shirt was old and wrinkled, but it fit him perfectly. “Huh.”
“Yeah, huh.”
“I guess itisyours. I wonder how I got it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I loaned it to you one of the times you crashed on the couch at my apartment?”
Lela was transported back in time to the many, many nights she slept over. He’d be in his bed, she in the living room, wondering why he didn’t like her more. “How do you remember what I wore to a concert thirty years ago?”
“It’s not hard to guess. That was your uniform at the time.”
That seemed like a convenient answer. He’d been specific about the color of her dress. What guy remembered that? “I guess.”
“That and lots of eyeliner.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder and she peered up into his face, wishing things had turned out differently between them, but maybe this was the way it was always meant to be—just friends, a bit of verbal sparring, nothing more. Still,Out of Touchinsisted on worming its way into her head, a song about longing, love, and contradiction. Hall & Oates were once again way too closely aligned with her psyche.
A loud meow came from Lela’s doorway. Rio happily padded his way into the room, straight up to Donovan.
“Oh, look. It’s Simon LeBon.” Donovan scooped up the cat and gave him a head scratch.
“His name is Rio and you know it.”
“I will never forget you gave him the lamest possible Duran Duran name.”
“Shut up, or I won’t wash your shirt.”
“Fine.” He smiled wide, then gently placed Rio back on the floor. “I would like to salvage it if I can.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Lela and Donovan returned downstairs, with Donovan going to the living room in search of wine and Lela heading to the laundry area off the kitchen. A thorough spray of stain remover and she tossed it into the wash, then joined her guests. In her de facto dining area, which was really just one end of the living room, Donovan, Delia, and Tammera were already seated, laughing and drinking wine. Placemats and plates were out, a candle was lit, and the vast array of takeout containers snaked across the center of the table.
“Who did all of this?” Lela asked, taking a seat next to Donovan.
“Tammera,” he answered.
“The candle was Donovan’s idea,” Tammera added. “I think we should eat. This food is getting colder by the minute.”
They passed the cartons and filled their plates, with everything from saag paneer to chicken tikka masala, plus more garlic naan and pakora than Lela had ever seen in her life. The food was amazing, as was the conversation, especially once they moved on to a second bottle of wine, the plates got cleared, and then they pulled the cork on a third.
“Wait a second. Hold on.” Tammera reached across the table and tapped the back of Donovan’s hand. “You have to tell me what Lela was like when you met her. In college.”
Donovan turned to her before he spoke, his eyes full of amusement and intoxication. Feeling a bit tipsy herself, Lela swallowed a sigh as she scanned his handsome features—the scruffy beard, the lips she wouldn’t mind kissing, and his adorable forehead wrinkles. Why did he have to be so nice to look at?
