The View Was Exhausting by Mikaella Clements

Chapter Eighteen

They’re nice,” Win said, leaning over the bathroom sink. She pulled her hair back into a bun, splashed her face, and went through the collection of bottles and glass pots of creams in the cupboard with a curious, assessing eye. “Your parents.”

“Mm, they’re all right,” Leo said, elbowing her for room and getting out a spare toothbrush. “They live in their own little world.”

“It’s a nice world, though.” Win pulled a tall tube from the top shelf, and started smoothing foam over her face in long, easy strokes. Leo watched, half-interested. “They love you.”

“Well, yeah,” Leo said. Win squinted open one eye, made a face at him, rinsed the cleanser off. He handed her a towel when she reached for one. While her face was pressed against the white cloth, he said, “They liked you, too, I think.”

“Me, too,” Win said, and looked up at him, mouth twitching. “I think so, too, I mean.”

Leo shrugged and spat toothpaste into the sink.

“Not that you lot are hard to charm, as a rule,” Win added. “You’re like a family of Labradors.”

“Mum’s actually a very frightening supermodel, thanks very much.”

“Ex-supermodel,” Win said. “Get out, I need to pee.”

Leo rinsed and went back into the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and eyed the bed with a steely gaze.

“This is a small bed, Whitman,” he called through the door.

“I guess you’ll just have to behave yourself,” Win shouted back.

“Hmm,” Leo said. He pulled off his sweater and rummaged through the drawers until he found a pair of sweatpants.

When Win opened the door again, she’d shucked off her jeans. She was wearing her silk shirt and a hard look in her eyes like a dare. “I didn’t bring anything to sleep in.”

Leo sat on the bed, leaning back on his hands. “Interesting.”

“I mean, you didn’t tell me to bring anything,” Win said, voice level. “Which I think is your fault, really, given that you should have known your mums would feed us mostly wine and we were going to be too drunk—”

“I’m not drunk! I’m tired, maybe.”

“And tired, maybe, to drive back,” Win said. “So, in conclusion—I would like your shirt, please.”

“Would you,” Leo said, and looked at the chest of drawers, which had plenty of spare T-shirts, his and Gum’s and Hannah’s. Nice T-shirts, designer T-shirts, or ones specifically meant to sleep in, not the ragged Chicago Bulls tee he was in, a shirt he’d picked up six years ago and hadn’t got out of the habit of wearing. Six years meant he’d had it in his life almost as long as he’d had Win.

Win followed his gaze, took in the chest of drawers, and held out her hand. “Yes.”

Leo stayed where he was, drinking her in. The quiet certainty of her expression, the line of her neck, her black underwear and her long, long legs. After a moment he straightened, pulled his shirt off, and handed it over.

Win said, “Thank you,” and turned around. She didn’t tell him not to look, so he didn’t bother looking away. Her elbows tucked in against her sides as she let her shirt drop to the floor. Her bra was like her underwear, plain black cotton. She reached up for the clasp.

“Do you need a hand with that?” Leo asked.

“You’re very kind,” Win murmured, but she unhooked it easily, let it fall down, slipped the T-shirt over her head. Leo had a brief flash of skin before she was turning back to him. His T-shirt was blue and it brought out all the shadows under her eyes, the soft curl of her mouth. It was old and worn and it hung close on her, the curve of her breasts and the press of her nipples. Leo flexed his fingers against the covers of the bed and laughed. She was looking at him, too, eyes tracking the bare length of his chest, his shoulders.

“I…,” Win said, and then, “does the window open? It’s warm in here.”

Leo popped the little window and Win joined him, propping herself up against the sill next to him. There wasn’t a lot of space; their shoulders pressed close together, and Leo looked down at the long stretch of Win’s legs, the line of her thigh where his T-shirt hung over it. The Thames swept out below them, and the bright lights on the far bank seemed worlds away. It was funny to think that there were people out there reading about Win and Leo, right now, wondering what they were doing.

Win looked at him. Her mouth quirked.

“So,” she said, “let’s discuss.”

Leo dropped his head and laughed. They were touching at the ankles, hips, all the way up the arms to their shoulders. He couldn’t look her in the face.

“You’re done being angry,” he said.

“I’m done being angry,” Win agreed. “Are you?”

“Yes.” He thought about it, then said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been as angry at you before.”

“Yes, you have. What about in Miami, when you wanted to start a band and I said you couldn’t buy talent? Or the first week in New York? We argued the entire time.”

