I really didn’t date Asian guys. Why would I, when they almost always presumed to know everything about me, just because I was Asian? They usually had judgmental families who would never accept nor understand me, my past, or my future. And of course, they were boring goody-goodies who only liked to play video games and watch movies.
Not. My. Type.
Obviously, there were exceptions to rules. Maybe he wasn’t what I thought he was—a cocky, presumptuous, bland alpha-male wannabe. But I didn’t care to find out, regardless of whether or not Cassie thought we’d be perfect together. I’d have to have a few words with her about that later.
I took out my notebook and jotted down some notes while listening to the rough playlist that I had prepared earlier in the week. I tried to release a new playlist every two weeks and it was almost time for the next. As usual, I was struggling to finish this one. I liked the individual songs that I’d chosen, but didn’t have an angle, something tying them together that I could write about.
Try as I might, the brainstorm wouldn’t gather. With how scattered and agitated I was by Ian’s words, it was barely a light brain-drizzle...and the steady shifting of his arm against mine, one page turn per minute, was a constant disruption.
He couldn’t possibly understand my reasons for rejecting him and guys just like him. And it wasn’t worth my time to explain anything to him anyway, not with his giant ego in the way. Besides, the coward wouldn’t even look at me anymore. Every so often, I cast a furtive glance over at him, but he didn’t seem to reciprocate. The fact that he could focus and I could not annoyed me even further, and soon I was tapping my fingers on the armrest. I forced myself to stop.
At one point, he rubbed his bare arms and crossed them over his chest. He was probably cold—after all, I was wearing his hoodie and the plane still felt like a walk-in fridge. I didn’t really want to talk to him again, but the hoodie did belong to him, and I wasn’t a jerk. With a quick tap on the arm, I said, “Hey. Do you want your hoodie back?” I held the zipper in my hand, poised to unzip and return it to him.
He glanced up, surprised. “No, it’s fine, you’re probably colder than I am. Just keep it for now.”
I began to unzip. “You should just take it—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m not that cold.”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out what looked like a small resistance band with holes. He slipped it onto his fingers and extended them, then contracted, extended, contracted, extended, repeating the motion over and over. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each repetition.
I was grateful that he hadn’t asked me to return the hoodie, and even more grateful that he hadn’t taken my talking to him as an invitation to continue talking to me. He just silently focused on opening and closing his fingers with the resistance band and reading his book.
Sigh. Maybe he wasn’t a huge ass. Just kind of one.
I tried to return to my music, but found my gaze sliding back to his sinewy forearms and his thick, callused fingers as they continually stretched against the elastic band. It was oddly hypnotic. I imagined his fingers—
That way madness lies.
I sighed again. The hand exercises were objectively lame. Even so, I decided to be polite. He was Cassie’s friend, and I didn’t want to have things be weird between us this weekend. So I took out my earphones and asked, “What’s with the finger exercises?”
He glanced up again, eyebrows raised, then slowly answered, “I injured my finger not too long ago. It helps with rehab and preventing further injury.”
“How’d you injure it?”
“I was climbing and went for kind of a burly move. I lunged for a two-finger pocket and something felt like it popped. It doesn’t seem to be that bad now, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
I winced at the word popped and compulsively flexed my fingers. “What’s a two-finger pocket?” I decided not to ask him what burly meant, though I could guess. I’d already interrogated him enough.
He stuck his middle and pointer fingers up and mimed shoving them into a narrow cavity. My eyes narrowed at the sexual gesture. “It’s like...a hole that you can stick your fingers into,” he explained, deadpan. He cleared his throat, vaguely embarrassed. As he should be.
I couldn’t help it. I chuckled. “I see.” Then I braced myself, sure that he would use that gesture, that opening, to say awful, sexist things to me.
He kept on with the finger exercises. “You know, I’m actually going climbing with Cassie and a few other wedding guests on Sunday morning, if you want to come.”
My brain latched onto his last few words, but my hackles dropped as I took in his innocuous meaning. I hesitated, toying with the laces of his hoodie before responding, “Maybe. I’ve never done it before, and it looks really hard. I might suck at it.” I cringed at my own words. Somehow, I was the one with my mind stuck in the gutter.
“It’s always hard the first time,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. My ears burned with embarrassment. “But you’ll pick it up quickly. You’ve got a great build for it.”
My body simmered slightly as he eyed me up and down, but abruptly cooled when he added, “Your hands are pretty big and your arms are long. Your ape index must be pretty high.”
I scowled. I was not proud of my orangutan proportions. “I don’t know about that. But thanks for the invite. Maybe I’ll take you up on it.” I honestly wanted to say yes. I’d always wanted to try climbing. Cassie was an avid climber, and her photos on social media
