Love Expectations (Season 1 of Nata and Phillip's Romance) ✔️

5. 'There's zero urgency'

Phillip

Nata tugs on the corners of my jacket and wraps it tighter around her, thankfully covering the cleavage I don't remember her ever having. Instead of feeling the chill of standing on the roof in just my shirt and pants, I grow warmer in places I should not. Either the push-up bra technology has improved leaps and bounds, or I was blind before, or my Nata is all grown up in places I shouldn't be thinking about. I search for the images of Nata in my memory, and they are the same as the one I saw on the photo at my Dad's bedroom today.

My buddy.

A little sister I've always wanted but have never gotten.

Not a woman with cleavage and thick thighs I should not be thinking about.

I tilt my head to check if a different angle of seeing her is going to help me break this inappropriate want I'm feeling toward the only girl who has ever been just a friend. I would never want to break a friendship over a momentary gratification of sex. Maybe I should put an end to my self-imposed year of celibacy, if a curvy dark-haired Nata with her wide cheekbones and even wider hazel eyes is making me hot on a chilly rooftop.

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Whoville," she says in a tone so sharp my ears could bleed.

If her bringing up the nickname only she has for me wouldn't have been enough confirmation, this beautiful woman and my awkward tutor from my college years are the same person, the way her eyes light up with cold ire is a dead giveaway.

Blood rushes to my face as my pulse speeds up. "No, you do not."

"Are you agreeing or are you mocking me? I can't tell." Her gaze throws icicles at me.

"You can't?" My eyebrows climb up in a challenge. "I haven't changed that much."

Saying this unlocks that long-forgotten feeling of freedom I don't experience much if ever anymore.

"Agreeing then. Good."

"Good indeed." I struggle not to smile.

There's nothing polite about our interaction, and I can't remember a time I had a rush talking this freely. Not picking words. Not thinking through the possibilities of what they'll land me, as if my words are the figures in a long game of chess I must win.

When was the last time I wasn't crafting polite nothings in response to empty pleasantries? Figuring out if I should go work for my dad or venture on my own. With Nata.

When did I have the most honest arguments? Debating over the value of advanced degrees. With Nata.

Heaviness lifts off my shoulders. I soar, unchained from the rules of a polite society's conversation. The heady sensation that I can actually say what I feel spreads. How did I forget this feeling? I should have more friends like Nata. A key in a lock I haven't turned in years squeaks. I was safe with her then. Maybe I can recreate that now?

When was I last the most myself? With Nata.

Years ago.

The lock clicks back. Why don't I learn? I shouldn't give into this illusion. People change. The weight settles into its familiar groove between my shoulder blades.

She's no longer the nerdy tutor I knew. And I'm no longer the hopeful idiot eager to make all the mistakes. I pinch my lips with my thumb and my index finger, holding my words in.

Nata stares me down even though I'm more than a head taller. "I am not behind," she reiterates, probably tired of attempting to read the emotions on my face or interpreting my silence. "I just need a new plan. With modern science, so many things are an option."