Leo shook his head. “Wasn’t the same. We were kids. I was still going through my rebellious phase.”

“Come on,” Win said. “Our whole thing is that we piss each other off.”

“Is that our whole thing?” Leo said. He meant it as a joke but it echoed in the quiet room. Win reached up and traced her fingers along his head.

“I would have thought I’d miss your hair,” she said. “I like it, though.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“You touch it all the time,” Leo said. Win’s cheeks were flushed, but she didn’t look embarrassed. He drew in a breath. “It might ruin our working relationship.”

“I think our working relationship is pretty much ruined,” Win said gladly. “Do you remember what you said to me, in New York? You said the curiosity would eat me up inside, and—”

Leo groaned. “I was twenty years old—”

“You were a real prick,” Win said, grinning at him.

He gave up and touched her cheek, her hair, cradling her face in one hand and running his eyes over her. Her long eyelashes, her lips slightly parted, all her warm curves leaning into him.

“Leo,” Win said, “I’m pining away.”

Leo caught her face in his hands. She stayed perfectly still, the way she hadn’t in years. Usually Win was aware of cameras, aware of the best shot; she’d lean prettily into his chest or let her foot pop up, but there were no cameras here and no good shots. She just let herself be kissed.

Leo broke away but didn’t go far, their noses brushing, their mouths a breath apart. He twisted his hand into her hair and kissed her again. Win made a noise like an electric current had jolted through her, mouth hungry on his, pressing close like she wanted to climb him and claim him. Leo’s heart slammed in his chest. He swung sideways, holding her back against the wall. They kissed slow and bruising, panting into each other’s mouths, Win’s fingers sliding down his bare skin.

“Fuck, Leo,” Win said, ragged over a gasp. It was like she couldn’t decide where she wanted to touch him, her hands skating up his back, over his shoulders, clasping at his arms, and when he nudged her against the wall again, she rocked her hips up against his. They both made rough, startled noises, and broke away, staring at each other.

“I’m not very good at being angry at you,” Leo said. “I don’t think that’s my whole thing.”

Win didn’t move, didn’t speak. She was breathing hard, her eyes so dark they were almost black.

His mad, mean, expert best friend. Sometimes Leo felt like he’d spent most of the last decade teetering on the edge of falling in love with her. Two months of seeing her madder and meaner than ever shouldn’t have helped. But he felt suddenly as though he’d looked up and found the edge, long tripped over, far above him.

“I think you’re my whole thing,” Leo said, and they lunged for each other.

Win’s arms went around his shoulders like she was swooning, her fingers digging into his skin, gripping him hard and sure to leave marks. He caught her hips in his hands, steering her greedily close, and they stumbled into the wall and then the other wall and then the window before they angled it right and got to the bed, kissing before they hit the mattress.

Win made rough, urgent noises against his mouth, and Leo’s breath was coming sharp. They grappled, wrestled to trap the other. A flash of Win triumphant and grinning down at him; Leo tangling a hand in her hair and rolling her beneath him. He thought he was saying her name. She wriggled out of his shirt, clumsy enough that it got tangled around her wrists and he had an opportunity to hold her close underneath him and touch, mouth hot against her throat, her sternum, her nipple, while Win squirmed and swore. He got all the way down to her hip, nose brushing her cotton underwear, before she hauled him back up.

“Off, off,” she demanded, tugging at his sweatpants.

“Quiet,” Leo managed, and then Win’s hand was on him, sliding warm and sure over his dick, and then she raised her hand and licked her palm, Leo’s brain was shorting out—

They jerked against each other frantically, like teenagers. She was as desperate as he was, and they both knew how to touch each other. It had been seven years since they last did this. Right then it didn’t feel like anything at all: a blink of his eye, a whirlwind of summers, and Win back in his arms like she belonged there. Her hips twitching up, his fingers hooked in her underwear, dragging them down, both of them laughing soft and breathless in each other’s faces, laughing into each other’s mouths, his fingers against her and Win saying, “Ah, shit, shit,” and tossing her head restlessly against the mattress. Leo thought maybe they were sideways across the bed; he wasn’t sure. Win wrapped her legs around him, and Leo caught her hip in his hand and pushed deep. They both made noises like they’d been shot. His head rocked against her shoulder.

“Okay,” Win said, “okay, okay,” and when they moved, they moved hard and fast.